£ Stories Editors BdyandPy
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE STORIES EDITORS BUY AND WHY
 
 THE 
 
 STORIES EDITORS 
 
 BUY AND WHY 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 JEAN WICK 
 
 BOSTON 
 SMALL, MAYNARD Sz COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 Copyright, IQ2I 
 By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
 
 (Incorporated) 
 
 PRESS OF OEO. H. CLLfC CO. (JNC.) •06T0M
 
 3573 
 
 To Magazine Editors 
 
 Who 
 
 through constructive helpfulness 
 
 and creative vision 
 
 are helping authors to make 
 
 the American short story 
 
 unique in artistry and literary merit.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Prefatory Note 
 
 The Week-end Guest. By Marie Van Vorst 
 (From Ainslee's Magazine) 
 
 The Terrible Charge Against Jeff Potter 
 By Samuel A. Derieux .... 
 (From The American Magazine) 
 
 "A Source of Irritation." By Stacy Aumonier 
 (From The Century Magazine) 
 
 "Momma." By Rupert Hughes ... 
 (From Collier's, The National Weekly) 
 
 Back Pay. By Fannie Hurst .... 
 (From Cosmopolitan Alagazine) 
 
 "Cab, Sir?" By Samuel Hopkins Adams 
 (From Everybody's Magazine) 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ix 
 
 The Taking of Billy Rand. By Gordon Young 
 
 (From Short Stories) 
 
 According to Ruskin. By Harriet Welles . 
 (From The IVoman's Home Companion) 
 
 The Crystal Flask. By Paul Rosenwey 
 (From Young's Magazine) 
 
 27 
 
 53 
 
 71 
 
 99 
 
 139 
 169 
 
 You've Got to be Selfish. By Edna Ferber . 
 (From McClure's Magazine) 
 
 "Clothes Make the Man." By Booth Tarkington 193 
 (From Metropolitan Magazine) 
 
 The Bell of Saint Gregoire. By Agnes Ross 
 
 White 
 
 (From The People's Home Journal) 
 
 The Evening Rice. By Achmed Abdullah . 
 (From Pictorial Review) 
 
 223 
 
 239 
 259 
 279 
 293 
 
 Why the Editors Buy 305
 
 PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 During the past twenty years the short story has come 
 to occupy a distinct place in American letters. While it 
 must perhaps be granted that we are not pre-eminent 
 in the novel or the essay, we may quite fairly pride our- 
 selves upon the high achievement of our authors in short 
 story writing. American magazines (and this is said in 
 no spirit of braggadocio) today carry more and better 
 short stories than do the magazines of any other coun- 
 try. In addition it should be taken into consideration 
 that we in America publish a greater number of periodi- 
 cals devoted either wholly or in part to fiction than is 
 the custom elsewhere. Thus automatically the would-be 
 short story writer is given opportunity and encourage- 
 ment, two powerful factors in all creative endeavor. Suc- 
 cess in short story writing means both fame and pecuniary 
 reward. It is professionally worth while both from the 
 artistic and the financial points of view. 
 
 To the American editor should be given much of the 
 credit for this development in the short story. A story, 
 no matter how vital or well written, carries no real weight 
 until it is in print. The printed page gives it perma- 
 nency; through print it reaches the multitude. The editor, 
 at his or her desk, has final say as to what shall or shall 
 not go into the pages of his or her magazine. There are 
 often outside factors that shape the magazine's editorial 
 and fiction policy. But editors are sincere in desiring 
 to give their readers the best stories they can procure of the 
 kind they are ready to publish. 
 
 But they do a great deal more than just select 
 from the mass of material that is submitted to them. 
 They go out after the type of stories they want. They 
 see the men and women who can write and personally 
 confer with them, suggesting new things to write about,
 
 X PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 new trends in thought, new angles of approach, new 
 methods of handling. To George Horace Lorimer cer- 
 tainly should go much of the credit for the evolution of 
 the American business story; a chance remark of Ray 
 Long's at editorial conference brought the first Pell Street 
 tales into existence; it is no exaggeration to say that John 
 M. Siddall with his search for clean-cut Americanism has 
 had much to do with the growing prominence and popu- 
 larity of American small town portrayal which popularity 
 has in turn profoundly affected the development of the 
 American novel; to Perriton Maxwell should be given the 
 honor of having been the first to publish stories of Jewish 
 life in one of our leading monthlies. Not only do the edi- 
 tors shape and mould the literary taste of their readers 
 but they have and do actually create new forms of literary 
 output. 
 
 The technique of the American short story is more or 
 less fixed and numerous textbooks have been compiled 
 thereon. But technique Is not a rigid matter. The Im- 
 portance of the subject matter or sheer artistry can often 
 "put over" a story that defies every one of the traditional 
 or accepted rules. Too, different editors and diff'erent 
 magazines have their own Ideas on technique. Therefore, 
 for any one who would write it is best to study and 
 analyze carefully the pages of the various magazines. 
 
 To succeed In the short story field the writer needs not 
 only to know how to write but where to sell. To get 
 before the short story reading public It is vital not only 
 to have a story to tell and to know how to tell It but to 
 know also where to offer that story when it is told. In 
 selling a^ short story it is not primarily the attitude of 
 any one individual critic or group of self-appointed critics 
 that matters; it is the attitude of the editor toward the 
 particular story under consideration. As there are many 
 stories there are many editors. They are all on the look- 
 out for new and good material. If you have created a 
 good story it Is bound some day to find its publisher and 
 thereby to reach its public. 
 
 In order that this book may be of practical service 
 to the new writer and to those already well established
 
 PREFATORY NOTE xi 
 
 the editors were asked why they bought the particular 
 stories they did, in other words their attitude in fiction 
 buying. Their replies are printed verbatim. Many came 
 in the form of personal letters and this will explain why 
 there may be a certain lack of formality in some of the 
 editorial replies. But on consideration this was decided the 
 most practical way in which the editor might reach his 
 audience. Analysis of the answers will show the veriest 
 tyro that a story that might do excellently for the Metro- 
 politan need not be desired by the Dial and vice versa. 
 
 In the compiler's mind the magazines automatically 
 group themselves into classes, a grouping which attempts 
 to reach no conclusion as to relative literary or commercial 
 values. Certain of these magazines were asked to in- 
 clude a story that had appeared in its pages and which 
 from the point of view of that magazine's editorial policy 
 was a highly desirable and good story. Here the editors 
 hesitated: they had many good stories that might be in- 
 cluded. Eventually, though, choices were made and the 
 authors kindly consenting to their reprinting, the stories 
 are given herewith. 
 
 Here again it cannot be made too clear that no editorial 
 verdict was attempted in including stories from some of 
 the magazines and in omitting those from others. The 
 aim of the book is to be of practical service in pointing out 
 reasons for fiction buying. All of the magazines could 
 not be included because of space limitation. As far as 
 possible different types of magazines were chosen. The 
 editors of these magazines again one and all were unani- 
 mous in making it clear that they could have suggested 
 many other stories that had appeared in their pages that 
 were equally good considered literarily or artistically. But 
 as the book does attempt to guide and direct — so far as 
 this is possible in an art — they chose stories that they 
 considered representative in a major number of ways. 
 
 Our leading weeklies lay much emphasis upon their 
 fiction. The Saturday Evening Post buys more short 
 stories a year than does any other magazine. Because of 
 its enormous circulation the contributor has the satisfac- 
 tion of feeling that he or she is reaching a maximum num-
 
 xii PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 ber of readers. The style of stories in this magazine 
 changes from year to year as the editor has been re- 
 peatedly heard to say that the reading public is apt to tire 
 of any one type no matter how well done. The prac- 
 tical note is apt to preponderate. In Collier's, the Na- 
 tional Weekly, we find a very American story, not ex- 
 ploiting big cities and millionaire circles, but rather the 
 moderately incomed home of the average American — 
 its good fortune, its vicissitudes, its every day point of 
 view, handled with exquisite sympathy. Leslie's, limited 
 in space, is frankly after the constructive business story. 
 
 In any consideration of the American monthly maga- 
 zines automatically Harper's, Scribner's and Century 
 come to mind in a group. These put great emphasis 
 upon literary execution. The Atlantic Monthly is per- 
 haps not quite so rigid in its demand for form while the 
 Dial is almost radical. The Touchstone rates artistry 
 most highly, the article by Mrs. Roberts in this book 
 making her views on the whole matter most explicit. 
 
 There is another large group of monthly magazines, 
 more generally popular perhaps, in which there is the 
 very greatest diversity and yet differentiation of editorial 
 wants. It will pay to study these magazines closely. The 
 student will at once see why a story that might be most 
 popular in the Metropolitan would not have a chance in 
 the American — and at that no purely literary or technical 
 point need be involved. In this group of magazines there 
 is the greatest possible chance for divergence in story 
 treatment, in subject matter, even in methods of char- 
 acterization. Since Ray Long has taken over the Cos- 
 mopolitan he has repeatedly shown his catholicity of taste 
 as has Karl Harriman in subject matter in the Red Book. 
 
 It is easy to decide which stories may prove suitable 
 for our magazines that are primarily interested in sex 
 problems, and this does not necessarily mean sex in any 
 too realistic or too sordid sense. The editors who are 
 selecting the material for these periodicals feel that sex is 
 the fundamental motivation in every human act; that 
 therefore its presentation is always interesting, of moment, 
 and bound to intrigue a large group of readers. A cer-
 
 PREFATORY NOTE xiii 
 
 tain number of the smaller of these magazines demand 
 liveliness of presentation rather than newness of plot. 
 All are apt to stress a certain up-to-date and social 
 quality. 
 
 We have a large group of action magazines. They 
 look for "story." In this group the Street and Smith 
 periodicals are particularly interested in the story that 
 has an American hero and an American environment. 
 Some of the others are not quite so restrictive. Perhaps 
 "a good yarn rattling well told" is the best slogan presen- 
 tation of their wants. But like all slogans it is unfair. 
 The frequent presence of Joseph Conrad in these maga- 
 zines certainly would seem to prove that craftsmanship 
 is appreciated. 
 
 The women's magazines make a point of carrying as 
 good fiction as can be procured and in some of them we 
 are finding the best short stories of the day. The Pictorial 
 Review, for instance, is not circumscribed in its point of 
 view; it has room for the purely artistic creation; it wel- 
 comes warmly the picture of life whose main characteris- 
 tic is sympathetic narration. Other magazines in this 
 group feel that they should publish only human interest 
 stories as these make the strongest appeal to their particu- 
 lar circle of women readers. 
 
 Many of the stories in the farm and fireside journals 
 are written with a distinct purpose; to portray intimately 
 some heretofore little known section of the country; to 
 illustrate some new agricultural theory; to create sym- 
 pathy for some rural situation. But "purpose" is never 
 allowed to destroy story values. 
 
 Our juvenile magazines make no secret of their aim. 
 It is to influence rightly the changing character, the shift- 
 ing ideals and aspirations of the growing boys and girls 
 who come under the sway of their story pages. The fic- 
 tion must be of absorbing interest from the point of view 
 of the young, but at the same time it must contain noth- 
 ing that would react detrimentally. 
 
 From the above brief summary it Is easy to see that a 
 story that might prove eminently acceptable from the 
 point of view of one magazine might not do at all for
 
 xiv PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 another. That the placing of a story, in other words, 
 demands a certain amount of knowledge of market wants 
 and market conditions. This brings us to the considera- 
 tion of the agent. Is or is not an agent of help? This 
 question is largely one for self-determination. It de- 
 pends somewhat on the personality of the author. All 
 agents cannot help all authors: there is a give and take 
 of personality; in other words, the human equation has 
 something to do with the success of the relationship. An 
 agent cannot sell a story that is not sellable; an agent 
 cannot repeatedly get higher prices for the author than 
 the author can get for himself. An agent does know 
 more of the markets and its fluctuations; agency advice — 
 as it is a matter of business — is apt to be impersonal 
 and good; agency direction can save much misguided 
 effort. 
 
 There is an impression that agents are perhaps not 
 popular with editors. This is not true. Perhaps the 
 letter of James E. Tower, editor of The Delineator given 
 herewith and which came unsolicited, is as good actual 
 proof of this fact as any statement which the writer 
 might make. 
 
 Dear Miss Wick: 
 
 A certain periodical, which has its distribution amongst writers, has 
 put in.my mouth words which I did not say and which do an injustice 
 alike to some good friends of mine and to me. 
 
 I am quoted as having said, at a recent luncheon, that editors are 
 not keen about purchasing from literary brokers. I never said that 
 nor implied it. I said that I felt that the brokers had been the largest 
 single factor in raising and maintaining authors' prices; that the pub- 
 lishing trade were inclined, on this account, to look askance at the 
 agent system, but that authors formerly did not receive adequate com- 
 pensation and that the better prices had raised the standard of 
 authorship and benefited the trade, as well as the writers themselves. 
 
 My own editorial career is sufficient refutation of the statement 
 attributed to me. I think I never heard an editor express any prejudice 
 against the broker system. 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 James E. Tower. 
 
 Lastly do not let it be felt that the compiler of these 
 editorial want paragraphs, this editorial exposition of the
 
 PREFATORY NOTE xv 
 
 stories the editor wants and buys, desires to express any- 
 personal opinion as to the relative literary merits or com- 
 mercial status of the magazines listed in this book. This 
 is not a book of criticism. It is an effort to have the 
 editors talk directly to those who for any reason what- 
 ever are interested in the American short story as it is 
 published week in and week out in our magazines. 
 
 JEAN WICK. 
 New York City.
 
 Ainslee's Magazine 
 
 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 BY 
 
 MARIE VAN VORST
 
 THE WEEK-END GUEST ' 
 By MARIE VAN VORST 
 
 FROM the room where Patricia Hereford's wedding 
 gifts were displayed, the Cong Island Sound was 
 visible, and it lay in the distance on this October day, blue 
 as a patch of cornflowers. Down at the dock the yacht 
 waited to take the master of the house to town. Under- 
 neath the window in kilts, bare legs, bagpipes and all, a 
 Highland shepherd, imported by the lady of the house 
 from his native heather because he was picturesque, 
 watched his sheep and was homesick to the bone! The 
 twenty-five Southdown sheep were astoundingly clean and 
 moved about in patches on the flawless lawn. Now and 
 again the wretched piper played a few Scotch melodies as 
 he was paid to do, and the lady of the house listened to 
 the piper's tunes with her pencil on her lips as she pie- 
 pared for the detective a list of the wedding presents. 
 
 "What melody is Sandy playing now, Nell?" 
 
 One of the bridesmaids, a girl who was staying in the 
 house, perched nonchalantly on a table, a notebook and a 
 pencil in her hands. Miss Moore was helping Mrs. Here- 
 ford list the wedding presents, and presumably Miss 
 Cynthia Moore was thinking of her own wedding, when it 
 should come to pass, as bridesmaids will ! She dictated to 
 Mrs. Hereford. 
 
 "Number one thousand and six, Nell, a pigskin purse 
 from Eric Johnson. Pat's own chauffeur, isn't he?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Hereford, "nice of him and in per- 
 fectly good taste." 
 
 Miss Moore swung to and fro a foot encased in a cor- 
 rect golf brogue. She was the champion woman golfer 
 
 * Copyright by Ainslee's Magazine.
 
 4 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 of the Eastern States, and came downstairs in the morn- 
 ing dressed for golf, ready for her game. Indeed she 
 said she only put on evening dress in order to keep out of 
 social jail! 
 
 "That's the nicest thing I have heard you say about any 
 of the presents, Nell ! // people who sent them could only 
 hear you!" 
 
 The lady of the house shrugged. 
 
 "I have always wondered why certain frightful things 
 were manufactured and now I know they are for wedding 
 gifts. The boring part is that over a thousand people 
 will have to be hed to and thanked! Poor Patricia!" 
 
 There they were, over a thousand wedding presents ! 
 Patricia Hereford was a popular debutante and her father 
 the best host on Long Island. Everything that indif- 
 ferent taste could select and money pay for, from Here- 
 ford's own gift of diamonds to the modest pigskin purse, 
 was here displayed. One of the most truly beautiful 
 things was a pink Persian prayer rug of rich soft tones, 
 a Persian proverb in delicate lettering running around the 
 border. It hung on the wall opposite the pearls and valu- 
 able jewels. Two rooms on the second floor of the big 
 country house had been consecrated to this exhibition, and 
 the presents were to be seen by the guests on the follow- 
 ing afternoon, after the wedding. 
 
 "Mr. Jones is downstairs in the fur room," Mrs. Here- 
 ford said, "but his men have not come up from Waybrook, 
 and I thought he had better stay with the sables and the 
 silver fox. We must not budge from here until they come, 
 but you can go to Pat if you like, Cinnie. I'll stay on." 
 The lady of the house glanced out at the Highland piper 
 and his astoundingly clean sheep on the lawn. 
 
 "There!" exclaimed Miss Moore. "That's the tune 1 
 mean, Nell! What is it — do you know? Hear it and 
 weep, don't you think so?" 
 
 Mrs. Hereford hummed the tune through, accompanied 
 by the melancholic piper from without. 
 
 "Jolly!" exclaimed Cynthia from her table. "Jolly in 
 your adorable voice! Are there any words that go with 
 It or is it only a sob and a wail?"
 
 MARIE VAN VORST 5 
 
 "Ye Highlands and ye Lowlands oh! Where have you been? 
 They have slain the Earl of Moray and laid him on the green. 
 He was a braw gallant and he rode for the glove, 
 And the gallant Earl of Moray he was the Queen's love; 
 And long shall the Lady look from the Castle down 
 To hear the Earl of Moray go stounin' through the Town." 
 
 Mrs. Hereford's really beautiful voice filled the. gift 
 room with its sweetness. 
 
 "I'll catalogue wedding presents indefinitely," said Miss 
 Moore, "if you'll go on like that. Anyhow, Nell, he is the 
 Queen's Love all right!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Hereford sharply. 
 
 "Captain Ramsay. He is crazy about you." 
 
 Mrs. Hereford had been comparing her list with that 
 of Miss Moore. She went over to the window, looked 
 out until the red died from her face, and said over her 
 shoulder: 
 
 "Go on with your list, Cinnie, and don't be a goose." 
 
 The girl wrote diligently for a few moments. Mrs. 
 Hereford returned to the table where the pigskin purse 
 reposed between the red lacquer box, on which the card 
 read: "Maharajah of Singapore," and a sapphire ring on 
 the other side. 
 
 "I am awfully sorry for you, Nell, you'll miss Pat 
 beyond words, shan't you.^" 
 
 "Yes," said the lady of the house, "to-morrow night 
 I shall be utterly alone." 
 
 "How nice for your husband !" Miss Moore laughed. 
 "Where is poor old Tommy going, anyway?" 
 
 "Nowhere," said the lady of the house coolly. "I mean 
 we will be all alone." 
 
 Mrs. Hereford was twenty years younger than her hus- 
 band. She had never asked herself so often before, how 
 she was going to be able to entertain the prospect of end- 
 less luncheons and endless dinners opposite Tommy Here- 
 ford. 
 
 "Entirely alone," she murmured again, walking down 
 the long line of presents. From the splendid pearls she 
 came back to Eric Johnson's purse and stood near it as 
 though something drew her to that special spot. She 
 had not married Hereford to bring up his children, she
 
 6 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 was only a little older than they. She had been a sister 
 to them during the five years of her married life and Jack 
 Hereford, who was unpopular with his father, adored his 
 stepmother. 
 
 "Why did you marry your husband, Helen?" Cynthia 
 Moore asked laughingly, but she did wonder with all her 
 might. Since she had known the two she had never been 
 able to understand the union. 
 
 Mrs. Hereford, leaning with one hand on the gift table, 
 the other playing with her long rope of pearls, said absent- 
 mindedly, 
 
 "Oh, there must be twenty reasons why!" 
 
 "And you can't think of one !" exclaimed the girl. 
 
 On the hard floor of the next room fell the footsteps of 
 some one coming quickly toward them. 
 
 "Listen, Nell," laughed the girl who was staying in the 
 house, " 'the Earl of Moray is stounin' through the town !' 
 You'll miss him, too, when he goes to-morrow! I am 
 awfully sorry for him." 
 
 "Hello, Captain Ramsay!" she said. "Come and take 
 my place and list these things with Mrs. Hereford." She 
 held out the book and the pencil to him. She understood 
 many things. 
 
 Since Ramsay had come to Waybrook ten days before 
 with Jack Hereford, he had scarcely spoken a word to 
 any one; scarcely looked at any one but the lady of the 
 house, and his absorption in her was dangerously charm- 
 ing to a woman not in love with her husband. 
 
 "You don't have to stay in the house all morning, do 
 you, Mrs. Hereford?" he asked eagerly. Ramsay wore 
 the uniform of the Blank Flying Corps, and his breast 
 was full of stars. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Moore and I are on guard here, and I wish 
 you would do something for me, will you, like an angel?" 
 
 Ramsay mechanically picked up the pigskin purse. 
 
 "I have got one like this," he said, "it doesn't look like a 
 wedding present! I have carried mine through the war 
 and it is as empty now as it was then," he laughed. 
 
 "Please, please!" urged the lady of the house, "do run 
 down to the graperies where we were yesterday "
 
 MARIE VAN VORST 7 
 
 Ramsay interrupted. 
 
 "I wanted to go with you now, Mrs. Hereford, down 
 there; can't we?" 
 
 "I am on guard. If anything were stolen from this 
 room, Cynthia and I would be responsible. I am making 
 up a lunch basket for Patricia. She is crazy about Ham- 
 burg grapes and I want to put some in." 
 
 "You only want to send me away," he laughed. "I 
 never went on so many distant errands in my life ! Isn't 
 there something you want in New York?" 
 
 "I do want the grapes !" 
 
 She wanted to get him from under the clever scrutiny of 
 Cynthia Moore, and after he had gone out of the room, 
 reluctant in every move of his body. Miss Moore asked, 
 
 "What do you know about Captain Ramsay?" 
 
 The bridesmaid had a fashion of putting questions 
 when she was interested in anything with a frank abrupt- 
 ness, at once alluring and embarrassing. 
 
 "Not much, just picturesque things," said the lady of 
 the house. "There's the last item, Cinnie, diamond pen- 
 dant, value four thousand dollars." 
 
 Cynthia Moore scrutinized her list. "All right! We 
 have varied it agreeably ! We began with 'gift of the 
 bridegroom, one hundred thousand dollars,' and we drift 
 along to a pigskin purse, value one dollar fifty, I should 
 say, and close with a medium note, a little four thousand! 
 Tell me about Ramsay." 
 
 Miss Moore had arrived the day before, coming back 
 with the Herefords from the races, to a large house party 
 of which Jack Hereford, son of the house, home from 
 France, and Captain Ralph Ramsay were part, 
 
 "Jack's crazy about him," said Mrs. Hereford. "He is 
 Jack's best friend." 
 
 "'M!" murmured Miss Moore. "Excuse me, my dear! 
 You have a soft spot in your heart for Jack. I don't 
 understand it — I never have." 
 
 Mrs. Hereford went on. 
 
 "They have been together for two years in France in 
 the same sector. Captain Ramsay is an ace with a rip- 
 ping record, as you know."
 
 8 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 "No," returned the bridesmaid, giving her book up to 
 Mrs. Hereford, "I don't know anything about him." 
 
 Miss Moore was an unusually understanding young 
 person; some people said she had ten senses where others 
 have only seven. 
 
 "Well !" said the lady of the house. "He is quite poor; 
 lots of nice people are. He is from the West as you can 
 hear by his accent." 
 
 "No' one has a chance to hear much of his accent but 
 you ! He never speaks to any one else." 
 
 "Ridiculous!" said the lady of the house. "Jack told 
 me that every one in the sector from the mascot to the 
 colonel was crazy about Ralph, and as you see, he has all 
 the medals that can be won." 
 
 "Too bad he couldn't have worked ofT a few on Jack," 
 said Cynthia. "Jack is as bare as a bone, and his father 
 seems to have it in for him harder than ever! What has 
 Jack done since he was demobilized, Nell?" 
 
 Mrs. Hereford shook her head. 
 
 "Don't ask me! My husband doesn't like my interfer- 
 ence. I learned that and I don't try to know. Jack is 
 going to California to-morrow. He is going on with 
 aviation, and I hope will go into the United States army 
 for good. I hope he will." 
 
 "Too bad!" murmured Miss Moore. For in her kind 
 and understanding heart there was a very warm place for 
 the master of the house. "Too bad such a fine man as 
 Tommy should have a son like Jack." 
 
 "You are very unfair to him," said the lady of the house 
 warmly. "I think I am the only one to understand him. 
 I believe the very best of Jack, and I know he'll come out 
 all right. He has a good military record over there." 
 
 Miss Moore laughed. "Well, he did not get shot_ in 
 the back! I know I'm rotten, but — " She came im- 
 pulsively over to her friend and put her arms around her. 
 "Now the Earl of Moray is another thing. He's all right. 
 You can see his record on his face and on his breast, and 
 I excuse his 'stounin' through the town' and his entire 
 absorption in another woman — he is all right!" 
 
 Cynthia Moore kissed Mrs. Hereford and then went
 
 MARIE VAN VORST 9 
 
 upstairs to Patricia, who had been waiting for her for the 
 last half hour. The lady of the house was not sorry to 
 be alone. 
 
 She knew about Ralph Ramsay only what her step- 
 son had told her in his letters from France during the 
 past two years. In these letters Ralph Ramsay had been 
 described as a "wonder, a corker, a dare-devil in the air, a 
 chap who defied danger and death, a little bit of all right," 
 and when Jack took the trouble to detail some thrilling 
 event or to tell of fine achievements, Ralph Ramsay would 
 turn out to be the man who had done the thing. In Jack's 
 letters the ace had charmed this imaginative and loveless 
 woman, and his valor and his courage had fascinated her 
 from afar. In her room, on her bureau and on her desk, 
 were numerous snapshots of the two young men, and the 
 ace seemed always to be smiling at her and to be the ex- 
 pression of la joie de vivre. He attracted her enormously, 
 and in the little pictures she grew to know every line of 
 his slim body and of his beautiful head. As he waved his 
 cap at the side of a broken machine from which he had 
 landed that time safely, he seemed to wave to her and to 
 greet her. 
 
 When her husband came into her little room, if he re- 
 sented the fact that there were no pictures of himself there 
 and too many of his scapegrace of a son, his good breeding 
 did not allow him to comment on the fact! He showed a 
 friendly approval of Captain Ramsay, however. 
 
 "Now there is a fine-looking chap, Nell, and I hope to 
 God he does Jack good, I'd like a son like that!" 
 
 But he saw the flying man under different colors when 
 Ramsay appeared at Waybrook. Ramsay came into a 
 conventional atmosphere with a vivid charm of which no 
 one was unconscious, and if Jack had written that from 
 the mascot to the colonel he was popular in France — he 
 was popular at Waybrook, from the chauffeur by whose 
 side he had sat on the way from the train, to the lady of 
 the house. Not even the big wedding with the rush, ex- 
 citement, and absorption had been able to cloud over the 
 brightness of the passing of Ralph Ramsay. If he defied 
 danger in the air, the young man defied convention here;
 
 10 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 and with utter disregard of propriety he fell in love with 
 the lady of the house and took no pains to conceal his 
 passion. Mrs. Hereford remembered what her stepson 
 had said of him: "Women go crazy about Ralph. In the 
 hospital he had the nurses nailed. It was comic, the poor 
 chaps on either side of him stood no chance at all!" 
 
 Tommy Hereford, the best host on Long Island, had on 
 this occasion displayed a perfect hospitality! For ten 
 days he watched this young man make love to his wife 
 and did not throw him out! Hereford sincerely loved his 
 wife, and was determined to win her if he could. He had 
 no intention of playing the losing game of a jealous hus- 
 band. 
 
 The day before, to protecL Ramsay and to get him 
 away where she could warn him, and try to make him 
 behave, she had snatched half an hour from the rushing 
 day and taken him to the graperies. He had drawn her 
 into his arms and held her in spite of the fact that the 
 gardener was in the next glass house and talking across to 
 Mrs. Hereford. Ramsay had said over the man's voice 
 and over the scent of violets: 
 
 "I love you terribly — with every bit of me — thank God 
 I was not smashed up in France before I could tell you 
 this!" 
 
 Now she knew he would think of every moment of this. 
 She could never go into those graperies again without a 
 thrill. Her husband was going to town on the yacht and 
 came in smoking and holding out two one-thousand-dollar 
 bills. 
 
 "Nell, I want Patricia to have some pocket money in 
 her dressing case. Slip these in, will you?" 
 
 "Tommy," exclaimed his wife, "you never stop, do 
 you?" 
 
 "I am glad I don't have to stop," said the father, "when 
 it is the case of doing something for my little girl." 
 
 "I'll put them in this little leather purse," said Mrs. 
 Hereford and she took up the little pocketbook. "Pat 
 says she is going to take it with her. Tommy, and she'll be 
 frightfully pleased." 
 
 He gave her the bills, and Mrs. Hereford slipped them 
 into the little purse.
 
 MARIE VAN VORST ii 
 
 "Going to leave it there around loose like that?" asked 
 the business man. 
 
 "Why not? Jones' men will be here in a minute. Think 
 of the things farther along and what they are worth. 
 There is no one here but ourselves." 
 
 Through the other doorway Jack Hereford and Ralph 
 Ramsay came in together. Since he had been at Wa)- 
 brook, Ramsay had never seen the husband and wife alone 
 together. He stopped short on the threshold, but the son 
 went in. 
 
 "I've not been robbing the graperies," Ramsay said. 
 "These are going in your daughter's lunch basket, Mr. 
 Hereford." 
 
 "I dare say," nodded the father. "Everything goes 
 with Pat!" 
 
 "Look what dad has just given her." Mrs. Hereford 
 held up the purse and the bills. "I am putting them in 
 this little pigskin purse so that if she wants to buy some 
 stamps she'll find them handy." 
 
 Jack looked at his father's last generous gift without a 
 word, turned about and went and stood at the window. 
 The piper, who felt he had done as much as his salary 
 demanded, was silent. With his back to the house he 
 gazed beyond the Sound toward the bonnie hills of Scot- 
 land. Ramsay seemed to appreciate the generosity, how- 
 ever. 
 
 "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Wonderful to be able to 
 do things like that for one's children !" 
 
 And he looked from the husband to the wife, but his 
 tone was bitter. Airs. Hereford had never heard a note 
 like this in his voice. As her husband went out of the 
 room and his son slowly followed him, IVlrs. Hereford 
 asked Ramsay: 
 
 "Why did you speak so bitterly when my husband gave 
 Patricia his parting gift? It was not like you!" 
 
 "Bitterly !" he exclaimed. "My dad threw me out when 
 I was twelve — he married again — I wasn't wanted, and 
 since then I have never known a home. I have knocked 
 about the world. I have never seen a family life and 
 when Jack used to talk of his people I never believed that
 
 12 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 anything like this existed! And now that I see what it 
 means to a chap, it makes me bitter, that's all!" 
 
 "Poor boy!" 
 
 "Oh, no! Oh, no," he hurried. "For God's sake, don't 
 pity me ! I don't want to grouch. I have been hungry, 
 I have always been poor, but I've managed to get some- 
 thing of life everywhere! I suppose you'd call me an 
 adventurer." 
 
 He threw back his beautiful head and laughed. 
 
 "It is a good adventure all right and I am glad I am 
 part of it." 
 
 He took her hand, looked down at her with his wonder- 
 ful frank smile, and with the courage that conquers the 
 world. 
 
 "I am glad that all those hard paths have brought me 
 here to you. I have seen a lot of women, but I never 
 cared like this." 
 
 She believed it and he kissed her again deeply, deeply, 
 many times; indifferent to the fact that they might be 
 observed, and how serious it would be for her; but she 
 freed herself saying: 
 
 "What madness! This must have its end, you know!" 
 
 And he murmured passionately, "Yes, it must have its 
 end, dearest. When can I see you?" 
 
 "To-night," she said, "in the music room at twelve — at 
 half past twelve." 
 
 Unmistakably some one was coming in the hall. Mrs. 
 Hereford turned and hurriedly left the room. 
 
 After she had gone out Ramsay stood motionless beside 
 the long tables. Life, which had been so full of unkind- 
 ne-ss to him and so full of caprices, seemed at last 
 to have smiled upon him. Only certain moments in the 
 air when above the German lines he had escaped the 
 enemy's barrage and later brought dovvn his black foe — 
 seen him fall, only in moments of such magnitude, had he 
 felt lifted as high as to-day. 
 
 Here some one called: 
 
 "Nell! Nell, where are you?" 
 
 And down through the long room, next where his own 
 eager footsteps had gone "stounin' " on the parquet floor,
 
 MARIE VAN VORST 13 
 
 came Patricia Hereford, the bride, in her wedding dress, 
 looking for her stepmother. She stood hesitatingly on the 
 threshold between the rooms. 
 
 "Where's mother, Captain Ramsay?" 
 
 Patricia passed for a beauty. She was happy and 
 healthy, lit by young expectancy and young hope and 
 love. White as a lily, and tall as a lily, she stood looking 
 about at her beautiful things as a child might at his 
 Christmas gifts. 
 
 "What a crowd of things !" she murmured. "What an 
 awful lot, isn't it.'' And all for little me." She nodded 
 and laughed. "It will take a thousand years to write 
 letters of thanks for them all. I'll make Nelly do it." 
 
 She slowly walked along in front of the presents, lifting 
 a card here, stopping a moment there, only half attentive, 
 half seeing them, having this day more dazzling things 
 than material jev/els to think about. She stopped finally, 
 before the pigskin purse lying between the sapphire ring 
 and the lacquer box. The young man who had been 
 thrown out of family life at twelve to fight for his exist- 
 ence, watched this spoiled society girl in her satin dress, 
 surrounded by objects whose value footed up to hundreds 
 of thousands. 
 
 "I have not half seen the things yet ! Aren't they won- 
 derful.?" 
 
 She picked up the purse. 
 
 "This is from m.y chauffeur. Wasn't it kind of him?" 
 
 She opened it mechanically, looked up at Ramsay, and 
 said, laughing: 
 
 "Oh, gracious! That's daddy!" 
 
 "It was meant for a surprise for you." 
 
 "Never mind," she said, "I won't tell. Indeed, if any 
 one asks, I'll swear it was empty." She laughed and put 
 it down again. 
 
 "It is great of you. Captain Ramsay, to have watched 
 the presents for me. Thank you a thousand times." 
 
 Ramsay looked up at the prayer rug. 
 
 "I wish since you are here, Miss Hereford, you'd tell me 
 what the letters around this prayer rug mean! What do 
 they say?"
 
 14 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 ^ 
 She thought a minute. 
 
 "I have got it written out upstairs somewhere." 
 It was difficult for the bride to bring her attention to 
 Persian characters. 
 
 "As near as I can remember they say: 
 
 "To the Great Lover Honor and Dishonor Life and Death are in the 
 hands of the Beloved." 
 
 Ramsay nodded. "Great!" he said. "I like it awfully. 
 It's ripping." 
 
 "Hello, Pat!" Her brother stood on the threshold she 
 had crossed. "Hello, people! I have been looking for 
 you, Pat. I have been up to your room." 
 
 The two young people, absorbed in a saying of the Far 
 East, did not answer. Patricia and Ralph stood with 
 their backs to the sapphire ring and the maharajah's red 
 lacquer box and the pigskin purse. 
 
 "The Maharajah of Singapore," said Miss Hereford, 
 "gave me wonderful lessons last year in Boston. All the 
 girls were crazy about him. You read from left to right." 
 She pointed with her slender finger of the left hand on 
 which the wedding ring would be very soon. "There like 
 that, see: 
 
 " 'To the Great Lover Honor and Dishonor' on the first 
 line; 'Life and Death are in the hands of the Beloved' 
 on the second line." 
 
 The Scotch piper without, on the flawless lawn with his 
 twenty-five astoundingly clean sheep, had decided to take 
 his grazing herd farther along and had gone to the end 
 of the park. From the distance they could hear the tune 
 of his melancholic music as it came to them faintly as 
 they stood there reading the rug. 
 
 "And the gallant Earl of Moray he was the queen's love." 
 
 "The Great Lover," Ramsay repeated the words; they 
 were fascinating. Oh, it was worth while in life to be a 
 great lover! Ah, he could be it now for her — for her — 
 for the woman he had kissed and held in his arms! 
 
 "Mr. Rolland would like to speak to Miss Hereford in 
 her room."
 
 MARIE VAN VORST 15 
 
 No one but the family was allowed in the gift room and 
 the footman with a message for Patricia from the bride- 
 groom stopped halfway down the next room, and even 
 though she was so near being Mrs. RoUand, the girl 
 blushed at the name and started forward. 
 
 "I'll come at once. Captain Ramsay, do find Nell. Ask 
 her to come up to my room. I must see her," 
 
 "I can't leave here," said Ramsay. "Jack will tell her. 
 I say, old man — " And he turned round to speak to 
 Jack, but Hereford had simply crossed the room and gone 
 out by the other door. 
 
 As Mrs. Hereford, after leaving Ramsay, went out of 
 the gift room she ran into young Hereford, who caught 
 her arm and drew her toward her own room. 
 
 "Nell, come along with me a second, will you?" 
 
 Her stepchildren called her by her first name. She was 
 more like a sister than a mother to them. She was always 
 dreading demands of money from Jack, for whenever he 
 wanted either to confess to her or to demand a favor, he 
 made her boudoir a confessional. 
 
 Mrs. Hereford was a Southerner, accustomed to a great 
 deal of admiration from young men, and Jack Hereford 
 was especially chivalrous and devoted to her. He might 
 well be, for she had been his defender against his father 
 more than once. Now he pat her in a comfortable chair 
 and called in to her maid, who happened to be in the next 
 roomi. 
 
 "Marie, like an angel fetch a couple of cocktails for 
 Mrs. Hereford and me, will you.'"' 
 
 "You should rest, Nell; you've been worn out with all 
 this rush." 
 
 When he had made his stepmother comfortable, he lit a 
 cigarette for her, took one himself, and looked around at 
 the photographs of himself and Ramsay. 
 
 "Gee, what a lot of me ! You framed everything I ever 
 sent you, I guess. Isn't Ralph a corker? Now he's got 
 the good luck to be staying on. I've brought you here, 
 Nell, to say good-by. I've got to go to-day," 
 
 She looked at him in surprise.
 
 i6 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 "You mean to say you are going to miss the wedding?" 
 
 "I am awfully cut up about it — military orders, and — 
 honestly, I'm not sorry to get away. Dad has been rot- 
 ten to me — absolutely rotten!" 
 
 The maid brought the two cocktails on a tray. Jack 
 drank his and said half smiling: 
 
 "You're a brick, Nell. Ralph will bring me news of 
 everything when he comes. Good-by — don't get too tired. 
 See you at Christmas." He leaned over, kissed her, and 
 went to bid his sister good-by. 
 
 The lady of the house, while alone in her room the 
 next few moments, received countless telephone calls and 
 messages. As soon as they knew she was to be found 
 every one came to her. Only after she had dismissed the 
 last messenger could she draw a long breath and remem- 
 ber Ralph in the room beyond. 
 
 Ramsay had become a great excitement and a problem. 
 To-morrow he would be gone, however, and to-night she 
 would try to put things on another footing, and in his ab- 
 sence turn to the occupations of her busy social life to 
 try to forget him. 
 
 As she passed through the apartment adjoining the gift 
 room, she could see the tables weighed down with their 
 priceless things, and Ralph still alone in front of the 
 maharajah's lacquer box and the sapphire ring opposite 
 the prayer rug on the wall. She could see, too, that in his 
 hands was the little purse; he was clositig it — slipping the 
 strap under the band. He put it quickly down as he 
 heard her steps and came toward her with a radiant face 
 as though he had no thought beyond the fact that she 
 had come back and alone. She had time only to meet his 
 eyes with a troubled question in her own, for, sharp and 
 alert, Mr. Jones, with one of the other detectives, followed 
 behind her. The three together entered the room where 
 Ramsay stood. Jones said briskly: 
 
 "Now, we'll take charge here, Mrs. Hereford, and re- 
 lieve you. Captain Ramsay." 
 
 But the young man paid no more attention to them than 
 if they had been ghosts. He was looking only at the 
 woman whom he had taken lately in his arms.
 
 MARIE VAN VORST 17 
 
 "Since you went away I have learned to read the writ- 
 ing on the wall." 
 
 She did not answer. She was not thinking of Persian 
 characters and Persian rugs. 
 
 "Miss Hereford came in her wedding gown. She was 
 looking for you and she read me the writing on the wall." 
 
 "I have forgotten what it says." 
 
 At the far end of the big room Jones and his man were 
 comparing the lists and checking them. 
 
 "I saw Miss Hereford, too," said Jones. "She came to 
 the fur room to tell me about the little pigskin purse with 
 loose cash — two thousand dollars ! I told Miss Here- 
 ford it was a mistake to let loose cash like that lie around." 
 
 And the detective took up the little pocketbook, undid 
 the strap which Mrs. Hereford had just seen Ramsay 
 close. Jones was perfunctory, and he looked into the 
 little purse out of habit. Finding it empty, he held it 
 over to Mrs. Hereford and Ramsay, saying: 
 
 "Empty as a drum." 
 
 Jones was delighted. He was glad of the snappy little 
 incident, and his man, at the other end of the room, turned 
 round with alacrity at his chief's voice. Captain Ram- 
 say, his hands in his pockets, stood perfectly motionless, 
 looking quietly at the lady of the house. Before he could 
 speak she said: 
 
 "Miss Hereford is very careless, and how could she 
 possibly exchange two thousand-dollar bills on her honey- 
 moon.^ I thought as you did, Mr. Jones, and I told her 
 father before he went to town I had a lot of large bills 
 to pay on the place and I wanted some cash. Mr. Here- 
 ford asked me to slip in my own check instead. I left 
 it out on my desk in my boudoir. Pll go and fetch it 
 now." 
 
 There was nothing whatsoever to say to the lady of the 
 house — it was perfectly en regie. 
 
 "AH right," said Jones. "We'll list it properly and it 
 will be much safer." 
 
 As the lady of the house went out the detective said 
 to Captain Ramsay: 
 
 "Now if you want to go off duty?"
 
 i8 \ THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 The young man even then looked at nothing but the 
 disappearing figure of Helen Hereford. He stared at it 
 as if he wanted to follow her, then wheeled about and 
 went out by the opposite door. He called out to Jones: 
 
 "I am going to have a bit of air before luncheon." 
 
 How that day passed she never knew. She had gone to 
 Patricia and kissed her under her wedding veil, and there 
 had been the bustle in the busy house — countless things to 
 be done, to be decided — endless messages and calls. No 
 one saw Captain Ramsay or knew where he had gone 
 and, at dinner, when the host asked for him, a manser- 
 vant answered: 
 
 "Captain Ramsay was called over the phone by a 
 brother officer and has gone to the club. He has taken his 
 traps." 
 
 "Apres la guerre comvie a la guerre!" said Cynthia 
 Moore. "Manners! That's the Earl of Moray all over!" 
 And she made a grimace at Mrs. Hereford as much as to 
 say: "You packed him off at last, and no wonder." 
 
 He had simply fled, and the shame and the degradation 
 sickened her to the soul. He had not given her time to 
 recover from his passionate declarations before he had 
 stolen under her very eyes, one might say, under her 
 very kisses. How had he dared to touch her? How had 
 he dared? 
 
 By dinner time she was so overcome by her wretched- 
 ness that she was obliged to go to her boudoir to shut 
 herself away. As she saw him on the little photograph by 
 the side of his machine, ready to ascend — and in another 
 near the broken wing of a fallen plane after an accident, 
 she thought: 
 
 "Far better to have died than to have come back to 
 this! What must this day have been for him?" All day 
 she disputed with herself, loathing herself one moment, 
 believing him innocent the next. 
 
 Her husband had come out to Waybrook early. He, as 
 well as Cynthia Moore, thought that Mrs. Hereford had 
 sent the young man away. Hereford came in to his wife's 
 room just before dinner.
 
 MARIE VAN VORST 19 
 
 "I'll be glad when all this is over and you can rest." 
 
 She looked at him gratefully. He seemed so true and 
 honorable. She turned away that he might not see her 
 tears. 
 
 "I am dog tired, Tommy, and I'll be glad, too, when It's 
 all over." 
 
 Mrs. Hereford was a true musician, and her husband 
 loved her talent. When she came to Waybrook after her 
 marriage she found the beautiful music room he had cre- 
 ated waiting for her. Hereford had copied it from a villa 
 near Cremona in Italy. The woodwork lining the walls had 
 been brought to this American house from a music room 
 whose traditions were hundreds of years old. Besides 
 modern instruments — a phonograph, a harp, and two 
 grand pianos looking at each other from the opposite ends 
 of the room — rare instruments hung on the walls. Before 
 the windows leading out on the porches, fell curtains of 
 Renaissance brocade. The room was rich in tone and full 
 of shadow and charm. The lady of the house had seen 
 Captain Ramsay alone in this room for the first time one 
 evening when a guest in the smoking room beyond had 
 been telling a ghost story. 
 
 She and Captain Ramsay had played "Manon," "But- 
 terfly," and Irish songs to make a thrilling accompaniment 
 for a thrilling tale, but more sincerely to cover what 
 Ramsay was saying to her in his young, eager voice with 
 his young, eager feelings. 
 
 As Helen Hereford now came quickly in the music 
 room past midnight she found it was still as death and it 
 seemed to her as nearly ominous. 
 
 She walked softly over the thick rugs. The black panel- 
 ing of the walls made a striking background for her figure 
 in white evening dress. From one of the windows through 
 which streamed October moonlight, the curtains were 
 drawn; and the night, suggesting only beauty and peace, 
 did not seem a proper setting for the story of a crime. 
 During the war she had often stood in this window think- 
 ing of Jack Hereford and his friend flying over the 
 enemy's lines. She had looked forward with interest to 
 seeing and knowing this brave man. How little she had 
 imagined there would ever be a moment like this!
 
 20 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 How cruel Ralph's need of money must have been in 
 order to have brought him so low as this ! Jack had told 
 her that Ramsay was as poor as a rat — with never a cent 
 in his pocket — but Ralph himself had told her more that 
 very afternoon when she had seen in the bitterness on his 
 face a record of his cruel life. 
 
 Then he had acknowledged being a castaway and a 
 vagabond. Had he not called himself an adventurer? 
 The fact that he had rushed out of the house was against 
 him. She did not believe that he would come here, and 
 if he did not, she would keep his miserable secret as she 
 would keep secret his kisses which she could not efface. 
 
 At the sound of steps on the veranda she went hurriedly 
 to the window to open it herself. As she turned the handle 
 of the French window, Ramsay came in, dressed just as he 
 was when he had gone out that morning to fetch the 
 grapes, in white flannel and white shoes. Her first ex- 
 pression was maternal as she saw him. 
 
 "You will catch a terrible cold. You must be fright- 
 fully cold ! I am going to fetch you something to drink. 
 There is whisky in the smoking room." 
 
 Ramsay's face was white and drawn. He came out in 
 the room only a little beyond the window, his back 
 against the red and gold Renaissance curtain. It framed 
 him with its long lines falling behind him. He seemed 
 to stand between in the folds. 
 
 "Please!" he said. "Don't get me anything." 
 
 He might have been embroidered on the satin of the 
 curtains. He was moveless and beautiful in his pallor 
 and silence; nevertheless he was only a modern figure, 
 a modern man. 
 
 "How could you? How could you?" she breathed. "I 
 did not think you would come to-night and yet I hoped 
 you would" — and she felt her voice desert her — "and 
 explain." 
 
 He repeated the word "explain" with a laugh. 
 
 "I came back because I wanted to see you — for no other 
 reason." 
 
 She interrupted him with a passionate gesture as though 
 she would dismiss her memories and his.
 
 MARIE VAN VORST 21 
 
 "To see me again! What can this matter?" In spite 
 of herself she cried, "How horrible! How horrible!" and 
 she covered her face. 
 
 He understood that she hated herself because he had 
 taken her in his arms. He looked quietly at her from 
 his greater height, and his expression did not indicate that 
 all day he had been wandering like a hunted animal. 
 
 "This is the most dreadful thing that has ever come into 
 my life! Oh! Why did you come back?" she cried. 
 
 "To see you — just to see you." 
 
 There was a silence between them for a second, and the 
 clock in the hall outside struck one. Ramsay said: 
 
 "You are sick with disgust. You are full of regret 
 at — our love." 
 
 "You thmk of that first! You think of that first of 
 all!" 
 
 "First — second — last and above everything." 
 
 "After what I saw this morning every word like that is 
 an insult," Mrs. Hereford said. 
 
 Ramsay came forward and caught her hands, saying 
 tensely: 
 
 "And the look I saw on your face to-day when you 
 came in the gift room? You use the word insult. What 
 was the look I saw on your face when you came into the 
 room?" 
 
 She murmured: "Explain, you must explain, you must!" 
 
 He let her hands fall. 
 
 "I have nothing to explain." 
 
 "You knew I was poor. A poor man has debts — 
 gambling debts perhaps. Then there are women in men's 
 lives who make dreadful scandals — there is blackmail. 
 A chap does things in desperation and is not all bad. I 
 have known men to do such things. But from the 
 moment I saw that look on your face to-day, the look 
 which said you thought I was a thief, the world stopped 
 for me." He threw back his head and gave a little laugh. 
 "It will never go on as it was before." 
 
 Here she put out her hand as if about to take his, but 
 let it fall. 
 
 "I've nothing to explain. The fact that for the tenth
 
 22 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 of a second you believed me a thief makes everything else 
 of no value. Of course now" — there was a break in his 
 voice — "you don't even believe in my love!" His voice 
 was low, but there was a ring in it that she never forgot. 
 "It doesn't make any difference any more. I've tramped 
 with that horror all day. 
 
 "Ever since I was a kid I have had a hard time. I have 
 gone to all lengths in time of stress. I have been in all 
 parts of the globe after adventures, but this is the sad- 
 dest adventure of them all. My heart stopped when I saw 
 that look on your face." 
 
 He stood straight as an arrow, fine as a lance; his figure 
 once more was immovable against the curtain, and he 
 looked like the picture up in her room, but the smile was 
 gone. 
 
 "Aly things are all in the station. Before your clock 
 strikes again I shall be gone. Think of me as you will, 
 but you can't believe that I did not love you. That you 
 can't believe!" 
 
 ^ She would have given much to think him innocent. She 
 covered her face with her hands, murmuring: 
 
 "Oh — you better just go — you better just go." 
 
 He looked around the dark, paneled room where the 
 shadows gathered like ghosts ready, when he should go, 
 to haunt Waybrook; and as she stood with her hands 
 across her eyes, he took her in his arms and kissed her upon 
 her hair, upon the hand covering her eyes, and upon her 
 lips. He opened the window and she heard him say, 
 "Good-by! Good-by!" and only stirred when she felt 
 the cold night air rushing in upon her. 
 
 She found herself clinging to the curtain, her face 
 buried in its folds. She might have been a night moth 
 blown there as she clung and shook, the heavy curtain 
 wrapping her round. Ramsay had drawn her toward the 
 window as if he wanted to take her with him into a world 
 which had treated him not any too well ! She came to 
 herself as the clock struck, realizing that she was part 
 of a household whose conventions would not stand for the 
 lady of the house wandering about at dawn through the 
 lower rooms without excuse !
 
 MARIE VAN VORST 23 
 
 She passed her hands over her face to wipe away not 
 the kisses of an hour before, but the marks of tears; and 
 drew the curtains to shut out with the moonlight the 
 figure of the man who had disappeared into the night. 
 Then she left the music room, intending to go upstairs. 
 She remembered what Cynthia Moore had said that morn- 
 ing about the Earl of Moray and the line of the Persian 
 proverb: "Honor and Dishonor are in the hands of the 
 Beloved." 
 
 On the first step of the staircase she stopped to look 
 toward the smoking room at the far end of the hall, and 
 she saw a line of light under the doorway. Her first 
 thought was that Ramsay had hidden there, and as she 
 crossed the hall she realized that she wanted him to be 
 there — she ivantcd him to be there! 
 
 In one of the entirely comfortable chairs, his hand shad- 
 ing his eyes, an open book on his knee, unconscious of 
 midnight rendezvous, her husband was sitting. He turned 
 round and rose as his wife came in, and she saw, although 
 grave and stern, he was impersonal as far as she was 
 concerned. 
 
 "Hello, Nell! Couldn't sleep, just as I couldn't, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 She wondered if it was possible that he had heard her 
 in the music room at the end of the hall. 
 
 She came over to him. 
 
 "Two o'clock. Tommy; terribly late!" 
 
 Hereford drew over the other big chair. 
 
 "Since you are up, Nell, sit out a bit longer with me, 
 will you.'"' 
 
 He would think she had been weeping at losing Patricia, 
 no doubt imagine that she had come directly from Pa- 
 tricia's room. He said: 
 
 "The little girl zvill leave an empty place and we are 
 going to be awfully lonely. We'll have to go on a new 
 honeymoon trip, Nell!" 
 
 Mrs. Hereford sank down in her chair and tried to 
 smile. 
 
 "Have you been mourning here all the evening for 
 Patricia, Tommy:"
 
 24 THE WEEK-END GUEST 
 
 "No, only been down about half an hour." 
 
 He smoked without looking at her, and again she won- 
 dered whether it were possible that he knew she had been 
 in the other room with Ralph. 
 
 "I've been in the music room for some time. It was 
 full of memories of our jolly times, of dances, of Patricia's 
 coming-out ball." 
 
 But Hereford did not appear to have heard what she said. 
 His face had settled into the harsh gravity and look of dis- 
 pleasure that she always connected with his son. 
 
 "What is the matter, Tommy, tell me?" 
 
 "The old story— Jack !" 
 
 Mrs. Hereford, with a breath of keen relief, put her 
 hand on his knees, and sat back in her chair. 
 
 "Poor Tommy ! It must be something perfectly terrible 
 for you to look as you look and to sit here like this half 
 the night." 
 
 "It is the worst." 
 
 "What is it.? Tell me." 
 
 "Blackmail!" 
 
 And clear as ice came to her the remembrance of Ram- 
 say's words: "There are zuonien in men's lives who make 
 dreadful scandals for them. There is blackmail — " 
 
 "It is a relief to speak to you, Nell. When Jack was at 
 Cambridge he got mixed up with the worst kind of woman 
 and made some sort of marriage with her. Drunk, of 
 course. She has trailed him ever since, followed him 
 even to France; been bleeding him to death. The money 
 you and I have given him has gone to her. He's been 
 keeping her quiet until now. He told me this last night, 
 here in this room, and he asked for money to shut her up, 
 as she threatened on Patricia's wedding day to give out a 
 flashy story to the newspapers and drag us all in." 
 
 Mrs. Hereford never stirred. 
 
 "I fairly kicked him out of the house," her husband 
 said. He heard her ask: 
 
 "But you refused to give him money?" 
 
 "Yes, and I told him all the newspapers in the United 
 States could print his story if they liked. It was his own 
 life!"
 
 MARIE VAN VORST 25 
 
 Mrs. Hereford half rose, murmuring: 
 
 "Oh, and he needed money like that! Tommy, like that, 
 and you didn't give it to him?" 
 
 "I told him if he went to you or Patricia I would disin- 
 herit him. I told him to get his lawyer. It was up to him. 
 If you begin to give to blackmail you are lost. Let him 
 take what is coming to him — he has made his own life!" 
 
 She gave a cry, sank more deeply into her chair, and 
 burst into tears, her head on the arm of the chair. Her 
 husband bent over, reassuring her, telling her not to 
 worry; Jack would get a lawyer and he had been a brute 
 to tell her when she was so utterly done up and tired. 
 
 But she had broken down under the strain of fatigue, 
 emotion, and passion greater, at last, than her control. 
 
 She tried to pull herself together, to control her grief. 
 She would wire Ramsay to-morrow, she would ask his 
 pardon. To her now it was clear as day. Oh, it was 
 clear! But Ralph would never forgive her — never in the 
 world. She heard her husband go over to a little cup- 
 board in the wall where drinks were kept; she heard the 
 snap of the soda-bottle cork like a little shot. 
 
 There was nothing she could say to her husband. Her 
 passion for Ramsay had protected his son. Hereford 
 would never know anything of the theft or anything of her 
 false suspicion. 
 
 "Honor and dishonor had been in her hands !" 
 
 Her husband came back with a refreshing drink for her, 
 and sat down on the arm of the chair, made her swallow 
 it, and then he drew her up with great gentleness. 
 
 "It is nearly morning," he said, "and we have a busy 
 day before us. Brace up, old girl!" He kissed her on her 
 hair. 
 
 Mrs. Hereford looked up at him through her tears. 
 First of all, her husband's honor had been given to her for 
 keeping. How ruthlessly she had torn it and thrown it 
 away ! 
 
 Hereford put his arm around her. She needed his sup- 
 port, and they went out, side by side, past the music room, 
 where the ghostly shadows gathered in the four corners, 
 only waiting to take possession.
 
 The American Magazine 
 
 THE TERRIBLE CHARGE AGAINST 
 JEFF POTTER 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX
 
 THE TERRIBLE CHARGE AGAINST 
 JEFF POTTER ' 
 
 By SAAIUEL A. DERIEUX 
 
 IT was Saturday night and raining hard when Frank 
 Blainey pushed through the group of farmers gathered 
 about Jeff Potter and ordered the old man out of the store. 
 There were three indictments according to Frank's angry 
 arraignment: First, that old Jeff hadn't spent twenty 
 dollars in the store In the last two years; second, that he 
 tracked in mud and whittled shavings on the floor; and, 
 third, that women didn't like to come where he was. 
 
 As for the first, well, old Jeff didn't have much money 
 to spend, and consequently didn't spend It; as for the 
 second, having no women at home, and putting in a good 
 share of his time in the river swamp, Jeff wasn't as care- 
 ful about mud and shavings as he might have been; as 
 for the third — that started him stuttering so he could 
 hardly get the question out. 
 
 "W-w-what women?" 
 
 It was Frank Blainey who flushed now, but he went on. 
 He v/as a lanky young fellow, his face a bit narrow, his 
 eyes set a trille close together. Flaving started the row 
 he was just the kind of man to see It through, especially 
 where Jeff was concerned, for who minded old Jeff Potter? 
 
 "It don't make any difference what women!" he cried, 
 face white now, eyes blazing. "I don't want to argue this 
 case and I don't propose to. This is my store, and I tell 
 you to get out and stay out. That's all Fve got to say, 
 and all Fm going to say!" 
 
 Then old Jeff went crazy, saw red. You see, It was all 
 so sudden. For twenty years he had been loafing in 
 
 ^ Copyright by The American Magazine.
 
 30 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 here — ever since his wife died. This had been his place 
 when Sam Blainey, father of Frank, was aUve and ran 
 the store. Here, with a twinkle in his eyes, he had slipped, 
 secretly, many a stick of candy, yellow candy with red 
 stripes, to the youngsters who stood about while parents 
 shopped. Here, out of the soft pine of dry-goods boxes, 
 he had carved many an Indian, while the children crowded 
 about, then gone out in the woods, children following, and 
 colored the Indians red with poke-berry juice. Here, at 
 nights, he had told those bigger children, the fathers, 
 about where fish were biting now in the river, about 
 how wild turkeys were moving from one section of the 
 swamp to another, about the best kind of caller to get 
 them in range. For that was the only kind of thing old 
 Jeff knew, except that children loved candy and carved 
 Indians, and that in a general way folks ought to tote fair 
 with one another. 
 
 But to come back — it was all sudden and Jeff saw red. 
 Bill Carson, a farmer, burly and powerful, grabbed him 
 and shoved him back. He wouldn't have had any show, 
 anyway, with Frank Blainey. His old heart was far 
 stouter than his biceps. All this Bill Carson knew. 
 
 "Come on, Jeff," he was saying. "Yes, that's all right 
 now, you come with me. We'll talk about it out here in 
 the road." 
 
 And so it was that Jeff found himself out in the road, 
 with the rain beating in his face, and Bill Carson towering 
 above him. 
 
 "Let me go, Bill," he was pleading. "Let me go back 
 an' smash his face. Just once. Bill, just once. That wife 
 of hisn is the 'women' he's talkin' about. I know. Bill. 
 Once in the ol' days, when Sam Blainey was livin' an' 
 runnin' the sto', befo' her an' Frank married, she come in. 
 I didn't know there was any lady aroun', an' I said 'damn' 
 or somethin'. She heerd me an' went out, head high, an' 
 said she never would come back agin. She tol' all the 
 women about what I had said. She's pizen pious. Bill: 
 you know her. She brought hit up in the ladies' mission- 
 ary society — said there was heathens livin' right around 
 'em. Meanin' me. Bill, listen, let me go back!"
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 31 
 
 "No," said Carson, "you better go home now, Jeff. 
 He'll be sorry he done it." 
 
 "He'll be enough sight sorrier if I smash his face! Who 
 is he, anyhow? A scrub pup from his fine ol' daddy's 
 breed! He was fired from college — for cheatin', too. He's 
 a sneak now. You know as well as me that ever' Saturday 
 he sends that wife of hisn to visit her folks across the 
 river, then sneaks off to town hisself an' has a good time 
 on the sly. Only las' Sunday, when that poker club in 
 town was pulled, he was one of the men they caught. 
 Oh, he hushed it up, him an' his town friends, but he was 
 one. I know. Bill. Jim Ryan, he's my friend, he's one 
 of the cops that done it. He come out here to hunt with 
 me las' Tuesday, an' he tol' me about it. I never opened 
 my mouth about it to nobody — I never would have, 
 either. But let me go now, an' I'll face him with it. I'll 
 tell him—" 
 
 "No, no," said Carson kindly, with the indulgence of 
 the strong. "There's a woman in there, Sam Raine's wife. 
 You don't want to raise a row befo' her, do you? You'll 
 be justify in' what Frank said. Go on home now, ol' man, 
 an' go to bed." 
 
 And in humiliation and sorrow old Jeff went — went be- 
 cause there wasn't anything else for him to do. Anger is 
 a violent intoxicant: you forget your troubles while the 
 rage lasts, you do not care for past or future. Old Jeff 
 Potter would have been happier this night if he could have 
 stayed angry. 
 
 But sitting late into the night by the smoky lamp on the 
 table, he had forgotten his anger, he had forgotten every- 
 thing except that he couldn't go to the store any more. He 
 had loved it in the old days when Sam Blainey, dead now, 
 ran it, and the lazier men of a lazier era gathered around 
 the rusty, pot-bellied stove. Then he had come to love 
 the new regime, after Frank painted the store all over 
 inside and out; he had loved the bright acetylene lights 
 and the shiny new base-burner, and the Saturday night 
 crowds. He didn't ask much of life, he never had — just 
 a roof over his head, a place to hunt, a store to loaf in,
 
 32 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 where he could see men and women and children and hear 
 them talk. And now one of these, the one that was grow- 
 ing dearer as he grew older, had been taken away. 
 
 For a moment the old man's helpless anger flared up 
 like an echo. 
 
 "I ought to have smashed his face!" he muttered. 
 
 But when he rose and fumbled about on the mantel- 
 piece, among bits of soft pine and half carved Indians, 
 for his pipe, his hands were trembling, and so was the 
 match he held to the bowl; while outside the rain, ever 
 increasing, splashed from the eaves and dashed against 
 the window, as if his cabin were some sub-sea shelter in 
 the midst of a roaring ocean. 
 
 It was this continued deluge that waked him up two 
 hours later with the thought that the river would rise 
 and with the fear that the herd of blooded cattle ranging 
 in the swamp — the cattle belonging to Squire Kirby, his 
 landlord — would drown. It brought him thumping sud- 
 denly out of bed and made him light the lamp. Twelve, 
 declared the hands of a gingerbread clock on the mantel. 
 
 "I better see about them cattle," he said. 
 
 Now, tending cattle wasn't part of his contract with 
 Squire Kirby. A bale of cotton a year rent for the little 
 farm he lived on was. But the bale was seldom forth- 
 coming. It was such a long way to the end of a cotton 
 row, and what excitement was there waiting for you when 
 you got there? You just had to turn round and hoe to 
 the end of another row. 
 
 "All right," Kirby had said, over and over; "if you can't 
 pay, you can't, Jeff. You just bring me an Injun or two 
 to send to my grandchildren for Christmas an' we'll call it 
 squar'." 
 
 So the Indian or two, or half a dozen of them, had come 
 to be his rent. For the rest, he did look after the cattle 
 whenever he happened to be in the swamp, and Kirby 
 always had the pick of his string of fish and bag of game. 
 
 Now, listening shrewdly to the ever-increasing rain, he 
 dressed and picked up his lantern. Then he blew out 
 the lamp and plunged into the storm. Bent double 
 against wind and rain, lantern unlighted, because he loved
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 33 
 
 to find his way in the dark, he hurried across the field. 
 Just before he reached the main road he stopped. Along 
 that road splashed three or four negroes, a lantern be- 
 tween them. 
 
 "Dat you, Mr. Jeff Potter?" one of them called. 
 
 But he did not answer. They were Kirby's hands; 
 they might want to go with him; they would be more 
 trouble than they were worth; he would have to be pulling 
 them, instead of cattle, out of the swamp before he got 
 through. They hesitated a moment, then went on, mum- 
 bling to one another. Old Jeff grinned. 
 
 "When they git home," he chuckled, "they'll be tellin' 
 folks they seen a ha'nt." 
 
 An eighth of a mile before he came to Blainey's store he 
 turned off into a narrow wood road seldom used. He 
 could see pretty well in the dark, old Jeff could, but he 
 wasn't looking for anything like this — he almost ran into 
 the car that stood there in the road ! 
 
 He lit his lantern now and glance ' all around. There 
 was no one in the streaming woods. He went to the car, 
 pulled aside the curtains that were fastened down, and 
 peered in. The seats were empty. All excited, he went 
 back to the rear and squatted down. The lantern light 
 shone on the number and lettering of the license. It was 
 a city car. He got out of his inside breastpocket a 
 frazzled notebook, a sort of diary, in which he jotted down 
 bits of wood lore and queer things he saw as he went 
 about. From inside the leaves he took a stub pencil, and 
 set down the number of that car, and the date on which 
 he had seen it. 
 
 After he had gone away he looked back. There it was, 
 big and long and silent. He hurried along through the 
 thicket, across the field, and into the big woods of the 
 swamp. Yes, the river was up. The lantern glistened 
 on water where no water ought to be. Into it he splashed, 
 up to his ankles, up to his knees, the trunks of trees com- 
 ing forward toward him, then slipping back in silent pro- 
 cession, the shadows cast by the lantern darting here and 
 there in the flooded woods, or moving about like enormous 
 black clubs above his head.
 
 34 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 He was thoroughly alarmed now — alarmed for Kirby's 
 cattle. A mile ahead was a high bit of ground, which 
 they would make for and be safe if they sensed the danger 
 of rising water and started in time. If they hadn't — well, 
 he would just have to round up as many as he could and 
 drive them that way. The water was up to his waist now; 
 still he kept on, holding the lantern high. If he had not 
 known by heart every inch of the ground he would have 
 stepped off into water over his head. But he knew how to 
 keep to the ridges; he could even feel his way across a 
 footlog covered by water; and after a while, all out of 
 breath, he made out the high ground through the trees. 
 The shine of the lantern long before he reached this haven 
 showed the sleek sides and gleaming eyes of cattle huddled 
 together. 
 
 "That's it, boys an' gals !" he yelled. "You knowed 
 more'n I 'lowed you did! You still got some brains lef 
 in yo' thick flat heads !" 
 
 He was among them now, slapping their flanks, calling 
 them by name, shoving them about familiarly to see if 
 they were all here. Off to the side was a shed built by 
 fishermen with a rough fireplace and chimney at one end. 
 Here he built a fire, pulled off his wet trousers and socks 
 and hung them up to dry. Then he raked together for a 
 bed some straw which fishermen had used to sit on. His 
 eyes in the firelight were bright now. This was the kind 
 of thing he liked. 
 
 It was a deep sleep he fell into, so deep that he did not 
 see through the forest an ever expanding glow in the sky; 
 he did not hear the restless animals moving about as in 
 vague terror; he did not hear out in the farm lands that 
 bordered the swamp the excited crowing of cocks, as if 
 some strange day had dawned. 
 
 It was four o'clock when he woke, got into his damp 
 trousers and shoes and started back. It was pitch black. 
 The waters had gone down somewhat, still he had to wade 
 out. Clear of the swamp, he blew out the lantern. 
 
 When he came to the patch of woods where he had seen 
 the car he stopped — there was no car here now! He 
 struck a match and held it close to the ground to make
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 35 
 
 sure it had not been a vision. There were the tracks 
 where it had entered the woods, and others where it had 
 been driven out again. He raised his head and sniffed the 
 air. There was a strange smell abroad, as if the woods 
 had been burned off in the night. Wondering what it 
 could mean, he started on home. 
 
 Day was dawning as he passed Squire Kirby's, and 
 Jake, Kirby's negro hand who fed the mules and horses, 
 was just entering the yard. In the dim light Jake looked 
 quickly at him, then stopped. 
 
 "Dat you, Mr. Jeff Potter?" he demanded. 
 
 There was something strange in Jake's voice, and in 
 his face too. Old Jeff thought about it as he splashed 
 along the road home. 
 
 "Jake must 'a' thought I was a ha'nt too," he chuckled. 
 
 He did not hear the news until nearly midday. Worn 
 out, he had fallen asleep across the bed on reaching home 
 and had not waked until after nine. Then he had wound 
 up the clock, got his lonely breakfast, and made a shift of 
 tidying up his room. After that, he went outside. The 
 weather had cleared; it was a bland winter day of the 
 South, with the drenched straw fields and woods sparkling 
 in the sun. He wandered aimlessly around his yard a 
 while, and finallv sat down on a bench in front of his 
 cabin, and lit his pipe. He did not notice that the negroes 
 in front of that other cabin across the field were looking 
 curiously his way. 
 
 He was very lonely now. The excitement of the night 
 had passed. Usually on Sunday mornings like this he 
 went to Blainey's store, where others gathered — except 
 when there was preaching — out in front and on the porch. 
 They would be gathering there now, talking about him, 
 aiKi about the row last night. As for him, so long as he 
 lived, he could never go there again. 
 
 And so he was brooding when Bill Carson came along 
 the old field road. Bill's face was grave and he was 
 hurrying. As he turned into the yard Jeff rose, his heart 
 suddenly pounding. 
 
 "Jeff, ain't you heard, man?"
 
 36 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 "Heerd what, Bill?" 
 
 "Frank Blainey's store burned down at two o'clock las' 
 night!" 
 
 Off yonder across the field old Jeff was suddenly con- 
 scious that the negroes were looking his way; and in Car- 
 son's eyes he saw a close, narrow, searching scrutiny. 
 
 "Come on inside," said Carson. 
 
 And inside, half dazed, Jeff heard. Folks — some folks 
 — said he did it. The Blaineys especially. Frank was 
 telling everybody. 
 
 "You see, Jeff," said Carson, gravely, "some niggers 
 up here say they saw you goin' toward the store at mid- 
 night. You didn't have any lantern lit. Jake saw you 
 comin' back at daylight. They all spoke to you, but you 
 didn't speak to them. An', Jeff, every other man aroun' 
 here was at that fire but vou !" 
 
 "Bill!" The old man's voice was rising, "Bill, tell me 
 as man to man — do you believe I done it?" 
 
 Then Carson tried to quiet him, tried to evade the ques- 
 tion, too. One thing was certain anyhow — the woman 
 and children didn't believe it. "I just left home, Jeff," 
 he said. "Aly wife an' the kids had heard about it. They 
 say they know you never done it. They made me come. 
 I left little Ella cryin'. She wouldn't go to Sunday- 
 school this mornin'." 
 
 But the old man was not to be put off. He was lean- 
 ing across the table now, eyes dilated. The fear of all 
 wild and half-wild creatures — the fear of the trap — 
 was upon him. "Bill!" he cried. "Does Squire Kirby 
 believe I done it? Tell me the truth, man, for God- 
 A'mighty's sake!" 
 
 "He don't say, Jeff." 
 
 Over and over, while Carson listened, old Jeff described 
 his movements in the swamp the night before. At last 
 Carson rose to go; there was pity in his eyes now in the 
 presence of the old man's excitement. 
 
 "You just stick aroun' the house to-day," he said 
 kindly. "If you go where folks are they'll start you 
 talkin'."
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 37 
 
 And old Jeff stayed at home. At first it was hard, for 
 there was panic in his heart. He wanted to know what 
 was going on beyond those woods that separated him from 
 the more thickly settled part of the community. All 
 morning, anxiously, he watched the road that led from the 
 main thoroughfare to his cabin. Then after dinner, no 
 one having come along the road, and his mind having 
 grown weary of its own anxiety, he bethought him of 
 little Ella Carson, who had cried, and who wouldn't go to 
 Sunday-school because they said he burned the store. 
 And he went into the cabin, and from underneath the 
 table picked out a piece of white pine boxing. 
 
 "I'll carve her an Injun," he said. "An Injun gal." 
 
 And with the thought came relief. Hours he worked, 
 sitting outside his cabin on the bench, while the shavings, 
 ever finer drawn, accumulated at his feet and the form- 
 less fragment of dry-goods box took shape. Now and 
 then he whetted his keen multibladed knife; now and 
 then, all oblivious, he held the work up for his critical 
 inspection. 
 
 Even the nose and chin he carved to a nicety, holding 
 the little figure close, smiling at it now and then, the while 
 his mind, running ahead, saw the completed work. She 
 should have hair from the tip of a black mink's tail; stain 
 from a pokeberry bush would color her; he would strap 
 a tiny papoose across her back with a bit of crimson 
 cloth. 
 
 "The little gal will like that," he chuckled. "Yes— 
 she'll like that!" 
 
 And as he worked, his face now knotted, now serene, 
 he forgot the store and the fire, he did not observe the 
 lengthening shadows, he did not feel the chill of late after- 
 noon. The sun had dropped low when at last he arose 
 suddenly and, still oblivious, started across the field 
 toward the woods. 
 
 His old eyes burned with creative fires. This figure in 
 his hand was the best thing he had ever done. She was 
 his humble masterpiece, this Indian girl who had brought 
 him forgetfulness in his trouble. She was ready to be 
 colored now; but no ordinary pokeberry stain would do
 
 38 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 for her. Deep in the swamp grew bushes whose berries 
 gave a finer and richer tint than any close about. There 
 was an eager smile on his face as he entered the woods. 
 
 He had not seen the commotion among the watching 
 negroes when he rose and hurried across the field; he had 
 not seen them beckoning to someone coming along the 
 road. Now, far in the woods, he did not hear the steps 
 behind him as he pushed through the undergrowth that 
 fringed the swamp. 
 
 He found the bush he wanted and began his work. He 
 had stained her to the waist, a rich, dark-red color; he 
 was all intent on his task, when he heard the rustle of 
 leaves behind him, and turned. What he saw made him 
 put the figure quickly in his pocket, as if to hide her from 
 those narrowed eyes. For there, straight at him, head 
 and shoulders above the bushes, came Tom Kelly, rural 
 policeman. 
 
 ''Tryin' to git away, was you, ol' man?" grinned Kelly. 
 "Well, it's bad policy, an' you're old enough to know it." 
 Then solemnly, with eyes still narrowed, as if within him 
 resided all the dignity and all the sternness of the law: 
 "Fve got a warrant here for you, swore out this after- 
 noon befo' Magistrate Kirby by Frank Blainey. Come 
 along now, an' don't raise no trouble." 
 
 It might all have been different if the old man had 
 listened to his friends — to Squire Kirby, who next morn- 
 ing bound him over to court, and to Bill Carson, who 
 went on his bond, two thousand dollars it was, for hadn't 
 he tried to make a get-away, and hadn't Frank Blainey 
 bitterly opposed turning him loose at all? 
 
 The squire and Carson, in a conference after the pre- 
 liminary trial, advised him to employ to defend him Allen 
 and Cathcart, both of them young, energetic, and highly 
 successful lawyers, and offered between them to advance 
 the money to pay the bill. It wasn't because he doubted 
 their friendship, or was ungrateful, that he did not heed 
 their advice. But these lawyers were young, their minds 
 were taken up with big affairs. What was an old man 
 to them?
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 39 
 
 Then JefF had his prejudices, too. More than once, 
 when he was in the county seat, he had seen on the win- 
 dows of the town skyscraper the gilded sign of Allen and 
 Cathcart. He had seen their big cars and their hand- 
 some homes on Main Street. Now, in his extremity, and 
 in his ignorance also, he distrusted them with the poor 
 man's distrust of the ostentatiously well-to-do. He did 
 not want Allen and Cathcart. 
 
 Even while Kirby and Carson talked, his mind, in 
 relief, had turned to another lawyer, old like himself, 
 and neither rich nor ostentatious — old Colonel Donald- 
 son, whom Sam Blainey used to employ to look up deeds, 
 who had come out one day to fish with him and Sam. 
 This was the lawyer he wanted. 
 
 He said nothing about it; he asked no one's advice; but 
 at four o'clock on the morning after his release on bail 
 he set out on foot to the county seat, and at nine o'clock 
 presented himself at the ancient and shabby offices of 
 Colonel Donaldson on Law Row, just behind the court- 
 house. Heart pounding fast, he told his story to the dry 
 and pedantic old lawyer, who sat behind a littered table 
 in a dingy room where rows of dusty books, Shake- 
 speares, Miltons, Thackerays, Dickenses, and Scotts 
 climbed upward to the cobwebby ceiling. 
 
 Anybody would have told him this was not the man 
 to go to; that it had been years since he appeared in 
 court in anything but civil cases; that he might be the 
 man to run down an old deed, but not to plead a case 
 before a jury; that such fires of youth as he might have 
 possessed — and it was said that he had known them once 
 — had burned out long ago. 
 
 And yet old Jeff, looking at that thin old scholar sur- 
 rounded by his books, trembled lest his case be turned 
 down; while his friends, had they known, would have 
 trembled lest it be accepted. And no one who knew the 
 colonel would have dreamed that he would take such a 
 case. It must have been some queer bond that exists 
 between old men that moved him. 
 
 "Very well, sir," he said, dryly, "I'll take the case.
 
 40 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 Yes, I recall Sam Blainey quite distinctly — a fine man. 
 I remember the fishing trip to which you refer." 
 
 He asked a number of questions, rather wearily, lean- 
 ing back, tips of fingers together. His eyes under his 
 spectacles, that were dusty like his window panes, did 
 light up just a moment when his questions brought out 
 the fact that Jeff had seen a car in the woods. Then 
 he copied down the number in a notebook. He would 
 look into that, he said without conviction. 
 
 "God knows 1" It broke from old Jeff, it was a cry 
 for sympathy. "God knows I never burned that sto'!" 
 
 The voice of the ancient lawyer was dry and unim- 
 pressed. "Unfortunately, in a case of this kind it's court 
 and jury, not the Almighty, which you have to convince. 
 . . . The Indian, you say, you were staining on that 
 afternoon when you were arrested in the swamp — and by 
 the way, sir, it's a bad thing to be arrested in a swamp — 
 have you that Indian with you?" 
 
 Trembling, the old man reached in the pocket of his 
 ragged overcoat. Because of some fear that in his ab- 
 sence his cabin would be searched, he had brought his 
 treasure with him. 
 
 "Here she is, Colonel," he said eagerly. 
 
 The lawyer reached across the table, took the figure, 
 and holding it up looked at it with a smile strangely 
 sweet. Then he arose and went over to a rusty safe in 
 the corner. He put her carefully away in the drawer, 
 closed the iron doors on her and turned the combina- 
 tion. 
 
 "I'll just keep this," he said. "And now that will be 
 all this morning. I'll try and arrange for your case to be 
 called as near the opening of court as possible. Keep 
 close at home. And remember — don't tell anybody any- 
 thing." 
 
 He turned to a shelf and got down a volume — probably 
 he had already dismissed the case from his mind; and 
 Jeff came out into the alley, above which towered the 
 walls of the courthouse where soon he was to appear 
 before judge and jury, with only that dry old recluse to 
 stand between him and the penitentiary.
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 41 
 
 The terrible mistake he had made was duly impressed 
 on him that night by Kirby, who drove over to arrange 
 to take him to town to consult Allen and Cathcart in the 
 morning. Jeff had to admit now what he had done, 
 and Kirby was dumfounded. 
 
 "You want to go to the pen?" he demanded, pointing 
 his finger at his tenant, his white beard thrust belliger- 
 ently forward. "You think you'd like it there, old man? 
 Do you know how strong the evidence is against you? 
 Don't you know, Jeff, I wouldn't have sent you up if it 
 hadn't been? Have you any notion how slim yo' chance 
 is? My God, man — old Donaldson!" 
 
 "He's smart, Mr. Kirby!" cried Jeff. "Ever seen his 
 books? Piled up to the ceilin', clutterin' up the winders 
 and fireplaces?" 
 
 "An' what kind of books? 01' law books in one room, 
 yes. Novels an' po'try in the other! It was the novels 
 an' po'try you saw; an' it's the novels an' po'try he reads. 
 Jeff, listen to me — what made him take the case, God 
 only knows. He's forgot about it by now. His mind is 
 back on them ol' Romans an' centurions. There's been 
 millions an' billions of people in the world he knows 
 about — history an' the like. What difference does one ol' 
 feller in the pen make to him? He was thinkin' about 
 ancient Babylon an' Sodom an' Gomorrah this mornin'. 
 He don't even know what he's done. He'll forget to 
 come to the trial! Now let's get down to brass tacks. 
 You let me go to town to-morrow an' tell him you've 
 changed yo' mind. It's yo' life you're playin' with, man! 
 If you go to the pen for arson you'll die there ! You'll 
 never come out again! You're too old!" 
 
 Jeff's face knotted with pain. But he was true to his 
 simple code. "It — it's too late. Squire. I've give him 
 the case. It wouldn't be fair — no, it wouldn't be fair." 
 
 On the third day of the March term of court, at a 
 quarter of nine in the morning, pale and drawn of face, 
 old Jeff climbed the spiral stairs of the courthouse with 
 Squire Kirby, grimly silent, beside him. Only one com- 
 munication, in all the weeks that had elapsed since Jeff's 
 visit to him, had Colonel Donaldson sent. That was a 
 crisp notice to appear this morning in court.
 
 42 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 Behind them followed Bill Carson and his wife, and 
 little Ella. A strange postscript to the notice had read: 
 "I'm requesting that Ella Carson be present in court." 
 
 "He's all balled up," KIrby had sneered when he read 
 it. "He fikely thinks it was Ella Carson that was pres- 
 ent at the sto' that night instead of Sam Raine's wife!" 
 
 Down the aisle they passed, the crowd that was already 
 filling the court-room turning to look at them curiously. 
 Kirby shot a quick glance at the lawyers' tables inside the 
 bar rail. 
 
 "He ain't even here!" he whispered to Jeff. "I hope 
 to God he's forgot. Then the co't will give you a laivyer!" 
 
 The sheriff pointed out the table for the defendant and 
 his lawyer. Kirby sat down beside Jeff; the Carsons 
 found a place on the front bench of the main court-room. 
 
 "Silence in the court!" cried the sheriff. 
 
 Overawed, and with a queer feeling that he was chok- 
 ing, old Jeff" saw the judge enter in his black robes, while 
 the court-house rose and stood until His Honor was seated. 
 Yonder in an ante-room, laughing and chatting, he made 
 out young Burton Evans, prosecuting attorney, strong, 
 ruddy, confident. And then, last, down the aisle came old 
 Colonel Donaldson, dressed like a preacher or an under- 
 taker, in a long black coat with a narrow white tie. He 
 shook hands flabbily; he walked over to the table below 
 the clerk's desk and carefully placed on it a small bundle, 
 wrapped in paper. 
 
 He came back and sat down at his table, with JeflF 
 between him and Kirby. The court grew quiet. In a 
 haze the old man rose, Donaldson beside him. Crisp, 
 quick, accusing. Burton Evans, glancing fiercely now and 
 then into the old man's eyes, read off the indictment, long, 
 meaningless, full of legal phrases. The jury was picked, 
 Donaldson after a few careless questions, discarding six 
 of them, then relapsing into his chair. The trial of old 
 Jeff Potter was on. 
 
 It was in some respects the strangest case ever tried In 
 that old court-room; for Colonel Donaldson, sitting list- 
 less and abstracted beside his client, lived up to the worst
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 43 
 
 predictions of Kirby. He just let everything slide. The 
 judge, an old man himself, looked now and then at this 
 strange lawyer for the defense with something like a 
 frown. Jeff was too dazed to say anything. Only Kirby 
 fought — fought in angry whispers, leaning across Jeff, his 
 eyes blazing into Donaldson's. 
 
 Three witnesses for the State told the same story of the 
 row in the store. The negroes who had passed along the 
 road described having seen him going toward the store 
 about twelve o'clock that night. He had stopped, they 
 said, as if to hide, and hadn't answered when they called 
 him by name. No, he didn't have a lantern, or if he had 
 one it wasn't lit. 
 
 "Ask 'em," whispered Kirby to Donaldson, "how they 
 know it was Jeff Potter in the dark. Ask 'em, sir. Ask 
 'em!" 
 
 "Why, my dear sir," retorted Donaldson in a whisper 
 hard and dry, "my client here doesn't even deny it." 
 
 Then Jake testified that at daybreak he saw him com- 
 ing back from the direction of the store, x^nd Tom Kelly 
 declared that he had trailed the old man into a swamp, 
 and had arrested him there while he was trying to make 
 his get-away. 
 
 "Ask him, Colonel Donaldson," whispered Kirby again, 
 eyes fierce, "how he knows Jeff was trying to get away." 
 
 Old Donaldson didn't even look at the magistrate now. 
 "Well, just let that pass," he answered. 
 
 "My God !" gasped Kirby. 
 
 Likewise, every statement of Frank Blainey went un- 
 challenged. He had ordered the old man out because 
 he was a nuisance, explained Frank. He was just a 
 loafer, who didn't work for his living. He had hated to 
 do it — sure he had — never hated to do a thing so much in 
 his life. No, he wasn't angry. He had closed up store 
 and gone home right afterward — about eleven o'clock. 
 His wife had gone to spend the night with her people, 
 and there was no one at home. Yes, he had worried 
 about it a lot on the way home. It had been a disagree- 
 able task, the most disagreeable of his life. Nothing but 
 the good of his business could have made him do it. Jeff
 
 44 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 Potter wasn't the kind of man he wanted to have around 
 the store. Women didn't Hke to come where he was. 
 
 "What women — what women, Colonel Donaldson?" 
 whispered Kirby. "Quick — ask him what women!" 
 
 But Colonel Donaldson, sitting back in his chair, the 
 tips of his thin fingers together, his eyes — piercing eyes, 
 too, they were — fastened on the witness, did not seem 
 even to hear; while old Jeff bowed his gray head in 
 shame, and his hands clasped and unclasped on the table 
 before him, and his collar choked him so that he opened 
 it at the neck. 
 
 It was at lunch, which followed immediately after 
 Frank's testimony, that Kirby broke loose. He and Jeff, 
 Bill Carson and his wife and little Ella, had eaten in a 
 restaurant; and now Kirby rose to pay the bill. 
 
 "He just don't care — don't care that!" And Kirby 
 snapped his strong fingers. "I've been in many a trial. 
 I never befo' saw a lawyer not even raise a finger to save 
 a client!" 
 
 A curious crowd had gathered round them. "That's 
 right," some of them said. "He ain't done a thing." 
 And Mrs. Carson, face upraised, grabbed old Jeff by the 
 sleeve, while little Ella clung to her mother's skirt. 
 
 "Oh, get another lawyer," pleaded the woman, "before 
 it's too late. Please — please!" 
 
 Jeff swallowed, but he shook his head. "It wouldn't 
 be fair," he said. "No — it wouldn't be fair." 
 
 Early in the afternoon the ancient and supine lawyer 
 for the defense showed the first spark. The testimony 
 for the State was all in, and he had put Kirby on the 
 stand. His voice as he stood, stiff and formal beside 
 Jeff's chair, was dry, matter of fact. 
 
 "How long, Squire Kirby, have you known the de- 
 fendant, Jeff Potter?" 
 
 "Forty years." 
 
 "You must know, then, his reputation for law and 
 order. Is it good or bad?" 
 
 "Good." 
 
 Then Burton Evans, exuding confidence, was on his
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 45 
 
 feet. "He's a tenant on your place, I believe, Mr. Kirby. 
 Did he pay his rent last year?" 
 
 Kirby turned to the judge. "Your Honor," he asked, 
 "must I answer that question?" 
 
 The judge looked at Colonel Donaldson. "Do I hear 
 any objections from the plaintiff's lawyer? If so I may 
 rule that question out. If not — " 
 
 The voice was dry. "No objection, Your Honor." 
 And Kirby, from the witness chair, glared. 
 
 "He paid me what I asked," snapped Kirby. 
 
 "And what did you ask, Air. Kirby?" demanded Evans. 
 
 The judge was frowning now — frowning at Donald- 
 son, Back in the court-room a slight buzz of voices 
 began. Two or three spectators left benches in the rear 
 and, bent double, as if to hide their progress, darted to 
 seats nearer the front. And when at last Donaldson 
 spoke, it was as if to further the case of the State. 
 
 "As a matter of fact, Mr. Kirby," he asked, "did he 
 not pay you, for rent, one or more carved Indians, which 
 you sent to your grandchildren as Christmas presents?" 
 
 "Yes," said Kirby. 
 
 "Silence in the court!" cried the sheriff. 
 
 Burton Evans turned away, a triumphant smile on his 
 face. Then he glanced at the jury. They were mostly 
 men of family; and now he must have remembered sud- 
 denly that Donaldson, in choosing the jury, had thrown 
 out unmarried men and men without children; and for 
 the first time now he must have noticed that the jury 
 was mostly old men, some of them plainly grandfathers. 
 Anyway, Burton Evans's smile suddenly vanished! 
 
 "Jeff Potter," said Donaldson, "will you take the 
 stand?" 
 
 Old Jeff never knew how he got there. He only knew 
 he was sitting in a chair on a platform, his tattered hat 
 between his knees; that before him were thousands of 
 faces; that thousands of eyes were turned upon him; that 
 to the left the jury were leaning forward; and that to 
 the right the judge's swivel chair creaked as His Honor 
 turned toward him. Then he saw that Colonel Donald-
 
 46 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 son was still standing very erect by his table. Colonel 
 Donaldson was speaking. 
 
 "We will not now go into the happenings of that night, 
 Jeff Potter, the night on which It Is alleged by the State 
 that you burned the store of this man." He stopped and 
 looked hard at Blainey. "The State may question you 
 on that if the State so wishes. But I want to get at an- 
 other matter. Mr. Kelly — I believe that is the officer's 
 name — has stated that on the afternoon he came to arrest 
 you, you tried to escape by running to the woods. Now, 
 Jefferson Potter, tell the judge and jury why you went to 
 the woods, sir. Talk loud, so they can hear." 
 
 "I went" — old Jeff hardly knew his own voice — "I went 
 to git some pokeberry juice to color an Injun with." 
 
 "And this Indian — for whom were you carving it?" 
 
 "Fer little Ella Kyarson." 
 
 "And why were you carving an Indian for little Ella 
 Carson? Talk loud, so the jury there can hear you." 
 
 Jeif turned toward them. They were leaning forward 
 still farther now, these old graybeards, their eyes on him, 
 their faces suddenly all kindly. 
 
 "I was carvin' it fer her because she said she never 
 believed I sot that sto' on fire." 
 
 The prosecutor, face flushed, sprang to his feet. "I 
 object to all this. Your Honor! I contend, sir, that this 
 is a patent attempt — " 
 
 But the judge checked him. "The evidence is ad- 
 missible, sir," he said. "The officer testified that the de- 
 fendant was trying to leave the country. Now it Is quite 
 in order for the defense to show that some other motive 
 than escape induced the defendant to enter the swamp 
 where he was arrested." 
 
 The dry voice resumed: "So you were carving an 
 Indian maiden for the little girl who did not believe you 
 burned the store. Is that it?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Her father said she was cryin' an' wouldn't 
 go to Sunday-school." 
 
 "Do you see the little girl in court?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. That's her. Settin' thar on the front bench 
 with her ma."
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 47 
 
 There was a general commotion. People in the rear 
 of the court-room stood up. The jury all looked toward 
 that front bench, while a mother and a little girl in a blue 
 dress both blushed scarlet. 
 
 And now a strange thing was happening: Old Colonel 
 Donaldson, his manner still perfectly impersonal, had 
 walked over to the table below the clerk's desk and 
 opened a bundle. 
 
 "I submit this in evidence, Your Honor. Here is the In- 
 dian girl he was carving. Does Your Honor care to look at 
 it.'' You will observe that it is half stained, showing where 
 the work was interrupted by the advent of the officer." 
 
 The judge took it and inspected it, a smile on his 
 strong-lined face. He handed it back, and the colonel 
 walked over to the jury. ''Pass it around, gentlemen," 
 he directed, "from one to the other." 
 
 And now the astonished old man in the witness box 
 saw the whole court-room seem to move forward, people 
 leaving their seats to peer; heard over and over the 
 sheriiT's '"Silence in the court!" and saw on the faces of 
 the jury that passed the carved bit of wood from hand 
 to hand the smiles of fathers and grandfathers who 
 would like to take it home to the children. 
 
 But his relief was short-lived: Burton Evans had 
 pc ced on him. 
 
 iue questions came thick and fast, after the old man 
 had told the story of his movements that night. Cattle 
 in the swamp? What cattle? Wasn't he a little over- 
 anxious about another man's cattle — a man he owed rent 
 to? (No objection from Colonel Donaldson.) Did he 
 have owl's eyes that he could find his way about on a 
 pitch-black night? If his mission were an honest one, 
 why didn't he light a lantern? Was it his custom to 
 draw back and hide from passers-by? Was it his custom 
 not to acknowledge a friendly greeting in the road? 
 Did he usually sleep as sound as he slept that night? 
 
 But old Jeff, buffeted about like an untrained boxer 
 standing before a professional, managed somehow to keep 
 on his feet, to stick to the truth, though the sweat stood 
 out on his face, and his limp old hat was twisted into
 
 48 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 a rag, and the crowd and jury swam round and round be- 
 fore him. 
 
 Groggy, he came down at last, though not until the 
 judge himself had interposed in his behalf, and not until 
 the eyes of the jury were full of compassion, and not until 
 from the front bench came the voice of a mother trying 
 to quiet a sobbing child. 
 
 He sank down limp into his chair, to find Squire Kirby 
 tugging at the coat-tails of Colonel Donaldson, who had 
 risen, and whispering over and over, his voice full of re- 
 spect now: 
 
 "Rest the case. Colonel! Rest the case, rest the case! 
 You've brought out the Injun! You give Evans rope, 
 an' he's hung hisself! Colonel Donaldson, Colonel Don- 
 aldson, give the case to the jury as quick as you kin!" 
 
 But the ancient lawyer regarded not at all the frantic 
 whispers or the tugs at his coat-tails. Voice still dry and 
 impersonal, he spoke to the judge: 
 
 "May it please Your Honor, I want Mr. Blainey put 
 on the stand once more. I have just a few questions to 
 ask him. There are some details which I overlooked. 
 I am sure, sir, that a man of Mr. Blainey's humane and 
 just temperament will not mind going on the stand again. 
 I am sure the state attorney can have no possible c ac- 
 tions, sir. Mr. Blainey?" 
 
 Followed a brief excited conference between Blainey 
 and Evans. Then, very pale, Blainey was in the witness 
 chair, and Donaldson was standing very straight by his 
 table, the afternoon sun streaming through one of the 
 high gothic windows of the old courthouse, and shining 
 full on his thin, hawk-like face. 
 
 "Mr. Blainey, what time did you leave the store that 
 night.?" 
 
 "I've answered that once," said Blainey. 
 
 "Well, answer it again!" 
 
 "1 said eleven." 
 
 "Wasn't it later than that?" 
 
 Blainey looked at Evans, who nodded, his lips com- 
 pressed.
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 49 
 
 "Oh, it might have been half past." 
 
 "Was it as late as twelve?" 
 
 "No — it was not!" 
 
 And now once more the sheriff shouted "Silence in the 
 court!" For the old lawyer had advanced two quick 
 steps toward the witness, and suddenly his voice, shrill 
 and grating, rang out, while a thrill like an electric shock 
 ran through the court-room. 
 
 "Wasn't it two o'clock? Answer me, sir — wasn't it 
 two? . . . You do not answer. Very well. Answer me 
 this: Did some friends of yours drive out to see you 
 that night in a car? Did they park the car in the woods 
 near your store? Did they bring with them some liquor 
 and some cards and some chips? Did you have a game 
 of poker in the basement of your store? Did all of you 
 imbibe freely of that liquor in the course of the game? 
 Did you, while under the influence of that liquor, throw 
 lighted cigar and cigarette stubs on the iioor of the base- 
 ment of that store that was littered with packing of all 
 sorts, and excelsior?" 
 
 Again Evans was on his feet, apoplectic with objec- 
 tions. But the old lawyer went on, before the judge 
 could speak, his voice high-pitched and metallic, filling 
 the excited court-room. 
 
 "Is it a fact, sir, that at two o'clock your friends took 
 you home in that car? Is it a fact, sir, that before 
 you reached that house you saw a glow in the sky? And 
 that when these friends wanted to go back you said: 'Let 
 the damn store burn — it's insured'?" 
 
 "Don't answer those questions," thundered Evans. 
 "Your Honor, this man's not on trial!" 
 
 "He will be!" cried the old lawyer, "for perjury in open 
 court! I am not surmising. Your Honor. I can prove 
 the truth of everything I have implied, sir. I was fortu- 
 nate enough to get hold of the number of that car. 
 Through the number I traced the occupants. Happily 
 for the good of our humanity, sir, there is always to be 
 found among a group of young men, however wild, one 
 who will tell the truth. Such a one is young John Duck- 
 ett, who was in that car that night." He turned to the
 
 50 CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER 
 
 court-room. "Mr. Court Crier — call John Duckett Into 
 
 court!" 
 
 At one side of the witness chair that sat high above 
 the main court-room, and which was on a level with the 
 judge's seat, ran a railing. And now Frank Blainey, who 
 had been growing whiter and whiter, turned sideways, 
 his arm on this railing, and buried his face in his arm, 
 his fingers clutching at his hair. With a cry, Mrs. Blainey 
 sprang to her feet and started forward. The voice of 
 the judge was clear and compelling. 
 
 "Keep your seat, madam. Stay where you are, the 
 rest of you. This witness has not fainted. IVlr. Crier, 
 one minute. Do not call the other witness until I so in- 
 struct you. Mr. Blainey, here, seems to have something 
 on his mind. Mr. Blainey?" 
 
 Blainey raised his face. The glance he shot at Don- 
 aldson was a bit wild, a bit vicious, too. His hair was all 
 disheveled. He sat limp In his chair. The judge, turn- 
 ing toward him, went on. 
 
 "Mr. Blainey, if you have anything to say concerning 
 the facts implied in Colonel Donaldson's questions, you 
 are at liberty to speak, sir. Otherwise this witness, Mr. 
 Duckett, will be called. My advice to you, Mr. Blainey, 
 is that you speak." 
 
 The court-room was straining forward now; hundreds 
 of tense faces were turned toward the witness chair, faces 
 strained in the effort to hear the mumbling, halting, re- 
 luctant words. 
 
 "I_I_ Aw, it's all true!" 
 
 "Sit up, Mr. Blainey!" commanded the judge. "Look 
 at me, sir. You have perjured yourself In this court! 
 That is a grave offense; but It Is as nothing, sir, com- 
 pared with the motive behind that perjury. In order to 
 save your practices from exposure, you would have sent 
 an old man to prison, probably for the remainder of his 
 natural life. I have no words strong enough, sir, to ex- 
 press my abhorrence, and the abhorrence of all men, of 
 what you've done! Are you listening, Mr. Blainey?" 
 
 Again the vicious glance around, followed by the 
 bowed head, and a nod.
 
 SAMUEL A. DERIEUX 51 
 
 "But," continued the judge, "the law puts in my hands 
 the means of punishing you. By your own confession, 
 you have committed perjury, and perjury is punished by 
 a long jail sentence and a heavy fine. Combined, they 
 will not be sufficient for your offense, but they will be 
 enough, sir, to make you remember all the rest of your 
 days—" 
 
 And now he stopped, for from his seat, face quivering, 
 old Jeff had sprung to his feet. 
 
 "Jedge!" he cried. "Don't send him to the pen, Jedge! 
 Jedge, he's Sam Blainey's son!" 
 
 Compassionately the judge looked down at him where 
 he stood beside the table, trembling; then he spoke: 
 
 "Sit down, old man. Frank Blainey, the man whom 
 you have attempted so grievously to wrong pleads for 
 you. And because of his plea, which I can do nothing 
 but honor and accede to, I shall remit any prison sentence 
 which I might have imposed. But I warn you, sir, that 
 when the time for your trial comes, in the due process of 
 law, I shall fine you to the very limit allowed me by the 
 statute. Mr. Sheriff", see that this man, Frank Blainey, 
 does not leave the jurisdiction of this court." 
 
 "Old man, stand up oace more, so that all in this 
 court-room may see you. . . . Jeff' Potter, this plea of 
 yours shall go down on the records of this court as a 
 memorial to you and as a high example to all men who 
 may know or read of it of that quality of mercy which 
 is the sovereign good in human nature. And now, gentle- 
 men of the jury, you are automatically discharged from 
 this case, and I shall ask the crowd to pass out quietly, 
 for court is adjourned." 
 
 How many people old Jeff shook hands with that after- 
 noon, he never knew. He did know though that Burton 
 Evans was the first among them; that Mrs. Carson, who 
 came next, was crying; that the strong hands of Bill 
 Carson and Squire Kirby almost crushed his own frailer 
 hand; and that off yonder, at a table below the clerk's 
 desk, a prim old lawyer in a long black coat had picked 
 up a carved Indian and was presenting it to a little girl 
 in a blue dress, with an old-fashioned bow strange to see.
 
 The Century Magazine 
 
 "A SOURCE OF IRRITATION" 
 
 BY 
 
 STACY AUMONIER
 
 "A SOURCE OF IRRITATION" ' 
 By STACY AUMONIER 
 
 TO look at old Sam Gates you would never suspect 
 him of having nerves. His sixty-nine years of close 
 application to the needs of the soil had given him a cer- 
 tain earthy stolidity. To observe him hoeing, or thin- 
 ning out a broad field of turnips, hardly attracted one's 
 attention, he seemed so much part and parcel of the whole 
 scheme. He blended into the soil like a glorified swede. 
 Nevertheless, the half-dozen people who claimed his ac- 
 quaintance knew him to be a man who suffered from little 
 moods of irritabilitv. 
 
 And on this glorious morning a little incident annoyed 
 him unreasonably. It concerned his niece Aggie. She 
 was a plump girl with clear, blue eyes, and a face as 
 round and inexpressive as the dumplings for which the 
 county was famous. She came slowly across the long 
 sweep of the downland and, putting down the bundle 
 wrapped in a red handkerchief which contained his break- 
 fast and dinner, she said: 
 
 "Well, Uncle, is there any noosr" 
 
 Now, this may not appear to the casual reader to be a 
 remark likely to cause irritation, but it affected old Sam 
 Gates as a very silly and unnecessary question. It was, 
 moreover, the constant repetition of it which was begin- 
 ning to anger him. He met his niece twice a day. In the 
 morning she brought his bundle of food at seven, and 
 when he passed his sister's cottage on the way home to 
 tea at five she was invariably hanging about the gate, and 
 she always said in the same voice: 
 
 "Well, Uncle, is there any noos:" 
 
 ^Copyright, 1917, by The Century Co.
 
 56 "A SOURCE OF IRRITATION" 
 
 Noos! What noos should there be? For sixty-nine 
 years he had never lived farther than five miles from 
 Halvesham. For nearly sixty of those years he had bent 
 his back above the soil. There were, indeed, historic occa- 
 sions. Once, for instance, when he had married Annie 
 Hachet. And there was the birth of his daughter. There 
 was also a famous occasion when he had visited London. 
 Once he had been to a flower-show at Market Rough- 
 borough. He either went or didn't go to church on Sun- 
 days. He had had many interesting chats with Mr. James 
 at the Cowman, and three years ago had sold a pig to 
 Mrs. Way. But he couldn't always have interesting noos 
 of this sort up his sleeve. Didn't the silly zany know 
 that for the last three weeks be had been hoeing and thin- 
 ning out turnips for Mr. Hodge on this very same field? 
 What noos could there be? 
 
 He blinked at his niece, and didn't answer. She un- 
 did the parcel and said: 
 
 "Mrs. Coping's fowl got out again last night." 
 
 "Ah," he replied in a non-committal manner and began 
 to munch his bread and bacon. His niece picked up the 
 handkerchief and, humming to herself, walked back across 
 the field. 
 
 It was a glorious morning, and a white sea mist added 
 to the promise of a hot day. He sat there munching, 
 thinking of nothing in particular, but gradually subsiding 
 into a mood of placid content. He noticed the back of 
 Aggie disappear in the distance. It was a mile to the 
 cottage and a mile and a half to Halvesham. Silly things, 
 girls. They were all alike. One had to make allow- 
 ances. He dismissed her from his thoughts, and took a 
 long swig of tea out of a bottle. Insects buzzed lazily. 
 He tapped his pocket to assure himself that his pouch of 
 shag was there, and then he continued munching. When 
 he had finished, he lighted his pipe and stretched himself 
 comfortably. He looked along the line of turnips he had 
 thinned and then across the adjoining field of swedes. 
 Silver streaks appeared on the sea below the mist. In 
 some dim way he felt happy in his solitude amidst this 
 sweeping immensity of earth and sea and sky.
 
 STACY AUMONIER 57 
 
 And then something else came to irritate him: it was 
 one of "these dratted airyplanes." "Airyplanes" were his 
 pet aversiofl. He could find nothing to be said in their 
 favor. Nasty, noisy, disfiguring things that seared the 
 heavens and made the earth dangerous. And every day 
 there seemed to be more and more of them. Of course 
 "this old war" was responsible for a lot of them, he 
 knew. The war was a "plaguy noosance." They were 
 short-handed on the farm, beer and tobacco were dear, 
 and Mrs. Steven's nephew had been and got wounded 
 in the foot. 
 
 He turned his attention once more to the turnips; but 
 an "airyplane" has an annoying genius for gripping one's 
 attention. When it appears on the scene, however much 
 we dislike it, it has a way of taking the stage-center. 
 We cannot help constantly looking at it. And so it was 
 with old Sam Gates. He spat on his hands and blinked 
 up at the sky. And suddenly the aeroplane behaved in a 
 very extraordinary manner. It was well over the sea 
 when it seemed to lurch drunkenly and skimmed the 
 water. Then it shot up at a dangerous angle and zig- 
 zagged. It started to go farther out, and then turned and 
 made for the land. The engines were making a curious 
 grating noise. It rose once more, and then suddenly 
 dived downward, and came plump down right in the mid- 
 dle of Mr, Hodge's field of swedes. 
 
 And then, as if not content with this desecration, it 
 ran along the ground, ripping and tearing up twenty-five 
 yards of good swedes, and then came to a stop. 
 
 Old Sam Gates was in a terrible state. The aeroplane 
 was more than a hundred yards away, but he waved his 
 arms and called out: 
 
 "Hi, you there, you mustn't land in they swedes! 
 They're Mister Hodge's." 
 
 The instant the aeroplane stopped, a man leaped out 
 and gazed quickly round. He glanced at Sam Gates, and 
 seemed uncertain whether to address him or whether to 
 concentrate his attention on the flying-machine. The 
 latter arrangement appeared to be his ultimate decision. 
 He dived under the engine and became frantically busy.
 
 S8 "A SOURCE OF IRRITATION" 
 
 Sam had never seen any one work with such furious 
 energy; but all the same it was not to be tolerated. It 
 was disgraceful. Sam started out across the field, almost 
 hurrying in his indignation. When he appeared within 
 earshot of the aviator he cried out again: 
 
 "Hi! you mustn't rest your old airyplane here! You've 
 kicked up all Mr. Hodge's swedes. A noice thing you've 
 done !" 
 
 He was within five yards w'len suddenly the aviator 
 turned and covered him with a revolver! And speak- 
 ing in a sharp, staccato voice, he said: 
 
 "Old Grandfather, you must sit down. I am very much 
 occupied. If you interfere or attempt to go away, I shoot 
 you. So!" 
 
 Sam gazed at the horrid, glittering little barrel and 
 gasped. Well, he never ! To be threatened with murder 
 when you're doing your duty in your employer's private 
 property! But, still, perhaps the man was mad. A man 
 must be more or less mad to go up in one of those crazy 
 things. And life was very sweet on that summer morning 
 despite sixty-nine years. He sat down among the swedes. 
 
 The aviator was so busy with his cranks and machinery 
 that he hardly deigned to pay him any attention except to 
 keep the revolver handy. He worked feverishly, and 
 Sam sat watching him. At the end of ten minutes he 
 appeared to have solved his troubles with the machine, 
 but he still seemed very scared. He kept on glancing 
 round and out to sea. When his repafrs were complete 
 he straightened his back and wiped the perspiration from 
 his brow. He was apparently on the point of springing 
 back Into the machine and going off when a sudden mood 
 of facetiousness, caused by relief from the strain he had 
 endured, came to him. He turned to old Sam and 
 smiled, at the same time remarking: 
 
 "Well, old Grandfather, and now we shall be all right, 
 isn't kr 
 
 He came close up to Sam, and then suddenly started 
 
 D3.ck 
 
 "Gott!" he cried, "Paul Jouperts!" 
 
 Bewildered, Sam gazed at him, and the madman
 
 STACY AUMONIER 59 
 
 started talking to him in some foreign tongue. Sam 
 shook his head. 
 
 "You no roight," he remarked, "to come bargin' 
 through they swedes of Mr. Hodge's." 
 
 And then the aviator behaved in a most peculiar man- 
 ner. He came up and examined Sam's face very closely, 
 and gave a sudden tug at his beard and hair, as if to see 
 whether they were real or false. 
 
 "What is your name, old man?" he said. 
 
 "Sam Gates." 
 
 The aviator muttered some words that sounded some- 
 thing like "mare vudish," and then turned to his machine. 
 He appeared to be dazed and in a great state of doubt. 
 He fumbled with some cranks, but kept glancing at old 
 Sam. At last he got into the car and strapped himself in. 
 Then he stopped, and sat there deep in thought. At last 
 he suddenly unstrapped himself and sprang out again 
 and, approaching Sam, said very deliberately: 
 
 "Old Grandfather, I shall require you to accompany 
 me." 
 
 Sam gasped. 
 
 "Ehr" he said. "What be talkin' about.? 'Company? 
 I got these 'ere loines o' turnips — I be already behoind — " 
 The disgusting little revolver once more flashed before his 
 eyes. 
 
 "There must be no discussion," came the voice. "It is 
 necessary that you mount the seat of the car without 
 delay. Otherwise I shoot you like the dog you are. So!" 
 
 Old Sam was hale and hearty. He had no desire to die 
 so ignominiously. The pleasant smell of the Norfolk 
 downland was in his nostrils; his foot was on his native 
 heath. He mounted the scat of the car, contenting him- 
 self with a mutter: 
 
 "Well, that be a noice thing, I must say! Flyin' about 
 the country with all they turnips on'y half thinned!" 
 
 He found himself strapped in. The aviator was in a 
 fever of anxiety to get away. The engines made a ghastly 
 splutter and noise. The thing started running along the 
 ground. Suddenly it shot upward, giving the swedes a 
 last contemptuous kick. At twenty minutes to eight
 
 6o "A SOURCE OF IRRITATION" 
 
 that morning old Sam found himself being borne right 
 up above his fields and out to sea! His breath came 
 quickly. He was a little frightened. 
 
 "God forgive me!" he murmured. 
 
 The thing was so fantastic and sudden that his mind 
 could not grasp it. He only felt in some vague way that 
 he was going to die, and he struggled to attune his mind 
 to the change. He offered up a mild prayer to God, Who, 
 he felt, must be very near, somewhere up in these clouds. 
 Automatically he thought of the vicar at lialvesham, and 
 a certain sense of comfort came to him at the reflection 
 that on the previous day he had taken a "cooking of 
 runner beans" to God's representative in that village. He 
 felt calmer after that, but the horrid machine seemed to 
 go higher and higher. He could not turn in his seat and 
 he could see nothing but sea and sky. Of course the 
 man was mad, mad as a March hare. Of what earthly 
 use could he be to any one? Besides, he had talked pure 
 gibberish, and called him Paul something, when he had 
 already told him that his name was Sam. The thing 
 would fall down into the sea soon, and thev would both 
 be drowned. Well, well, he had almost reached three- 
 score years and ten. He was protected by a screen, but it 
 seemed very cold. What on earth would Mr. Hodge say? 
 There was no one left to work the land but a fool of a 
 boy named Billy Whitehead at Dene's Cross. On, on, on 
 they went at a furious pace. His thoughts danced dis- 
 connectedly from incidents of his youth, conversations 
 with the vicar, hearty meals in the open, a frock his sister 
 wore on the day of the postman's wedding, the drone 
 of a psalm, the illness of smie ewes belonging to Mr. 
 Hodge. Everything seemed to be moving very rapidly, 
 upsetting his sense of time. He felt outraged, and yet at 
 moments there was something entrancing in the wild ex- 
 perience. He seemed to be living at an incredible pace. 
 Perhaps he was really dead and on his way to the king- 
 dom of God. Perhaps this was the way they took people. 
 
 After some indefinite period he suddenly caught sight of 
 a long strip of land. Was this a foreign country, or were 
 they returning? He had by this time lost all feeling of
 
 STACY AUMONIER 6i 
 
 fear. He became interested and almost disappointed. 
 The "airyplane" was not such a fool as it looked. It was 
 very wonderful to be right up in the sky like this. His 
 dreams were suddenly disturbed by a fearful noise. He 
 thought the machine was blown to pieces. It dived and 
 ducked through the air, and things were bursting all round 
 it and making an awful din, and then it went up higher 
 and higher. After a while these noises ceased, and he 
 felt the machine gliding downward. They were really 
 right above solid land — trees, fields, streams, and white 
 villages. Down, down, down they glided. This was a 
 foreign country. There were straight avenues of poplars 
 and canals. This was not Halvesham. He felt the thing 
 glide gently and bump into a field. Some men ran for- 
 ward and approached them, and the mad aviator called 
 out to them. They were mostly fat men in gray uni- 
 forms, and they all spoke this foreign gibberish. Some 
 one came and unstrapped him. He was very stiff and 
 could hardly move. An exceptionally gross-looking man 
 punched him in the ribs and roared with laughter. They 
 all stood round and laughed at him, while the mad avi- 
 ator talked to them and kept pointing at him. Then he 
 said: 
 
 "Old Grandfather, you must come with me." 
 
 He was led to an iron-roofed building and shut in a 
 little room. There were guards outside with fixed bay- 
 onets. After a while the mad aviator appeared again, 
 accompanied by two soldiers. He beckoned him to fol- 
 low. They marched through a quadrangle and entered 
 another building. They went straight into an office where 
 a very important-looking man, covered with medals, sat 
 in an easy-chair. There was a lot of saluting and click- 
 ing of heels. The aviator pointed at Sam and said some- 
 thing, and the man with the medals started at sight of 
 him, and then came up and spoke to him in English. 
 
 "What is your name.^ Where do you come from.'' Your 
 age? The name and birthplace of your parents?" 
 
 He seemed intensely interested, and also pulled his hair 
 and beard to see if they came off. So well and naturally 
 did he and the aviator speak English that after a voluble
 
 62 "A SOURCE OF IRRITATION" 
 
 examination they drew apart, and continued the conversa- 
 tion in that language. And the extraordinary conversa- 
 tion was of this nature: 
 
 "It is a most remarkable resemblance," said the man 
 with medals. "Ujiglmiblich! But what do you want me 
 to do with him, Hausemann?" 
 
 "The idea came to me suddenly, Excellency," replied 
 the aviator, "and you may consider it worthless. It is 
 just this. The resemblance is so amazing. Paul Jouperts 
 has given us more valuable information than any one at 
 present in our service, and the English know that. There 
 is an award of five thousand francs on his head. Twice 
 they have captured him, and each time he escaped. All 
 the company commanders and their staff have his photo- 
 graph. He is a serious thorn in their flesh." 
 
 "Well?" replied the man with the medals. 
 
 The aviator whispered confidentially: 
 
 "Suppose, your Excellency, that they found the dead 
 body of Paul Jouperts.''" 
 
 "Well?" replied the big man. 
 
 "My suggestion is this. To-morrow, as you know, the 
 English are attacking Hill 701, which for tactical reasons 
 we have decided to evacuate. If after the attack they find 
 the dead body of Paul Jouperts in, say, the second line, 
 they will take no further trouble in the matter. You 
 know their lack of thoroughness. Pardon me, I was two 
 years at Oxford University. And consequently Paul Jou- 
 perts will be able to prosecute his labors undisturbed." 
 
 The man with the medals twirled his mustache and 
 looked thoughtfully at his colleague. 
 
 "Where is Paul at the moment?" he asked. 
 
 "He is acting as a gardener at the Convent of St. Eloise, 
 at Mailleton-en-haut, which, as you know, is one hundred 
 meters from the headquarters of the British central army 
 staff." 
 
 The man with the medals took two or three rapid turns 
 up and down the room, then he said: 
 
 "Your plan is excellent, Hausemann. The only point 
 of difficulty is that the attack started this morning." 
 
 "This morning?" exclaimed the other.
 
 STACY AUMONIER 63 
 
 "Yes; the English attacked unexpectedly at dawn. We 
 have already evacuated the first line. We shall evacuate 
 the second line at eleven-fifty. It is now ten-fifteen. 
 There may be just time." 
 
 He looked suddenly at old Sam in the way that a 
 butcher might look at a prize heifer at an agricultural 
 show and remarked casually: 
 
 "Yes, it is a remarkable resemblance. It seems a pity 
 not to — do something with it." 
 
 Then, speaking in German, he added: 
 
 "It is worth trying. And if it succeeds the higher 
 authorities shall hear of your lucky accident and inspira- 
 tion, Herr Hausemann. Instruct Ober-lieutenant Schultz 
 to send the old fool by two orderlies to the east extremity 
 of Trench 38. Keep him there till the order of evacuation 
 is given, then shoot him, but don't disfigure him, and lay 
 him out face upward." 
 
 The aviator saluted and withdrew, accompanied by his 
 victim. Old Sam had not understood the latter part of 
 the conversation, and he did not catch quite all that was 
 said in English; but he felt that somehow things were 
 not becoming too promising, and it was time to assert 
 himself. So he remarked when thev got outside: 
 
 "Now, look 'ee 'ere, Mister, when am I goin' to get back 
 to my turnips?" 
 
 And the aviator replied, with a pleasant smile: 
 
 "Do not be disturbed, old Grandfather. You shall get 
 back to the soil quite soon." 
 
 In a few moments he found himself in a large gray car, 
 accompanied by four soldiers. The aviator left him. The 
 country was barren and horrible, full of great pits and 
 rents, and he could hear the roar of the artillery and the 
 shriek of shells. Overhead, aeroplanes were buzzing an- 
 grily. He seem.ed to be suddenly transported from the 
 kingdom of God to the pit of darkness. He wondered 
 whether the vicar had enjoyed the runner beans. He 
 could not imagine runner beans growing here; runner 
 beans, aye, or anything else. If this was a foreign coun- 
 try, give him dear old England! 
 
 Gr-r-r! bang! Something exploded just at the rear of
 
 64 "A SOURCE OF IRRITATION" 
 
 the car. The soldiers ducked, and one of them pushed 
 him in the stomach and swore. 
 
 "An ugly-looking lout," he thought. "If I wor twenty- 
 years younger, I'd give him a punch in the eye that 'u'd 
 make him sit up." 
 
 The car came to a halt by a broken wall. The party 
 hurried out and dived behind a mound. He was pulled 
 down a kind of shaft, and found himself in a room buried 
 right underground, where three officers were drinking and 
 smoking. The soldiers saluted and handed them a type- 
 written despatch. The officers looked at him drunkenly, 
 and one came up and pulled his beard and spat in his face 
 and called him "an old English swine." He then shouted 
 out some instructions to the soldiers, and they led him 
 out into the narrow trench. One walked behind him, and 
 occasionally prodded him with the butt-end of a gun. 
 The trenches were half full of water and reeked of gases, 
 powder, and decaying matter. Shells were constantly 
 bursting overhead, and in places the trenches had 
 crumbled and were nearly blocked up. They stumbled 
 on, sometimes falling, sometimes dodging moving masses, 
 and occasionally crawling over the dead bodies of men. 
 At last they reached a deserted-looking trench, and one 
 of the soldiers pushed him into the corner of it and 
 growled something, and then disappeared round the angle. 
 Old Sam was exhausted. He leaned panting against the 
 mud wall, expecting every minute to be blown to pieces 
 by one of those infernal things that seemed to be getting 
 more and more insistent. The din went on for nearly 
 twenty minutes, and he was alone in the trench. He 
 fancied he heard a whistle amidst the din. Suddenly one 
 of the soldiers who had accompanied him came stealthily 
 round the corner, and there was a look in his eye old 
 Sam did not like. When he was within five yards the 
 soldier raised his rifle and pointed it at Sam's body. Some 
 instinct impelled the old man at that instant to throw 
 himself forward on his face. As he did so he was aware 
 of a terrible explosion, and he had just time to observe 
 the soldier falling in a heap near him, and then he lost 
 consciousness.
 
 STACY AUMONIER 65 
 
 His consciousness appeared to return to him with a 
 snap. He was lying on a plank in a building, and he 
 heard some one say: 
 
 "I believe the old boy's English." 
 
 He looked round. There were a lot of men lying there, 
 and others in khaki and white overalls were busy among 
 them. He sat up, rubbed his head, and said: 
 
 "Hi, IVIister, where be I now?" 
 
 Some one laughed, and a young man came up and 
 said : 
 
 "Well, old man, you were very nearly in hell. Who 
 the devil are you?" 
 
 Some one came up, and two of them were discussing 
 him. One of them said: 
 
 "He's quite all right. He was only knocked out. Bet- 
 ter take him in to the colonel. He may be a spy." 
 
 The other came up, touched his shoulder, and re- 
 marked: 
 
 "Can you walk, Uncle?" 
 
 He replied: 
 
 "Aye, I can walk all roight." 
 
 "That's an old sport!" 
 
 The young man took his arm and helped him out of the 
 room into a courtyard. They entered another room, 
 where an elderly, kind-faced officer was seated at a desk. 
 The officer looked up and exclaimed: 
 
 "Good God! Bradshaw, do you know who you've got 
 there?" 
 
 The younger one said: 
 
 "No. Who, sir?" 
 
 "It's Paul Jouperts!" exclaimed the colonel. 
 
 "Paul Jouperts! Great Scott!" 
 
 The older officer addressed himself to Sam. He said: 
 
 "Well, we've got you once more, Paul. We shall have 
 to be a little more careful this time." 
 
 The young officer said: 
 
 "Shall I detail a squad, sir?" 
 
 "We can't shoot him without a courtmartial," rephed 
 the kind-faced senior. 
 
 Then Sam interpolated:
 
 (>(i "A SOURCE OF IRRITATION" 
 
 "Look 'ee 'ere, sir, I'm fair' sick of all this. My name 
 bean't Paul. My name's Sam. I was a-thinnin' a loine 
 o' turnips — " 
 
 Both officers burst out laughing, and the younger one 
 said: 
 
 "Good ! damn good ! Isn't it amazing, sir, the way 
 they not only learn the language, but even take the trouble 
 to learn a dialect!" 
 
 The older man busied himself with some papers. 
 
 "Well, Sam," he remarked, "you shall be given a chance 
 to prove your identity. Our methods are less drastic than 
 those of your Boche masters. What part of England are 
 you supposed to come from? Let's see how much you 
 can bluff us with your topographical knowledge." 
 
 "I was a-thinnin' a loine o' turnips this mornin' at 
 'alf-past seven on Mr. Hodge's farm at Halvesham when 
 one o' these 'ere airyplanes came down among the swedes. 
 I tells 'e to get clear o' that, when the feller what gets out 
 o' the car 'e drahs a revowlver and 'e says, 'You must 
 'company I — ' " 
 
 "Yes, yes," interrupted the senior officer, "that's all 
 very good. Now tell me — where is Halvesham.'' What is 
 the name of the local vicar? I'm sure you'd know that." 
 
 Old Sam rubbed his chin. 
 
 "I sits under the Reverend David Pryce, Mister, and 
 a good, God-fearin' man he be. I took him a cookin' o' 
 runner beans on'y yesterday. I works for Mr. Hodge, 
 what owns Greenway Manor and 'as a stud-farm at New- 
 market, they say." 
 
 "Charles Hodge?" asked the young officer. 
 
 "Aye, Charlie Hodge. You write and ask un if he 
 knows old Sam Gates." 
 
 The two officers looked at each other, and the older 
 one looked at Sam more closely. 
 
 "It's very extraordinary," he remarked. 
 
 "Everybody knows Charlie Hodge," added the younger 
 officer. 
 
 It was at that moment that a wave of genius swept 
 over old Sam. He put his hand to his head and suddenly 
 jerked out:
 
 STACY AUMOWIER 67 
 
 "What's more, I can tell 'ee where this yere Paul is. 
 He's actin' a gardener in a convent at — " He puckered 
 up his brows, fumbled with his hat, and then got out, 
 "Mighteno." 
 
 The older officer gasped. 
 
 "Mailleton-en-haut! Good God! what makes you say 
 that, old man.^" 
 
 Sam tried to give an account of his experience and the 
 things he had heard said by the German officers; but he 
 was getting tired, and he broke off in the middle to say: 
 
 "Ye haven't a bite o' somethin' to eat, I suppose. 
 Mister; or a glass o' beer.' I usually 'as my dinner at 
 twelve o'clock." 
 
 Both the officers laughed, and the older said: 
 
 "Get him some food, Bradshaw, and a bottle of beer 
 from the mess. We'll keep this old man here. He in- 
 terests me." 
 
 While the younger man was doing this, the chief 
 pressed a button and summoned another junior officer. 
 
 "Gateshead," he remarked, "ring up the G. H. Q. and 
 instruct them to arrest the gardener in that convent at the 
 top of the hill and then to report." 
 
 The officer saluted and went out, and in a few minutes 
 a tray of hot food and a large bottle of beer Avere brought 
 to the old man, and he was left alone in the corner of the 
 room to negotiate this welcome compensation. And in 
 the execution he did himself and his county credit. In 
 the meanwhile the officers were very busy. People were 
 coming and going and examining maps, and telephone 
 bells were ringing furiously. They did not disturb old 
 Sam's gastric operations. He cleaned up the mess tins 
 and finished the last drop of beer. The senior officer 
 found time to offer him a cigarette, but he replied: 
 
 "Thank 'ee kindly, sir, but Pd rather smoke my pipe." 
 
 The colonel smiled and said: 
 
 "Oh, all right; smoke away." 
 
 He lighted up, and the fumes of the shag permeated the 
 room. Some one opened another window, and the young 
 officer who had addressed him at first suddenly looked at 
 him and exclaimed:
 
 68 "A SOURCE OF IRRITATION" 
 
 "Innocent, by God ! You couldn't get shag like that 
 anywhere but in Norfolk." 
 
 It must have been an hour later when another officer 
 entered and saluted. 
 
 "Message from the G. H. Q., sir," he said. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "They have arrested the gardener at the convent of St. 
 Eloise, and they have every reason to believe that he is 
 the notorious Paul Jouperts." 
 
 The colonel stood up, and his eyes beamed. He came 
 over to old Sam and shook his hand. 
 
 "Mr. Gates," he said, "you are an old brick. You will 
 probably hear more of this. You have probably been the 
 means of delivering something very useful into our hands. 
 Your own honor is vindicated. A loving Government will 
 probably award you five shillings or a Victoria Cross 
 or something of that sort. In the meantime, what can I 
 do for your" 
 
 Old Sam scratched his chin. 
 
 "I want to get back 'ome," he said. 
 
 "Well, even that might be arranged." 
 
 "I want to get back 'ome in toime for tea." 
 
 "What time do you have tea?" 
 
 "Foive o'clock or thereabouts." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 A kindly smile came into the eyes of the colonel. He 
 turned to another officer standing by the table and said: 
 
 "Raikes, is any one going across this afternoon with 
 despatches?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied the other officer. "Commander 
 Jennings is leaving at three o'clock." 
 
 "You might ask him if he could see me." 
 
 Within ten minutes a young man in a flight-command- 
 er's uniform entered. 
 
 "Ah, Jennings," said the colonel, "here is a little affair 
 which concerns the honor of the British army. My friend 
 here, Sam Gates, has come over from Halvesham, in Nor- 
 folk, in order to give us valuable information. I have 
 promised him that he shall get home to tea at five o'clock. 
 Can you take a passenger?"
 
 STACY AUMONIER 69 
 
 The young man threw back his head and laughed, 
 
 "Lord!" he exclaimed, "what an old sport! Yes, I ex- 
 pect I can manage it. Where is the God-forsaken place?" 
 
 A large ordnance-map of Norfolk (which had been 
 captured from a German officer) was produced, and the 
 young man studied it closely. 
 
 At three o'clock precisely old Sam, finding himself 
 something of a hero and quite glad to escape from the 
 embarrassment which the position entailed upon him, once 
 more sped skyward in a "dratted airyplane." 
 
 At twenty minutes to five he landed once more among 
 Mr. Hodge's swedes. The breezy young airman shook 
 hands with him and departed inland. Old Sam sat down 
 and surveyed the familiar field of turnips. 
 
 "A noice thing, I must say!" he muttered to himself 
 as he looked along the lines of unthinned turnips. He 
 still had twenty minutes, and so he went slowly along and 
 completed a line which he had begun in the morning. He 
 then deliberately packed up his dinner-things and his tools 
 and started out for home. 
 
 As he came round the corner of Stillway's meadow and 
 the cottage came in view, his niece stepped out of the 
 copse with a basket on her arm. 
 
 "Well, Uncle," she said, "is there any noos?" 
 
 It was then that old Sam really lost his temper. 
 
 "Noos!" he said. "Noos! Drat the girl! What noos 
 should there be? Sixty-nine year' I live in these 'ere 
 parts, hoein' and wcedin' and thinnin', and mindin' Charlie 
 Hodge's sheep. Am I one o' these 'ere story-book folk 
 havin' noos 'appen to me all the time? Ain't it enough, 
 ye silly, dab-faced zany, to earn enough to buy a bite o' 
 some'at to eat and a glass o' beer and a place to rest a's 
 head o'night without always wantin' noos, noos, noos ! I 
 tell 'ee it's this that leads 'ee to 'alf the troubles in the 
 world. Devil take the noos !" 
 
 And turning his back on her, he went fuming up the 
 hill.
 
 Collier's, The National Weekly 
 
 "MOMMA" 
 
 BY 
 
 RUPERT HUGHES
 
 "MOMMA" ' 
 By RUPERT HUGHES 
 
 MOMMA was sick, right sick. Momma was awful 
 sick ! Momma looked like she was going to die 
 any minute. And she didn't care if she did. She up and 
 as good as told Poppa that. 
 
 Poppa was scared almost to death when he realized it. 
 He was all alone with her, and had none of the children 
 to talk to about it; though, for the matter of that, Momma 
 and Poppa had never told the children about their own 
 ailments. And now the children had growed up and 
 vamoosed. All that was left of the fact that there ever 
 had been any children round the place was the two old 
 names Momma and Poppa that the old folks had caught 
 by contagion and got to calling each other by from hearing 
 themselves called them by the children when they were 
 children. 
 
 Momma and Poppa had been drifting down life like a 
 pair of old mud turtles floating south on an old log. And 
 now all of a sudden one of them felt that the other'n was 
 going to roll off into the muddy water and sink downward, 
 backward, dead! 
 
 Perhaps the poor turtles know and grieve and mourn to 
 the full capacity of their tight shells. 
 
 But Poppa was a human, gifted with sympathy. He 
 was old acquaintances with grief of every sort, a pitiful 
 postgraduate in all a man knows who has been a lover, a 
 husband, and a father, and has seen children born from 
 one pain and ache to another and another, who has seen 
 some of his own little children die, or pray for death in 
 the long procession of disappointments and thwarted 
 hopes that begin with the first irretrievable rattle lost over 
 the edge of the crib, and pass on to the rainy holidays, the 
 
 * Copyright, 1920, by Collier's, The National IFeekly.
 
 74 "MOMMA" 
 
 sunny schooldays, the warm Christmases, cracked dolls, 
 lost games, indignities from parents who misunderstand 
 and spank, from sweethearts who misunderstand and 
 flirt, and so on and so forth to the dreary, shabby camp- 
 follower sorrows that trudge along at the tail end of the 
 parade. 
 
 Poppa's habit had been to take things as they come, 
 because, as somebody said, that's the only way they come. 
 He had grown so jaded with existence that he became 
 a veteran Horatio, who, as Will Shakespeare said, "for- 
 tune's buffets and rewards hast ta'en with equal thanks." 
 
 Nothing had excited him much of late at the store, at 
 home, at church, the lodge, or in the newspapers. As he 
 had worn what seemed to be the same suit of clothes for 
 years, so his face had worn the same suit of expressions. 
 It was hard to tell his smile from his scowl. Funny things 
 all had a touch of misfortune in them for somebody, and 
 sad things were all kind of funny, so the same twitch at 
 the muscles about his mouth served for an acknowledg- 
 ment of everything unusual. 
 
 But now, when Momma almost wisht she was dead, 
 that last dreadful word twitched Poppa's very heart. He 
 felt as if in the calm slumber of habitude somebody had 
 reached into his breast and given his heart a yank. And 
 it shivered and rattled as an old doorbell clamors pulled 
 hard at midnight by somebody crying: "Wake up! Your 
 house is on fire!" 
 
 Poppa woke up. Instinct told him that he must save 
 Momma and himself from the incredible disaster of her 
 death. His business worries had kept him from noticing 
 the little symptoms of her decline, though she had stopped 
 quarreling with him, and had simply quarreled with life, 
 with everything: the food, the neighbors, her clothes, the 
 weather, her stummick, her head, her eyes, her feet, her 
 hands, her appetite, her looks — she even complained of 
 her looks ! 
 
 And now, as if scales had been scraped off his eyes, 
 Poppa saw that Momma didn't look good. She didn't 
 look a bit good. She looked something scandalous.
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 75 
 
 Poppa belonged to a lodge, and he had gone to number- 
 less funerals. Yet he had hardly even imagined that some 
 day his fellow members might in turn come to his house, 
 all dressed up with sashes and plumes and swords, to 
 march alongside the black wagon that should carry his 
 one woman in a box vo a ditch. 
 
 As if some one had set a moving picture going against 
 the wall of his own sitting room, he saw the whole thing, 
 and he shuddered back from it with a cry that struck in- 
 ward and cut downward and stuck. He had a fishbone 
 in his throat. 
 
 He became suddenly young and arrantly afraid. He 
 wanted to run to his wiie and cling to her and beg her 
 not to think of such things. But he had given up the 
 habit of hugging jMomma or taking her into his lap or 
 sitting on the arm of her chair since the ancient days 
 when the first child began to take notice. 
 
 He wanted to go back to the old ways, but it would 
 have looked foolish, and the two frumps had been afraid 
 of each other's love for years and years. 
 
 He did nothing and said nothing; but he did a heap of 
 thinking. "Heap" was the word, for his thoughts were 
 like a pile of dead leaves, tarnished, crumpled brown leaves 
 that had been green and radiant and breathing once. 
 
 His thoughts were a heap of autumnal rubbish set on 
 fire. Red torment ran through them, and they writhed 
 and twisted as if a new life had come back to them just 
 that they might suffer a little more. 
 
 The terror stung him to a determination. "I'll call the 
 doctor," he said. He rose from his chair and shuffled to 
 the telephone. Momma ran after him and drageed his 
 hands down, crying: "I don't want to see that old fool. 
 I'll go jump in the river if you send for him. I couldn't 
 stand the sight of him." 
 
 "When a woman's too sick to see the doctor," Poppa 
 said, "it's high time somebody called him in." 
 
 He backed round and bunted her away with the mini- 
 mum of grace and the maximum of devotion, and held 
 her at a distance until he got the number. 
 
 Momma flopped helplessly into a chair and cried like
 
 76 ''MOMMA" 
 
 a petulant little girl, while Poppa ordered the doctor to 
 put on his shoes and come right over. 
 
 She was still pouting like a little girl when Dr. Noxon 
 came. Her lips were pushed out and her chin was purse- 
 drawn when he asked her what was the matter of her. 
 He held her wrist in one hand and his watch in the other, 
 glanced at her tongue, and in a lowered voice asked one or 
 two very personal questions. 
 
 Poppa did most of the talking, while Dr. Noxon nodded 
 and said: "I see, I see." As might have been expected, 
 he left two sets of pills, one kind to be taken after each 
 meal and before retiring, and another kind of pill to be 
 taken on arising and every three hours. 
 
 Momma could hardly keep from laughing in the old 
 owl's face, and as soon as he closed the door she bust 
 right out. It was not a nice laugh — hysterics like. She 
 whooped: "Pve seen that old nuisance leave those same 
 fool pills on those same fool pieces of paper since we first 
 came to Carthage and called him in. Everybody that 
 ever took 'em has died, and I guess it's my turn! And 
 I don't care!" 
 
 Her laughter ended in the wild weeping of a young 
 girl, and Poppa was almost distracted. She went to bed 
 all wore out, but she couldn't sleep. 
 
 She kept him awake worse when she laid still trying 
 not to wake him than she did when she thrashed about 
 and groaned. 
 
 That was a long night, and Poppa entertained a whole 
 herd of nightmares without falling asleep, or, if he did, 
 he didn't know it and it didn't do him a mite of good. 
 
 He waited a day or two to see what effect Dr. Noxon's 
 immemorial pills would have. They had even less effect 
 than he expected they would. 
 
 The third day he took the almost sacrilegious step of 
 seeing one of the other doctors. Dr. Champe refused to 
 call since Mrs. Lundy was known to be one of Dr. Noxon's 
 regular customers, a life member in his pill association. 
 
 But Poppa threatened to brain Champe if he didn't see 
 Momma, and he consented to see her if she would call
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 77 
 
 after dark. Poppa had to drive her there "like a pig to 
 market," he said, and he was more wore out than what 
 she was. 
 
 Dr. Champe gave spoon medicines. They were bitter- 
 sweet and sticky, and had no effect whatever except to 
 cause a brief ague of nausea and leave a nasty taste on 
 the tongue. 
 
 A third doctor tried massage, another electricity. 
 Momma even flirted with science — science with a capital 
 S. But the optimism that was ladled out to her made 
 her sicker than Dr. Champe's sticky sweet medicine. She 
 was in one of those moods when a cheerful word or a 
 smile is a deadly insult. 
 
 The last doctor in town advised a trip, a change of 
 climate and environment. Momma ridiculed the idea, 
 but Poppa telegraphed their married daughter in Terre 
 Haute that Momma was coming, and he fairly boosted her 
 on the train. 
 
 Momma was dismal and ashamed of being dumped as 
 a burden on a daughter she had always babied even after 
 Hattie (now Mrs. Fred Eppes) had babies of her own. 
 So the reunion lacked the delight that belonged to the oc- 
 casion. 
 
 Hattie hugged her mother hard and squealed: "Why, 
 Momma, you're looking fine!" 
 
 Momma was doleful enough to remember her own 
 woes, and she groaned: "You just say that! I don't feel 
 a bit good and I'm a sight! Don't show me to any of 
 your swell Terra Hut friends, for I'll disgrace you." 
 
 Hattie had hard sledding before her. Her mother 
 did not even want to cheer up. She wanted to be sick, 
 and she doubled her misery by bewailing the fact that she 
 couldn't throw off her gloom. She tried to smile once or 
 twice, but Hattie begged her not to. 
 
 Since Momma would neither go calling nor receive 
 callers, she was not easy to entertain. She was ashamed 
 of her shabby clothes and her dowdy appearance, and so 
 was Hattie. 
 
 Hattie would not admit it, though she did say that 
 Poppa, with all his money, ought to dress her up better.
 
 78 "MOMMA" 
 
 Poor Poppa had tried to. The average American hus- 
 band does not often get the chance to complain of his 
 wife's thrift in clothes, but Mr. Lundy, little as he noticed 
 such things, had finally urged Momma to spend a little 
 more money on duds now that the children were buying 
 their own. But his well-meant hints had only depressed 
 her the more, and she had retorted that he was sick and 
 tired of her and her old face. 
 
 He had dropped the subject. Hattie had no better suc- 
 cess. All that she succeeded in accomplishing was a 
 round of the Terre Haute physicians — especially of those 
 frightful personages known as "specialists." Each of 
 these found his specialty in Momma, and went after it. 
 One of them got away with a large number of her teeth 
 before she could fight him off. 
 
 Others offered to remove various parts of her, but she 
 declined to be separated from any more of her fixtures. 
 
 She reduced Hattie's general practitioner almost to ner- 
 vous prostration, and at last, in order to get her off his 
 hands and off her daughter's nerves, he casually recom- 
 mended a New York specialist, Dr. Courtneidge, who had 
 the monopoly on a very abstruse operation dealing with 
 the pancreas or something that Momma didn't even know 
 she had. 
 
 She was quite overawed at finding herself the proud 
 possessor of such a thing. She felt like an old watch that 
 has suddenly learned it has had jewelled movements all 
 these years. But after a few hours of being interested 
 in herself she slumped again and said she guessed she'd 
 take her old pancreas back to Carthage with her. She'd 
 got along with it so far, and, seeing as she'd denied her- 
 self a trip to New York all her life for fun, she certainly 
 wa'nt going all that ways to let a doctor poke a knife into 
 her. 
 
 Hattie fumed and bullied in vain for a day or two, then 
 she fired off a telegram to Poppa to come over at once. 
 
 Poppa was putting through a big land deal and the tele- 
 gram nearly jolted him out of his wits. He would not 
 wait to extend his option. He ran down to the station
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 79 
 
 and swung on a train just pulling out. He did not even 
 stop for the collar, toothbrush, and nightgown that consti- 
 tuted his usual going-away equipment. 
 
 He spent a horrible night in the smoking car, sleeping 
 among his distorted limbs like a wrecked grasshopper. At 
 Terre Haute he took a taxicab to Hattie's house, and was 
 in such a mental and facial disarray when he rang the bell 
 that the maid who answered it slammed the door on him 
 and ran to tell her mistress that there was a crazy man on 
 the porch. 
 
 Hattie peeked through the little side window and recog- 
 nized her father, and flung open the door and her arms to 
 him. 
 
 He expected to find Momma on her deathbed, but she 
 was at breakfast, crying into her rolled oats. 
 
 "What on earth is the matter of you, Momma?" he 
 gasped. 
 
 "Nothing's the matter of me," she snapped. "What on 
 earth's the matter of you? Had your breakfast? Sed- 
 down! And — Hattie, could you ask your girl to fry him 
 a negg — turned over, you remember; and if the coffee's 
 out, here you can have the rest of mine." 
 
 Poppa sank into a chair and consented to break his fast 
 while the news was broken to him. The word "pancreas" 
 dazed him. It sounded like something for breakfast till 
 Hattie explained. Then he was convinced. There is 
 something about a new word that solves all mysteries for 
 most people, and Poppa was very much like most people. 
 
 When Hattie had explained that Dr. Appleyard himself 
 had settled upon the pancreas and Its malfunctioning, or 
 something like that, as the secret of Momma's indomitable 
 obscurities. Poppa set his jaw. 
 
 "When's first train to N'York?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm not goin', I tell you," Momma pealed. "I'm not 
 goln' one step." 
 
 "You are goln'!" Poppa stormed. "Why ain't you 
 goin'?" 
 
 "Because it costs too much money." 
 
 That is a thing a man likes to say for himself. He can- 
 not endure to hear anyone else tell it to him. It is in-
 
 80 "MOMMA" 
 
 suiting. When the children were young, Momma had 
 always said it first when she wanted to make sure of his 
 consenting to an expenditure. Things she would never 
 have browbeaten or wept out of him into permitting, she 
 could always force him to force her to accept by that ap- 
 proach — using the word "force" as card tricksters do when 
 they deftly permit you to drag from them the one card 
 that will work the trick. 
 
 But now Momma was not stacking the cards. She had 
 economized for so many decades that money had become 
 a thing sacrosanct. Unwittingly she had dealt Poppa the 
 deadliest humiliation in her power, for he was what 
 Carthage people called "rich"; he had lands and lands in 
 his own and Momma's name, and big sums out on mort- 
 gages. 
 
 A standard of living that had been forced on him by his 
 early poverty had sufficed him in his gradual wealth. 
 
 A new suit of clothes was a nuisance. Extra servants 
 were like unwelcome guests that never went home. The 
 simplest food everlastingly repeated was all his stomach 
 craved. 
 
 Momma would as soon have had the measles as a 
 limousine, and jewels on her fingers would have crippled 
 her like inflammatory rheumatism. The changing styles 
 of Paris interested her as much as the tides of Barnegat. 
 She had not changed the manner of wearing her hair since 
 she was a mother for the first time, and her dresses were 
 made by a sewing woman who was more interested in the 
 gossip of the families she moved among than in the daily 
 hints from Paris. 
 
 With money pouring in in amounts whose importance 
 neither husband nor wife ever thought of translating into 
 luxuries, and seeping out in a slow trickle, the old couple 
 had come near to being misers without dreaming of stingi- 
 ness. 
 
 This last big land deal of Poppa's had brought him to 
 a sudden realization that he was a pretty big fellow. The 
 banks had begun to turn to him with opportunities for 
 large turnovers, and bonds were offered him in bundles. 
 
 And so when Momma implied that a trip to New York,
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 8i 
 
 to save her life maybe, was beyond his means, he was hurt 
 and enraged, and in his anger he rose to an eloquence of 
 gallantry he never would have achieved in a more temper- 
 ate mood. 
 
 "Too much money, hey? You think you can't afford 
 it, do you? Well, let me tell you that I can afford to send 
 you to any town that anybody else can afford to go to. 
 And if that old pankers doctor has got any patients at tall 
 besides millionaires, and if he don't charge more'n a hun- 
 dred thousand dollars a patient, you can have the best 
 operation he's got in his shop." 
 
 Alomma braced up a bit at this and gave Hattie a proud 
 look as much as to say: "You haven't married the only 
 successful man in the world, Mrs. Eppes." But she shook 
 her head. 
 
 "You ain't goin' to bankrupt yourself shippin' me to 
 any doctor, for I'm not worth it. And that's all there is 
 about it." 
 
 "Not worth it?" Poppa cried with the fervor, if not the 
 rhetoric, of a Romeo. "Well, if you ain't worth it, I'd like 
 to know who is? All I got is none too much to spend 
 on you. And if I had ten times as much, what'd it be 
 worth if I lost you, jMomma?" 
 
 This was so poetic and beautiful that Momma had to get 
 mad or break down and beller, so she put up a big fight. 
 
 "Oh, that's all very well for you to say, but what it 
 comes down to is: You're sending me away to die like a 
 dawg outside somewheres; you want to treat me the way 
 they do the old rats that they give a poison to that guar- 
 antees they don't die in the house." 
 
 "Aw, Momma!" was all Poppa could groan. But 
 Hattie lit into her mother with all the vigor of a true and 
 dutiful American child. 
 
 "Why, Momma Lundy! You ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself. You must be out of your mind to talk thataway 
 when Poppa is so nice and so worried." 
 
 "That's right! Pick on me!" Momma moaned, tak- 
 ing unfair refuge in cowardly tears. "But I notice no- 
 body is offering to go to New York with me." 
 
 Hattie spoke first. "I'd go in a minute if I could leave
 
 82 "MOMMA" 
 
 the children, but with little Eddie having his tonsils re- 
 moved to-morrow and Fannie's chicken pox just coming 
 out—" 
 
 Poppa sighed. "I'll go, of course, if you want me to." 
 
 Momma saw the reluctance in his assent, and, though 
 she knew that he had some strong business reason behind 
 it, her cantankerous mood took umbrage at it. "What'd 
 I tell you? Well, I will go. I'll go all by myself, to some 
 lonely old hotel, and if I never come back nobody will 
 know the difference." 
 
 "Of course you shan't go by yourself, honey," Poppa 
 protested. "I was only thinkin' that if I could go home for 
 a while I could set my business to rights and prob'ly close 
 up a big deal I had on when I got Hattie's wire. If I was 
 to put that through, it would net me a couple o' thousand, 
 and that would go a long ways toward paying for your 
 operation, most likely; and then I could come on and be 
 with you whilst you was convalescing; and then, if any- 
 thing was to happen to me, the business would be all right 
 and I'd leave you and the children fixed." 
 
 This was the simple, humble statement of his mind in 
 the matter; that solemn devotion to his work that makes 
 a priestcraft and an art of business. Like all successful 
 creators, he consecrated himself to his work and sacrificed 
 himself to its completion. No poet or sculptor could have 
 a holier or purer ambit'on for perfection and a flawless 
 conclusion, and there was no more thought of selfishness 
 or greed. 
 
 Momma understood and loved him, but the disease in 
 her soul took ofi'ense at everything; and, though she 
 realized the unselfishness of his motive, she took a perverse 
 delight in distorting it. 
 
 Then ensued one of those duels in which each took the 
 wrong side with a kind of devoted Insincerity. Poppa 
 frantically declared that he would go and nothing should 
 stop him, and she as frantically declared that If he went 
 she wouldn't. 
 
 Momma insisted that she hadn't a friend on earth or in 
 New York, and she would rather go back and die in her 
 own bed than die alone in New York.
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 83 
 
 This reminded her distraught husband that she did 
 have a friend in New York, her old playmate, Ella Jemi- 
 son, who had married Sam Killip and gone to New York 
 and fortune. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I'm likely to ask rich folks like her to take me 
 in!" Momma sobbed. "She wouldn't look at me. She's 
 forgotten she ever knew me, though we are kind of sec- 
 ond cousins by marriage." 
 
 "Well, her husband hasn't forgot he ever knew me," 
 Poppa snapped. "Didn't I have a letter from him only 
 the other day, and didn't he say his wife asked to be 
 kindly remembered to you?" 
 
 "Sam Killip wrote to you !" Momma cried. "How'd 
 rich folks like him come to write to you?" 
 
 Poppa winced again at being a prophet without honor 
 in his own home. "Oh, I guess he ain't the only rich 
 folks in the world. He said he saw I was a director in 
 the Third National Bank, and he wanted to enlarge his 
 capital, and he could offer me a chance to git in on the 
 ground floor of a patent locomotive stoker he was push- 
 ing. He said he was a little short of cash." 
 
 "Sam Killip short of cash!" 
 
 "Rich folks are always short of cash," Poppa explained. 
 "That's why they're rich. The minute they git any cash 
 they put it into something and make it work. I was 
 going to tell Sam I couldn't see my way clear, but if Ella 
 will look after you a little PU help him out." 
 
 This put a new face on the matter. Instead of going to 
 New York as a decrepit, friendless villager, imploring the 
 pity of an old acquaintance, on whom her only claim was 
 old acquaintanceship, she was offered a chance to float in 
 on her as a bearer of rich gifts. She climbed evenly and 
 thought of the Three Wise Men. 
 
 "I'd go there as a kind of a Mrs. Magi then?" 
 
 "Yes! Exactly! And I guess she'd treat you like a 
 grand duchess, or something." 
 
 "Oh, no, I don't see how I could," Momma sighed, 
 slumping again, too deeply dejected to reach out and 
 pluck the golden apple. 
 
 But Poppa had more insight than anyone suspected,
 
 84 ''MOMMA" 
 
 and he had caught the glint of interest in Momma's eye. 
 It was the first sparkle he had seen there for weeks, and, 
 though it had been quenched at once, it emboldened him 
 to tyranny. He got to his feet and left the house with 
 a maddening mysteriousness. 
 
 He was inspired to the amazing audacity of calling Mr. 
 Killip on the long-distance telephone. He went to the 
 hotel so that Momma could not interrupt him. When he 
 had his New York victim by the ear he told him the whole 
 story, and Killip, who was still human though a New 
 Yorker, was as effusive in welcoming Momma as in ac- 
 cepting Poppa's additional offer of money enough to stoke 
 the stoker project to a hearty glow. 
 
 Poppa went back and told Momma what he had done^ 
 and told her to pack up. Her next obstacle was: 
 
 "But I got no clo'es here. I'll have to go home and 
 pack, and I just ain't got the strength." 
 
 "You got no clothes at home either," Hattie put in. 
 "You can go downtown with me and get you some decent 
 things. You can't go to New York looking like an old 
 farmer." 
 
 This was the wrong note. Momma broke her moor- 
 ings again. 
 
 "I told you you was ashamed of me. I'm not fit to 
 be seen in Terra Hut, let alone in New York. I'm simply 
 not going to New York to make an exhabition of myself 
 and make Ellar Killip turn up her nose at me." 
 
 This battle had lasted only a few hours longer when 
 a telegram arrived from Ella herself: 
 
 Overjoyed dearest Mattie to learn that yo^l will visit 
 New York though greatly distressed to learn of your in- 
 disposition you must come to us of course just let me 
 know the train and I will meet you whatever the hour. I 
 knozv Dr. Courtneidge very well and he is an old darling. 
 Love to you and your husband from us both. Ella. 
 
 The gracious warmth of this brought tears to the eyes 
 of the poor derelict, but she masked her sniffle in a sniff. 
 "Where'd she learn all those swell words?"
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 85 
 
 Hattie told her mother, as usual, that she ought to be 
 ashamed of herself, and Momma was. 
 
 She prolonged her resistance to the point where Poppa 
 grew desperate enough to groan. 
 
 "Well, you do as you're a mind to. Seein' you're strong 
 enough to fight forever, you go home and run the business 
 and I'll go to the hospital my own self." 
 
 "Run the business! That's all you think of!" she re- 
 torted with a sublime non sequitur. "Put me on the cattle 
 train and ship me off to the slaughter house. Ella still 
 loves me, anyway, even if nobody else does, and she'll 
 see to it I get decently buried, and that's all I got a right 
 to expect." 
 
 Poppa dashed out and bathed his hot head in cold water 
 before he went to the ticket office. He nearly bit the 
 head off the agent, just to show that he had some man- 
 hood left. 
 
 He was never quite the same man again after he got 
 Momma on the train at last. He bade her a despondent 
 farewell, feeling sure that he would never see her again. 
 And, in a sense, he never did. . . 
 
 Going to the city for the first time in her life, especially 
 at such a time in her life, was an adventure and a half 
 for Momma. 
 
 In spite of the fact that she was advancing toward the 
 knives of a surgeon who was her forlorn hope, she could 
 not but feel a certain elation. She was experiencing what 
 Victor Hugo called a "new shudder." 
 
 She was almost more afraid of Ella Killip and her 
 splendor than of the pancreatic specialist. She was fairly 
 smothered with dread of facing the woman she had not 
 seen since Ella was a gangling, noisy, small-town tom- 
 boy, all freckles and giggles and gawkiness. 
 
 She foresaw Ella as a sort of vast and glittering 
 Queen Victoria, fattened on rich food and studded with 
 jewels. She saw herself as a shabby farm wife whom 
 Ella would probably give one glance and flee from with 
 disdain. 
 
 When she reached New York at last, her first struggle
 
 86 "MOMMA" 
 
 was with a red-capped ruffian who tried to steal her valise. 
 Her next struggle was with her terror of the meeting with 
 Ella. If she had known how to get a train back to Carth- 
 age, she would have taken it. But the crowd hustled her 
 up the platform and she lugged a soul heavier than her 
 rusty hand bag. 
 
 No one had met her at the train, and she was morbid 
 enough to hope that Ella had missed her. But inside the 
 station she found a crowd held back by a rope, and paused 
 to stare at the staring eyes. 
 
 She saw no one that suggested the Ella she had planned, 
 but a tall slim creature, dressed like an actress, in glisten- 
 ing silk, came forward hesitantly. She looked young, and 
 yet she didn't. Her hair was hidden by a hat whose brim 
 seemed to have been flourished by the impatient, whim- 
 sical stroke of a painter's brush. 
 
 From this dressmaker's model came a voice that startled 
 the valise from Momma's hand, for the voice came out of 
 childhood, and it was the voice of Ella. It sang a new 
 tune, but it was the old voice. It said timidly, tentatively: 
 "Mattie? Is it you?" 
 
 Momma's soft old knees caved in, and she sat on the 
 valise as she whimpered: "This is me, but you're never 
 Ellar!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I am, my dear," said Ella with a good laugh 
 as she hoisted Momma to her feet. "I'm the same old 
 sixpence." 
 
 "You lodk more like your own daughter, if you have 
 
 one." 
 
 "Oh, I have one — three, in fact. But — come along, you 
 old dear." 
 
 She nodded to a red cap, who took the valise and 
 followed her as she led Momma through the station. 
 Momma's dazed eyes supposed they were taking a short 
 cut through a cathedral. 
 
 The Killip limousine was marvelous, but she expected 
 marvels. She was a trifle disappointed when she reached 
 Ella's home. She had expected to drive through a royal 
 park to a palace. But she was put down at a house built 
 jam in among a lot of other houses.
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 87 
 
 It was not half the size of Momma's house and had 
 no yard at all except a small patch at the back. 
 
 In place of a double row of stiff-necked butlers up a 
 grand staircase, there was one very pleasant young man 
 at the door and an awfully nice hired girl in cap and 
 apron. Very friendly she was too, and helped Momma 
 in the most folksy way up to her room. 
 
 Ella came along, and when the maid was sent for tea 
 she petted Momma and stuffed a pillow in her back and 
 then drew a chair close up and said: ^'Now, Alattie dear, 
 tell me all about it. What on earth is the trouble, you 
 poor soul.'^" 
 
 But Momma was so embarrassed by the numberless 
 disparities between herself and this strange creature who 
 had started life with even less advantage that she could 
 not be at ease. 
 
 She was dazed by the brilliance of Ella, by her blithe 
 yet haughty carriage, her young skin, slim deft hands, 
 youthful alertness, her fashionable voice, her fashionable 
 politeness. 
 
 She saw that Ella's hair was white, now that her hat 
 was off; but her hair was ironed and fluted and polished 
 and dressed as for a fancy dress ball. 
 
 Momma summed up her bewildered homage, if It was 
 homage, in one helpless query: 
 
 "What makes you powder your hair, Ella?" 
 
 Ella laughed aloud. A little of the old boisterousness 
 broke through the years of control. 
 
 "As my boys would say: 'Whaddaya mean, "powder 
 my hair"?' That's my own poor old gray wool, damn 
 it!" 
 
 Ella's swear word even had a fashionable fillip! 
 Momma had never sworn in her life, or, that is, hardly 
 ever; certainly not with a smile. When she had needed 
 profane words, she had used stupid old-womanish ex- 
 pletives. 
 
 But Ella's casual objurgation broke the ice magically. 
 There is nothing that clears the air of formality like a 
 little damn.
 
 88 "MOMMA" 
 
 Momma was so numb that it merely startled her from 
 her torpor. She laughed the first laugh that had been 
 shaken out of her dust bin of a soul for six weeks. 
 
 After that the two old women were themselves again, 
 two girls who had parted and gone round the world two 
 opposite ways and come together at last to exchange ex- 
 periences. Their costumes and their dialects had changed 
 with their travel, but their hearts were as of old. 
 
 Momma had to hear first of Ella's amazing experiences. 
 This desire itself was a miracle of change; she had already 
 forgotten herself for a while. 
 
 Ella's husband came home before Ella had finished her 
 Arabian Nights' Entertainment and he was pleasantly 
 surprised and surprising. He had expected Mattie to be 
 more ill than she was and he had not expected her to look 
 at all like his own wife. He knew only too well how 
 expensive Ella's looks were and how difi"erent a life she 
 led from the women of the old home town. 
 
 The dinner was simple but "awful tasty," as Mattie 
 proclaimed. She was astounded to find herself eating 
 with relish. But the service was irresistible. The ami- 
 able gentleman who handed the plates around and took 
 them away was so solicitous about suggesting to her the 
 best morsels that she could not insult him by refusing 
 anything or break his heart by leaving an untouched 
 plate for him to carry away. 
 
 Sam Killip was eager to know about all the friends and 
 enemies of his youth and remembered so well the people 
 and the nooks and the scraps of those good old days that 
 the dinner went by like a wedding feast. 
 
 Fortunately the Killip children were away at schools 
 and house parties and Momma was not subjected to the 
 inspection of a generation that found even Ella Killip old- 
 fashioned and conservative. When Ella said she had 
 given up trying to keep up with the youngsters. Momma 
 laughed her to scorn with a quaint phrase: "Oh, yes, to 
 hear you tell it!" 
 
 After dinner Sam had a meeting of some charitable 
 board, and Ella and Mattie settled down for a confab. 
 Ella neglected to mention that she had sent her opera box
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 89 
 
 to friends of hers, and she made no allusion to the fact 
 that it was the first performance of a new role for Caruso, 
 and she would have given an eyetooth to hear him. 
 
 She spread Momma out on what she called a chaise 
 longue. Momma said it was the only comfortable sofa 
 she'd ever laid on and she was going to have one like 
 it if it busted Poppa. Momma was already planning for 
 the future! And thinking of it in terms of comfort! 
 
 She was reluctant to discuss her famous illness, but Ella 
 insisted on knowing the worst. 
 
 "Well, it simply baffled all the doctors," Momma said 
 in a tone not altogether boastless. "I don't know how to 
 describe it. It's just a kind of gener'l gone-ness. I got 
 no heart for anything — no appatite for my vittles, no 
 int'rest in the house or church work or the heathen or the 
 fambly. I don't want to go to bed nights and I don't 
 want to get up mornings. Always been a fiend on house- 
 keepin', but I don't much care now whether things arc 
 in their place or not. Dust don't worry me like it used 
 to. Fm all dusty myself. No special aches or pains, 
 but I just don't feel good anywheres. 
 
 "Want to cry all the time and I don't know why. Hate 
 to go outdoors and hate to stay in. Poppa drives me 
 nearly crazy with everything he does and says, but I 
 drive myself crazier still. I ain't friends with myself or 
 anybody. Want to die and can't bear the thought of that 
 either. 
 
 "It's just a kind of all wrongness everywhere, if you can 
 make anything out of that." 
 
 To her amazement, Ella said: "I know just how you 
 feel and you've come to the right place to be cured." 
 
 It was not altogether pleasant to have Ella claim a share 
 in Momma's wonderful disease and to speak so off-hand- 
 edly of its cure. But instead of rebuking Ella for presum- 
 ing and for minimizing the crisis. Momma felt relieved 
 and before long she was yawning nobly and confessing 
 that she could not keep her eyes open. Ella went to her 
 room with her and saw her bestowed, then kissed her 
 good night and left her. Momma noted that her valise
 
 90 "MOMMA" 
 
 had been unpacked, her bed opened, her nightgown and 
 slippers laid out, a water bottle set by the reading lamp 
 on a little table by the bedhead, and a dozen little thought- 
 fulnesses executed in her behalf. 
 
 When she was in her old nightgown, which was modeled 
 on the potato-bag pattern, and had said her prayers, she 
 crept into the disgracefully fine linen sheets and slept in 
 luxurious oblivion for nine good hours. 
 
 She did not know that Ella had sneaked into her own 
 room, dressed swiftly, and stolen out to the opera, where 
 she stood up, and that she went to a supper and there 
 danced a while before she sneaked home. 
 
 Momma had her breakfast in bed at Ella's previous 
 order and wandered about the house for hours before Ella 
 had rung for her breakfast and sent for Momma. 
 
 Ella was a sight. She looked like one of those immor'l 
 French kings' favorites. She had on a lace boudoir cap 
 and a silk nightgown, very deckolett, and a "breakfast 
 jacket" (of all things!) of satin and lace. 
 
 She did look handsome. Momma had always hated to 
 have even Poppa see her before breakfast. She began to 
 be a little eager for her cure. 
 
 "When do I go to see this Dr. Courtneidge?" 
 
 Ella hesitated a moment, then spoke with a certain 
 sternness: 
 
 "There are two or three things that have to be done 
 first, Mattie dear. I'm always a beast up till noon, so you 
 mustn't be surprised if I'm brutally frank now. Dr. 
 Courtneidge is a very fussy and snappy old gentleman. 
 He has only swells for patients and he's very particular." 
 
 "Don't he treat poor folks at tall?" Momma gasped. 
 
 "Oh, yes, he has free clinics and hospitals and all that 
 and does half his work for nothing. That's why he's so 
 particular with his pay patients. You've got to go through 
 a course of sprouts and buy some things or you'll never get 
 near him. 
 
 "His reception room is full of people, and you'd feel 
 terribly embarrassed to wait there till he gets round. So 
 you really must have some of this year's clothes and a 
 1920 hat. And your hair — you mustn't be offended.
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 91 
 
 Mattie, dear, but really your hair and your skin! He'd 
 give you one glance and send you away without an exami- 
 nation even. You see, I know him, 
 
 "And then the examination, Mattie dear — well, you 
 know what that's like. And in the hospital — well ! I saw 
 the nightgown laid out on your pillow and that sort of 
 thing would simply frighten the doctor to death. He 
 really couldn't operate." 
 
 "I'm not looking to marry the old fool," Momma 
 mumbled. "I got one husband a'ready." 
 
 "I know, my dear Mattie, but your one husband put 
 you in my charge and I'm going to see you through. My 
 masseuse is coming to my house this morning. She's 
 downstairs now, I imagine, and I'm going to have her 
 begin on you. When she's finished, my hairdresser, 
 Frangois, will get to work on that dear old poll of yours 
 and take off about forty years of age. Then we'll have 
 lunch and go shopping." 
 
 Momma was choked with wrath, but Ella would neither 
 fight nor plead. She just bullied her with laughter, and 
 Momma, feeling like a convict unjustly imprisoned, set 
 her jaws and resolved to go through with the sentence. 
 She revolted, however, at the insolence of the masseuse — 
 and her exclamations of horror at the neglect of a "skin 
 that had never really been cleaned." 
 
 But the wretch silenced Momma's indignation with 
 the indignity of smeared cold cream, and smothered her 
 with hot towels and cold towels, and with lotions of every 
 odor and smart. 
 
 Momma would not speak to her as she left, but when 
 she scowled at the mirror, she gazed at the new face 
 aghast it flung back at her. The dull parchment of her 
 skin had become a living integument with a kind of dreamy 
 radiance alive in it. 
 
 Momma felt bewitched. She would have sworn that 
 the image in the looking-glass smiled first at her and 
 nodded, compelling her to smile back and nod in return. 
 She hung there fascinated, understanding a little of what 
 Narcissus felt when he looked first in the pool.
 
 92 "MOMMA" 
 
 Then a quiet Frenchman was shown in. He overawed 
 Momma by his dignity and his dexterity. She dared not 
 slap his face when he spoke of her hair as a crime. He 
 called it a "cream," but she understood his shoulders. 
 
 And then he attacked her poor head with ferocious 
 familiarity. If Poppa had ever caught him, and her, 
 he'd certainly have shot them both. 
 
 Momma was in for it, however, and she actually per- 
 mitted this strange man, this appalling foreigner, to take 
 down her hair, drench it, soap it, souse her head in water, 
 pour curious smelly things over her scalp, and rinse 
 them out, massage her occiput, comb and pull and torture 
 and iron her hair and dress it on top of her astounded 
 skull in what he called a "French twist." She spent a 
 whole hour of "feeling like a shirt in a steam laundry," 
 as she afterward expressed it. Then he brandished before 
 her a mirror and uttered a triumphant cry of something 
 that sounded like: 
 
 "Ah, my damn, walla, walla!" 
 
 Momma blushed vermilion and felt as immoral as 
 she looked. Yet not at all remorseful, somehow. For- 
 tunately Franswa dashed out to prepare the hair of Ella, 
 leaving Momma to ponder her new face and her new hair 
 with a new soul. 
 
 She felt that, in Hattie's formula, she ought to be 
 ashamed of herself, but, to save her immortal being, she 
 could not. 
 
 Only one thing she was sure of, and that was that that 
 head and that hair did not belong on top of that old dress 
 of hers. Her one "best dress" was the one worst dress 
 she had ever seen. 
 
 When at length she saw Ella, Ella screamed with de- 
 light at the transformation and said something that 
 rimed: 
 
 Grow old along with me, 
 The best is yet to be. 
 
 The afternoon was spent in shopping for what Ella 
 called "landjerree."
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 93 
 
 Until she had the proper underpinnings, Ella simply 
 refused to buy Mattie the new dress and hat she was 
 already clamoring for. 
 
 The amount of Poppa's money that Ella spent on silken 
 shamelessness dazed Momma, but Ella would not be 
 checked, and Momma was too childishly interested in 
 the new doll rags to make more than a show of resistance. 
 
 Ella said: "If your husband has money enough to waste 
 ten thousand dollars on my husband's foolish investments, 
 he has money enough to buy you some decent under- 
 clothes." 
 
 "Did you say 'decent'?" was Momma's feeble dis- 
 claimer, but she barely muttered it. 
 
 That night, on a plea of going to bed early, Momma 
 locked herself in her room and tried on the new things. 
 She nearly died of palpitation of the heart when she stood 
 up in silk stockings, satin mules, and in a new streamline 
 corset that gave her a figure! A heroic figure indeed, but 
 a shape, a contour, that was not altogether an insult to 
 the Creator who fashioned it. Momma had to give it a 
 religious significance to live through it. 
 
 And why not.^ What instinct is more deeply Implanted 
 in womanhood than the immemorial insatiable lust for 
 pretty things.'' It has resisted the immemorial insatiable 
 lust of preachers and satirists for insulting it, of econo- 
 mists and hardworking men for denouncing it. It has 
 been called every contemptuous and cruel name in every 
 language. Laws have been made against it innumerably, 
 in vain. And it has flourished as unconquerably as violets 
 in moss, as perfume in hyacinths, as bright plumage in 
 birds, and ornate sunsets in western skies. 
 _ The weavers of silk and the needlers of laces, the de- 
 signers of gowns and of hats have kept up their beautiful 
 careers despite the thunders of self-styled virtue and the 
 slanders of all times. 
 
 Poets and prosers and painters who have turned less 
 beautiful lines and have married less beautiful colors, 
 and the critics who have celebrated their achievements, 
 have looked down with disdain on those who have devoted
 
 94 "MOMMA" 
 
 their inspirations and their toil to the creation of felicitous 
 decorations for the living body. 
 
 But the women have known better. They never have 
 despised the artists who improved them and enhanced 
 them; and by hook or by crook they have kept those 
 artists alive and blessed them with fame. 
 
 And again why not.^ The pietists and the Puritans who 
 cannot forgive women for trying to be beautiful, do they 
 not belie their own gods in their own barbaric praise of 
 ugliness? 
 
 "O Justice, what crimes are committed in thy name!" 
 And, O Beauty, what crimes in thine! Yet beauty shall 
 not die nor the love of ornament, and those who hate 
 them cannot prove their right to cast a stone. Frightful 
 extravagances and cruelties are the result of the hunger 
 for beauty and the feeding of that appetite, but this is 
 true of every other religion and law and ideal. 
 
 If everybody who dressed plainly and lived without 
 luxury, gave all he saved or she did not spend to the poor, 
 their miserliness might be justified, but everybody knows 
 that this is not so. 
 
 Beauty is generous. She who is pleased with herself is 
 already hospitable, and until the millennium is here those 
 who have not the energy or the wile to get fine clothes 
 and wear them well may content themselves as best they 
 can by watching the well-bedecked go by. 
 
 And who is he so mean of soul that he would decree 
 the extinction of the custom women have of making them- 
 selves as pleasing to the eye as possible? And what 
 benefits would the vandal confer on bedulled mankind? 
 
 Momma at least at last was not of that humor. She 
 had become a girl again at heart. She could never be 
 again the gracile nymph who had turned the heads of 
 Carthage swains with her flesh of apple-blossom hue, 
 her fleecy hair in its ribbons, and her gay body in its 
 winsome fabrics. 
 
 But she could be a splendid white-haired matron; and 
 that age has a nobler beauty and a grander charm than 
 even youth can give, youth so common and so helpless 
 in its grace.
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 95 
 
 When Momma walked by chance In front of the long 
 cheval glass, she fell back with a sob of fear and shame. 
 But she approached again and studied herself. She 
 stood up straight, lifting her head proudly on her throat, 
 her torso on her hips; holding herself stalwart as an 
 empress. 
 
 And she thanked God for what He had given her, and 
 promised Him she would take better care of the chalice 
 of her soul. And a happiness possessed her like a bene- 
 diction. 
 
 The next day she went forth to buy dresses, not mere 
 tents to hide her shapeless body under, colored bags to 
 cover her lumps and bulges from the casual and unlinger- 
 ing eye, but exquisite masterpieces from skilled looms, 
 piously accepting the human form and developing its 
 graces. 
 
 Ella was not fool enough to put kittenish anachronisms 
 of dress on Momma. She made her look herself at her 
 supreme. 
 
 And the slithy mannequins who stood about raved over 
 the miracle that had been accomplished in turning the 
 dowdy peasant that entered the shop into a high-bred 
 dowager who smiled upon an approving mirror. 
 
 Momma's only grief was that she could not wear any 
 of the gowns out on the street at once. She had a frantic 
 desire to prance up Fifth Avenue without delay. But 
 there were alterations to make, and she must wait. 
 
 And so must Dr. Courtneidge. 
 
 She took the delay as her punishment for having put 
 off so long the day of her at-one-mcnt with her better self. 
 
 The afternoon was spent among the milliners. Glis- 
 tening countesses in black satin came and went with hats 
 like coronets. They set them daintily on Momma's tur- 
 reted hair and lifted them away again. Momma sat up 
 so straight that she felt taller sitting down than she had 
 seemed hitherto reaching for a pantry shelf. 
 
 It was unbelievable how much it changed her face to 
 change her hat. She cowered in horror from beneath 
 some of the brims, but others so caught her up into the
 
 96 "MOMMA" 
 
 clouds that they amounted to translation — apotheosis 
 almost. 
 
 In spite of Ella's cries of protest, she bought five of the 
 costliest and wore one of them away. 
 
 She went to bed prostrated. But it was the prostra- 
 tion of a girl come home from a great ball, worn out with 
 rapture and pursued by remembered music. 
 
 Poppa had not heard a word of Momma since the tele- 
 gram she sent him saying that she had arrived and been 
 met and was awful tired and discouraged. 
 
 When no letters came he was sure that she was up to 
 her old trick of concealing the worst from him as long as 
 possible. He was sure that she was in the hospital, 
 delirious with pain and on her way to the grave. His 
 heart went mad with visions of her loss and of the dismal 
 life without her. 
 
 On another of his impulses he took a train for New 
 York, sending a brief telegram to Ella. 
 
 He got off the train in much the desolate mood that 
 had dejected Momma when she arrived. He also re- 
 sisted the redcap and trudged dolefully to the line where 
 people waited behind the rope. And up to him also came 
 a gorgeous creature whom he did not recognize until he 
 heard the ancient voice. 
 
 "Poppa, don't you know me?" 
 
 The voice was Momma's, but since when was she a 
 tsarina off the throne? He, too, dropped his handbag 
 and collapsed. And she lifted him and murmured as 
 she kissed him: 
 
 "Don't you like me?" 
 
 "I don't know you," he faltered. 
 
 But he kissed her suave and fragrant cheek again and 
 looked into the gleaming eyes of the bride he remem- 
 bered out of the long ago. 
 
 Then he began to laugh in great gulps of blissful 
 anguish, like a boy who has found on the Christmas tree 
 a richer gift than he had ever dreamed of, or dared to ask. 
 
 Momma cried too. But such a different wail from the 
 wails he had heard from her of late!
 
 RUPERT HUGHES 97 
 
 Finally Poppa thought that he must give credit for the 
 redemption where it was due. 
 
 "That Dr. Courtneidge is certainly a wonder. What 
 on earth did he do to you?" 
 
 "I haven't seen him yet," said Momma. "And I'm 
 not goin' to. I've taken what Ella calls the 'hat cure' 
 and all the other clothes cures. And they haven't cost 
 much more than old Courtneidge would have charged." 
 
 Poppa felt very uneasy walking along with Momma in 
 all her glittering glory. He had always loved her. Now 
 he felt proud of her with the goodly pride of a man who 
 has the luck to get a beautiful wife and the brains to keep 
 her beautiful. 
 
 The only fly in the great bowl of ointment was himself, 
 his shabby self. He confessed as much. 
 
 "I'm ashamed to be seen with you, Momma." 
 
 "You won't be after I get through taking you to the 
 tailor's and the other places I'm goin' to take you to. 
 This is our second honeymoon, Poppa. We didn't have 
 any trousseau at tall before, but we're going to make 
 up for it now. I think I'll telegraph for Hattie and give 
 her a look, just so's to hear her say: 'Why, Momma, 
 you ought to be ashamed of yourself!'" 
 
 "I guess you'd oughta, at that," Poppa guffawed. 
 
 And as she swept into Ella's limousine like a Roman 
 empress entering a chariot. Momma tittered: 
 
 "I am! I'm so ashamed of myself, I'm proud of it!"
 
 Cosmopolitan Magazine 
 
 BACK PAY 
 
 BY 
 
 FANNIE HURST
 
 BACK PAY ' 
 By FANNIE HURST 
 
 I SET out to write a love-story, and for the purpose 
 sharpened a bright-pink pencil with a glass ruby 
 frivolously at the eraser end. 
 
 Something sweet. Something dainty. A candied rose- 
 leaf after all is the bitter war-lozenges. A miss. A kiss. 
 A golf-stick. A motor-car. Or, if need be, a bit of khaki, 
 but without one single spot of blood or mud, and nicely 
 pressed as to those fetching peg-top trouser effects where 
 they wing out just below the skirt-coat. The oldest 
 story in the world told newly. No wear out to it. Edi- 
 tors know. It's as staple as eggs or printed lawn or 
 ipecac. The good old-fashioned love story with the 
 above-mentioned miss, kiss and, if need be for the sake 
 of timeliness, the bit of khaki, pressed. 
 
 Just my luck that, with one of these most salable tales 
 in the world at the tip of my pink pencil, Hester Bevins 
 should come pounding and clamoring at the door of my 
 mental reservation, quite drowning out the rather high, 
 the lipsy, and, if I do say it myself, distinctly musical 
 patter of Arline. That was to have been her name. 
 Arline Kildane. Sweet, don't you think, and with just 
 a bit of wild Irish rose in it? 
 
 But Hester Bevins would not let herself be gainsaid, 
 sobbing a little, elbowing her way through the group of 
 mental unborns, and leaving me to blow my pitch-pipe 
 for a minor key. 
 
 Not that Hester's isn't one of the oldest stories in the 
 world, too. No matter how newly told, she is as old as 
 
 'Copyright, 1919, by The Cosmopolitan Magazine.
 
 102 BACK PAY 
 
 sin, and sin is but a few weeks younger than love — and 
 how often the two are interchangeable! 
 
 There is another Hester in fiction who wore a literal 
 scarlet letter, but she is sprung from the brain of genius, 
 from whence all immortal brain-children are born. My 
 poor Hester is of far less fertile gray matter, but here 
 she is as she is. 
 
 If it be a fact that the true lady is, in theory, either a 
 virgin or a lawful wife, then Hester Bevins stands im- 
 mediately convicted on two charges. 
 
 She was neither. The most that can be said for her 
 is that she was honestly what she was. 
 
 "If the wages of sin is death," she said to a road-house 
 party of roysterers one dawn, "then I've quite a bit of 
 back pay coming to me." And joined in the shout that 
 rose off the table. 
 
 I can sketch her in for you rather simply because of 
 the hackneyed lines of her very, very old story. Whose 
 pasts so quickly mold and disintegrate as those of women 
 of Hester's stripe? Their yesterdays are entirely soluble 
 in the easy waters of their to-days. 
 
 For the first seventeen years of her life, she lived in 
 what we might call Any American Town of, say, fifteen 
 or twenty thousand inhabitants. Her particular one was 
 in Ohio. Demopolis, I think. One of those change- 
 engine-and-take-on-water stops with a stucco art- 
 nouveau station, a roof drooping all round it, as if it 
 needed to be shaved off like edges of a pie, and the name 
 of the town writ in conch shells on a green slant of 
 terrace. You know — the kind that first establishes a 
 ten-o'clock curfew for its young, its dance-halls, and 
 motion-picture theaters, and then sends in a hurry call 
 for a social-service expert from one of the large Eastern 
 cities to come and diagnose its malignant vice under- 
 growth. 
 
 Hester Bevins, of a mother who died bearing her and 
 one of those disappearing fathers who can speed away 
 after the accident without even stopping to pick up 
 the child or leave a license-number, was reared — no; 
 grew up, is better — in the home of an aunt. A blond
 
 FANNIE HURST 103 
 
 aunt with many gold teeth and many pnik and blue 
 wrappers. 
 
 Whatever Hester knew of the kind of home that fos- 
 tered her, it left apparently no welt across her sensibilities. 
 It was a rather poor house, an unpainted frame in a poor 
 street, but there was never a lack of gaiety or, for that 
 matter, any pinching lack of funds. It was an actual 
 fact that, at thirteen, cotton or lisle stockings brought 
 out a little irritated rash on Hester's slim young legs, and 
 she wore silk. Abominations, It is true, at three pair 
 for a dollar, that sprung runs and would not hold a darn, 
 but, just the same, they were silk. There was an air of 
 easy camaraderie and easy money about that house. It 
 was not unusual for her to come home from school at 
 high noon and find a front-room group of one, two, 
 three, or four guests, almost invariably men. Frequently 
 these guests handed her out as much as half a dollar for 
 candy-money, and not another child in school reckoned 
 in more than pennies. 
 
 Once, a guest, for reasons of odd change, I suppose, 
 handed her out thirteen cents. Outraged perhaps at the 
 meanness of the sum, and with an early and deep-dyed 
 superstition of thirteen, she dashed the coins out of his 
 hand and to the four corners of the room, escaping in 
 the guffaw of laughter that went up. 
 
 Often her childish sleep in a small top room with slant- 
 ing sides would be broken upon by loud ribaldry that 
 lasted into dawn, but never by word, and certainly not by 
 deed, was she to know from her aunt any of its sordid 
 significance. 
 
 Literally, Hester Bevins was left to feather her own 
 nest. There were no demands made upon her. Once, 
 in the little atrocious front parlor of horsehair and 
 chromo, one of the guests, the town baggage-master, 
 to be exact, made to embrace her, receiving from the 
 left rear a sounding smack across cheek and ear from the 
 aunt. 
 
 "Cut that! Hester, go out and play! Whatever she's 
 got to learn from life, she can't say she learned it in my 
 house."
 
 104 BACK PAY 
 
 There were even two years of high school, and at six- 
 teen, when she went, at her own volition, to clerk in 
 Finley's two story department store on High Street, she 
 was still innocent, although she and Gerald Fishback 
 were openly sweethearts. 
 
 Gerald was a Thor. Of course, you are not to take 
 that literally; but if ever there was a carnification of the 
 great god himself, then Gerald was in his image. A wide 
 streak of the Scandinavian ran through his make-up, 
 although he had been born in Middletown, and from 
 there had come recently to the Finley Dry Goods Com- 
 pany as an accountant. 
 
 He was so the viking in his bigness that once, on a 
 picnic, he had carried two girls, screaming their fun, 
 across twenty feet of stream. Hester was one of them. 
 
 It was at this picnic, the Finley annual, that he asked 
 Hester, then seventeen, to marry him. She was darkly, 
 wildly pretty, as a rambler rose tugging at its stem is 
 restlessly pretty, as a pointed little gazelle smelling up 
 at the moon is whimsically pretty, as a runaway stream 
 from off the flank of a river is naughtily pretty, and she 
 wore a crisp percale shirt-waist with a saucy bow at the 
 collar, fifty-cent silk stockings, and already she had 
 almond incarnadine nails with points to them. 
 
 They were in the very heart of Wallach's Grove, under 
 a natural cathedral of trees, the noises of the revelers and 
 the small explosions of soda-water and beer-bottles 
 almost remote enough for perfect quiet. He was stretched 
 his full and splendid length at the picnickers' immemorial 
 business of plucking and sucking grass blades, and she 
 seated very trimly, her little blue-serge skirt crawling up 
 ever so slightly to reveal the silken ankle, on a rock beside 
 him. 
 
 "Tickle-tickle!" she cried, with some of that irrepres- 
 sible animal spirit of hers, and leaning to brush his ear 
 with a twig. 
 
 He caught at her hand. 
 
 "Hester," he said, "marry me." 
 
 She felt a foaming through her until her finger-tips 
 sang.
 
 FANNIE HURST 105 
 
 "Well, I like that!" was what she said, though, and 
 flung up a pointed profile that was like that same gazelle's 
 smelling the moon. 
 
 He was very darkly red, and rose to his knees to clasp 
 her about the waist. She felt like relaxing back against 
 his blondness and feeling her fingers plow through the 
 great double wave of his hair. But she did not. 
 
 "You're too poor," she said. 
 
 He sat back without speaking for a long minute. 
 
 "Money isn't everything," he said finally, and with 
 something gone from his voice. 
 
 "I know," she said, looking off; "but it's a great deal 
 if you happen to want it more than anything else in the 
 world." 
 
 "Then, if that's how you feel about it, Hester, next to 
 wanting you, I want it, too, more than anything else in 
 the world." 
 
 "There's no future in bookkeeping." 
 
 "I know a fellow in Cincinnati who's a hundred-and- 
 fifty-doUar man. Hester? Dear:" 
 
 "A week?" 
 
 "Why, of course not, dear — a month." 
 
 "Faugh!" she said, still looking off. 
 
 He felt out for her hand, at the touch of her reddening 
 up again. 
 
 "Hester," he said, "you're the most beautiful, the most 
 exciting, the most maddening, the most — the most every- 
 thing girl in the world ! You're not going to have an 
 easy time of it, Hester, with your — your environment and 
 your dangerousness, if you don't settle down — quick, 
 with some strong fellow to take care of you. A fellow 
 who loves you. That's me, Hester. I want to make a 
 little home for you and protect you, I can't promise you 
 the money — right off, but I can promise you the bigger 
 something from the very start. From the very start, 
 Hester. Dear?" 
 
 She would not let her hand relax to his. 
 
 "I hate this town," she said. 
 
 "There's Cincinnati. Maybe my friend could find an 
 opening there."
 
 io6 BACK PAY 
 
 "Faugh !" 
 
 "Cincinnati dear, is a metropolis." 
 
 "No, no! You don't understand. I hate_ littleness. 
 Even little metropolises. Cheapness. I hate little towns 
 and little spenders and mercerized stockings and cotton 
 lisle next to my skin, and machine-stitched nightgowns — 
 ugh; It scratches!" 
 
 "And I — I just love you in those starchy white shirt- 
 waists, Hester. You're beautiful." 
 
 "That's just the trouble. It satisfies you, but it suf- 
 focates me. I've got a pink-crepe-de-Chine soul. Pink 
 crepe de Chine — you hear?" 
 
 He sat back on his heels. 
 
 "It — Is it true, then, Hester that— that you're making 
 up with that Jewish traveling salesman from New York?" 
 
 "Why!" she said, coloring. "Why, I've only met him 
 twice walking up High Street evenings !" 
 
 "But it is true, isn't it, Hester?" 
 
 "Say, who was answering your questions this time last 
 year?" 
 
 "But it is true, isn't It, Hester? Isn't it?" 
 
 "Well, of all the nerve !" 
 
 But It was. 
 
 The rest tells glibly. The Jewish salesman, ^Yho wore 
 blue-and-whlte-striped soft collars with a bar pin across 
 the front, does not even enter the story. He was only 
 a stepping-stone. From him, the ascent, or descent, or 
 whatever you choose to call It, was quick and sheer. 
 
 Five years later, Hester was the very private, the very 
 exotic, manicured, coiffured, scented, svelted, and strictly 
 de-luxe chattel of one Charles G. Wheeler, of New York 
 city and Rosencranz, Long Island, vice-president of the 
 Standard Tractor Company, a member of no clubs but 
 of the Rosencranz church, three lodges, and several cor- 
 porations. 
 
 You see, there Is no obvious detail lacking. Yes; there 
 was an apartment. "Flat" it becomes under their kind 
 of tenancy, situated on the windiest bend of Riverside 
 Drive and minutely true to type from the pale-blue and
 
 FANNIE HURST 107 
 
 brocade VernI Martin parlor of talking-machine, me- 
 chanical piano, and cellarette built to simulate a music 
 cabinet, to the pink-brocaded bedroom with a chaise 
 longue piled high with a small mountain of lace pillow- 
 ettes that were liberally interlarded with_ paper-bound 
 novels, and a spacious, white-marble adjoining bath- 
 room with a sunken tub, rubber-sheeted shower, white- 
 enamel weighing scales and over-loaded medicine-chest 
 of cosmetic array in frosted bottles, sleeping-, headache-, 
 sedative powders, et al. There were also a negro maid, 
 two Pomeranian dogs, and last, but by no means least, a 
 private telephone enclosed in a hall closet and lighted by 
 an electric bulb that turned on automatically to the open- 
 ing of the door. 
 
 There was nothing sinister about Wheeler. He was a 
 rather fair exponent of that amazing genus known as 
 "typical New Yorker," a roll of money in his pocket, 
 and a roll of fat at the back of his neck. He went in for 
 light checked suits, wore a platinum-and-Oriental-pearl 
 chain across his waistcoat, and slept at a Turkish bath 
 once a week; was once named in a large corporation 
 scandal, escaping indictment only after violent and ex- 
 pensive skirmishes, could be either savage or familiar 
 with waiters, wore highly manicured nails, which he re- 
 garded frequently in public, white-silk socks only, and 
 maintained, on a twenty-thousand-a-year scale in the 
 decorous suburb of Rosencranz, a decorous wife and three 
 children, and, like all men of his code, his ethics were 
 strictly double-decked. He would not permit his nine- 
 teen-year-old daughter Marion so much as a shopping- 
 tour to the city without the chaperonage of her mother 
 or a friend, forbade in his wife, a comely enough woman 
 with a white unmarcelled coiffure and upper arms a bit 
 baggy with withering flesh, even the slightest of shirt- 
 waist V's unless filled in with net, and kept up, at. an ex- 
 pense of no less than fifteen thousand a year — thirty 
 the war-year that tractors jumped into the war-industry 
 class — the very high-priced, -tempered, -handled, and 
 -stepping Hester of wild-gazelle charm. 
 
 Not that Hester stepped much. There were a long
 
 io8 BACK PAY 
 
 underslung roadster and a great tan limousine with yel- 
 low-silk curtains at the call of her private telephone. 
 
 The Wheeler family used, not without complaint, a 
 large open car of very early vintage, which in winter was 
 shut in with flapping curtains with isinglass peepers, and 
 leaked cold air badly. 
 
 On more than one occasion they passed on the road — 
 these cars. The long tan limousine with the shock-ab- 
 sorbers, foot-warmers, two brown Pomeranian dogs, little 
 case of enamel-top bottles, fresh flowers, and outside 
 this little jewel-case interior, smartly exposed, so that the 
 blast hit him from all sides, a chauffeur in uniform that 
 harmonized nicely with the tans and yellows. And then 
 the grotesque caravan of the Azoic motor-age, with its 
 flapping curtains and ununiformed youth in visored cap 
 at the wheel. 
 
 There is undoubtedly an unsavory aspect to this story. 
 For purpose of fiction, it is neither fragrant nor easily 
 digested. But it is not so unsavory as the social scheme 
 which made it possible for those two cars to pass thus on 
 the road, and, at the same time, Charles G. Wheeler to 
 remain the unchallenged' member of the three lodges, the 
 corporations, and the Rosencranz church, with a me- 
 morial window in his name on the left side as you enter, 
 and again his name spelled out on a brass plate at the 
 end of a front pew. 
 
 No one but God and Mrs. Wheeler knew what was in 
 her heart. It is possible that she did not know what the 
 world knew, but hardly. That she endured it is not ad- 
 mirable, but then there were the three children, and, be- 
 sides, she lived in a world that let it go at that. And so 
 she continued to hold up her head in her rather poor, 
 mute way, rode beside her husband to funerals, wed- 
 dings, and to the college commencement of their son at 
 Yale. Scrimped a little, cried a little, prayed a little in 
 private, but outwardly lived the life of the smug in body 
 and soul. 
 
 But the Wheelers' is another story, also a running 
 social sore; but it was Hester, you remember, who came 
 sobbing and clamoring to be told — and so back to her.
 
 FANNIE HURST 109 
 
 As Wheeler once said of 'her, she was a darn-fine clothes- 
 horse. There was no pushed-up line of flesh across the 
 middle of her back, as the corsets did it to Mrs. Wheeler. 
 She was honed to the ounce. The white-enameled weigh- 
 ing scales, the sweet oils, the flexible fingers of her 
 masseur, the dumb-bells, the cabinet, salt-water, needle- 
 spray, and vapor-baths saw to that. Her skin, unlike 
 Marion Wheeler's, was unfreckled, and as heavily and 
 tropically white as a magnolia leaf, and, of course, she 
 reddened her lips, and the moonlike pallor came out 
 more than ever. 
 
 As I said, she was frankly what she was. No man 
 looked at her more than once without knowing it. To 
 use an awkward metaphor, it was before her face like an 
 overtone; it was an invisible caul. The wells of her eyes 
 were muddy with it. 
 
 But withal, she commanded something of a manner, 
 even from Wheeler. He had no key to the apartment. 
 He never entered her room without knocking. There 
 were certain of his friends she would not tolerate, from 
 one or another aversion, to be party to their not infre- 
 quent carousals. Men did not always rise from their 
 chairs when she entered a room, but she sufi"ered few lib- 
 erties from them. She was absolutely indomitable in 
 her demands. 
 
 "Lord !" ventured Wheeler, upon occasion across a 
 Sunday-noon, lace-spread breakfast-table, when she was 
 slim and cool-fingered in orchid-colored draperies, and 
 his newest gift of a six-carat, pear-shaped diamond blaz- 
 ing away on her right hand. "Say, aren't these Yvette 
 bills pretty steep? 
 
 "One midnight-blue-and-silver gown ^485.00 
 
 One blue-and-silvex head bandeau 50.00 
 
 One serge-and-satin trotteur gown 275.00 
 
 One ciel-blue tea-gown 280.00 
 
 "Is that the cheapest you can drink tea? Whew!" 
 She put down her coffee-cup which she usually held
 
 no BACK PAY 
 
 with one little finger poised elegantly outward as If for 
 flight. 
 
 "You've got a nerve!" she said, rising and pushing 
 back her chair. "Over whose ticker are you getting quo- 
 tations that I come cheap?" 
 
 He was immediately conciliatory, rising also to enfold 
 her in an embrace that easily held her slightness. 
 
 "Go on," he said. "You could work me for the Wool- 
 worth Building in diamonds if you wanted it badly 
 enough." 
 
 "Funny way of showing it! I may be a lot of things, 
 Wheeler, but I'm not cheap. You're darn lucky that the 
 war is on and I'm not asking for a French car." 
 
 He crushed his lips to hers. 
 
 "You devil!" he said. 
 
 There were frequent parties. Dancing at Broadway 
 cabarets. All-night joy rides, punctuated with road- 
 house stop-overs and not infrequently, in groups of three 
 or four couples, ten-day pilgrimages to showy American 
 spas, 
 
 "Getting boiled out," they called it. It was part of 
 Hester's scheme for keeping her sveltness. 
 
 Her friendships were necessarily rather confined to a 
 definite circle — within her own apartment-house, in fact. 
 On the floor above, also in large, bright rooms of high 
 rental, and so that they were exchanging visits frequently 
 during the day, often en deshabille, using the stairway 
 that wound up round the elevator-shaft, lived a certain 
 Mrs, Kitty Drew, I believe she called herself. She was 
 plump and blond, and so very scented that her aroma lay 
 on a hallway for an hour after she had scurried through 
 it. She was well known and chiefly distinguished by a 
 large court-plaster crescent which she wore on her left 
 shoulder-blade. She enjoyed the bounty of a Wall Street 
 broker who for one day had attained the conspicuousness 
 of cornering the egg-market. 
 
 There were two or three others within this group. A 
 Mrs. Denison, half French, and a younger girl called 
 Babe. But Mrs. Drew and Hester were intimates. 
 They twaddled daily in one or the other's apartments,
 
 FANNIE HURST in 
 
 usually lazy and lacy with negligee, lounging about on the 
 mounds of lingerie pillows over chocolates, cigarettes, 
 novels, Pomeranians, and always the headache-powders, 
 nerve-sedatives, or smelling-salts, a running line of "Lord, 
 I've a head!" "I need a good cry for the blues!" "Talk 
 about a dark-brown taste," or, "There was some kick to 
 those cocktails last night," through their conversation. 
 
 Kitty: Br-r-r! I'm as nervous as a cat to-day. 
 
 Hester: Naughty, naughty bad doggie to bite muv- 
 ver's diamond ring. 
 
 Kitty: Leave it to you to land a pear-shaped diamond 
 on your hooks. 
 
 Hester: He fell for it, just like that! 
 
 Kitty: You could milk a billiard-ball. 
 
 Hester: I don't see any "quality of mercy" to spare 
 around your flat. 
 
 There were the two years of high school, you see. 
 
 "Ed's going out to Geyser Springs next month for the 
 cure. I told him he could not go without me unless over 
 my dead body, he could not." 
 
 "Geyser Springs. That's thirty miles from my home 
 town." 
 
 "Your home town? Nighty-night! I thought you 
 was born on the corner of Forty-second street and Broad- 
 way with a lobster claw in your mouth." 
 
 "Demopolis, Ohio." 
 
 "What is that — a skin-disease?" 
 
 "My last relation in the world died out there two years 
 ago. An aunt. Wouldn't mind some Geyser Springs 
 myself if I could get some of this stiffness out of my 
 joints," 
 
 "Come on, I dare you ! May Denison and Chris will 
 come in on it, and Babe can always find somebody. 
 Make it three or four cars full and let's motor out. We 
 all need a good boiling, anyways. Wheeler looks about 
 ready for spontaneous combustion, and I got a twinge 
 in my left little toe. You on?" 
 
 "I am, if he is." 
 
 " 'If he is !' He'd fall for life in an Igorrote village 
 with a ring in his nose if you wanted it."
 
 112 BACK PAY 
 
 And truly enough, it did come about that on a height- 
 of-the-season evening, a highly cosmopolitan party of 
 four couples trooped into the solid-marble foyer of the 
 Geyser Springs Hotel, motor-coated, goggled, veiled; a 
 whole litter of pigskin and patent-leather bags, hampers, 
 and hat-boxes, two golf-bags, two Pomeranians, a bull in 
 spiked collar, furs, leather coats, monogrammed rugs, 
 thermos bottles, air-pillows, robes, and an ensemble of 
 fourteen wardrobe-trunks sent by express. 
 
 They took the "cure." Rode horseback, motored, 
 played roulette at the casino for big stakes, and eschewed 
 the American plan of service for the smarter European 
 idea, with a special a-la-carte menu for each meal. Ex- 
 traordinary-looking mixed drinks, and strictly against the 
 mandates of the "cure," appeared at their table. Strange 
 midnight goings-on were reported by the more conserva- 
 tive hotel guests, and the privacy of their circle was 
 allowed full integrity by the little veranda groups of 
 gouty ladies or middle-aged husbands with liver-spots on 
 their faces. The bath-attendants reveled in the largest 
 tips of the season. When Hester walked down the large 
 dining-room evenings, she was a signal for the craning 
 of necks for the newest shock of her newest extreme 
 toilette. The kinds of toilettes that shocked the women 
 into envy and mental notes of how the under arm was 
 cut, and the men into covert delight. Wheeler liked to 
 sit back and put her through her paces like a high-strung 
 filly. 
 
 "Make 'em sit up, girl! You got them all looking like 
 dimes around here." 
 
 One night, she descended to the dining-room in a black 
 evening gown so daringly lacking in back and yet, withal, 
 so slimly perfect an elegant thing that an actual breath- 
 lessness hung over the hall, the clatter of dishes pausing. 
 
 There was a gold bird of paradise dipped down her 
 hair over one shoulder, trailing its smoothness like fingers 
 of lace. She defied with it as she walked. 
 
 "Take it from me," said Kitty, who felt fat in lavender 
 that night, "she's going it one too strong." 
 
 Another evening, she descended, always last, in a cloth
 
 FANNIE HURST 113 
 
 of silver, with a tiny, an absurd, an impeccably tight 
 silver turban dipped down over one eye, and absolutely 
 devoid of jewels except the pear-shaped diamond on her 
 left forefinger. 
 
 They were a noisy, a spending, a cosmopolitan crowd 
 of too well-fed men and too well-groomed women, ignored 
 by the veranda groups of wives and mothers, openly 
 dazzling and arousing a tremendous curiosity in the 
 younger set, and quite obviously sought after by their 
 own kind. 
 
 But Hester's world, too, is all run through with sharply 
 defined, social schisms. 
 
 "I wish that Irwin woman wouldn't always hang 
 round our crowd," she said, one morning, as she and 
 Kitty lay side by side in the cooling-room after their 
 baths, massages, manicures, and shampoos. "I don't 
 want to be seen running with her." 
 
 "Did you see the square emerald she wore last night?" 
 
 "Fake. I know the clerk at the Synthetic Jewelry 
 Company had it made up for her. She's cheap, I tell 
 you. Promiscuous. Who ever heard of anybody stand- 
 ing back of her. She knocks around. She sells her old 
 clothes to Tessie, my m^anicurist. I've got a line on her. 
 She's cheap." 
 
 Kitty, who lay with her face under a white mud of 
 cold-cream and her little mouth merely a hole, turned 
 on her elbow. 
 
 "We can't all be top-notchers, Hester," she said. 
 "You're hard as nails." 
 
 "I guess I am, but you've got to be to play this game. 
 The ones who aren't end up by stuffing the keyhole and 
 turning on the gas. You've got to play it hard or not 
 at all. If you've got the name, you might as well have 
 the game." 
 
 "If I had it to do over again — well, there would be one 
 more wife-and-mother role being played in this little old 
 world, even if I had to play it on a South Dakota farm." 
 
 " 'Whatever is worth doing is worth doing well,' I 
 used to write in the copy-book. Well, that's the way I 
 feel about this: To me, anything is worth doing to escape
 
 114 BACK PAY 
 
 the cotton stockings and lisle^next to your skin. I admit 
 I never sit down and think. You know, sit down and 
 take stock of myself. What's the use thinking? Live! 
 Yes," mused Hester, her arms in a wreath over her head, 
 *'I think I'd do it all over again. There's not been so 
 many at that. Three. The first was a Jew. He'd have 
 married me, but I couldn't see it on six thousand a 
 year. Nice fellow, too — an easy spender in a small way, 
 but I couldn't see a future to ladies' neckwear. They 
 make good husbands, Jews do. I hear he made good 
 later in munitions. Al was a pretty good sort, too, but 
 tight. How I hate tightness! I've been pretty lucky in 
 the long run, I guess." 
 
 "Did I say 'hard as nails'?" said Kitty, grotesquely 
 fitting a cigarette in the aperture of her mouth. "I 
 apologize. Why, alongside of you, a piece of flint is 
 morning cereal. Haven't you ever had a love-affair? 
 I've been married twice — that's how chicken-hearted I 
 can be. Haven't you ever pumped a little faster just 
 because a certain some one walked into the room?" 
 
 "Once." 
 
 "Once what?" 
 
 "I liked a fellow. Pretty much. A blond. Say, he 
 was blond! I always think to myself. Kit — next to 
 Gerald you've got the bluest eyes under heaven. Only, 
 his didn't have any dregs." 
 
 "Thanks, dearie." 
 
 "I sometimes wonder about Gerald. I ought to drive 
 over while we're out here. Poor old Gerald Fishback!" 
 
 "Sweet name — 'Fishback.' No wonder you went 
 wrong, dearie." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not getting soft. I saw my bed and made it, 
 nice and soft and comfy, and I'm lying on it without a 
 whimper." 
 
 "You just bet your life you made it up nice and comfy! 
 You've the right idea; I have to hand that to you. You 
 command respect from them. Lord! Ed would as soon 
 fire a teacup at me as not. But^with me, it pays. The 
 last one he broke he made up to me with my opal-and- 
 diamond beetle."
 
 FANNIE HURST 115 
 
 "Wouldn't wear an opal If It was set next to the Hope 
 diamond." 
 
 "Superstitious, dearie?" 
 
 "Unlucky. Never knew It to fall." 
 
 "Not a superstition in my bones. I don't believe In 
 walking under ladders or opening an umbrella in the 
 house or sitting down with thirteen, but, Lordy, never 
 saw the like with you! Thought you'd have the hys- 
 terics over that little old vanity mirror you broke that 
 day out at the races." 
 
 "Br-r-r; I hated It." 
 
 "Lay easy, dearie. Nothing can touch you the way 
 he's raking in the war-contracts." 
 
 "Great— isn't It?" 
 
 "Play for a country home, dearie. I always say real 
 estate and jewelry are something in the hand. Look 
 ahead in this game, I always say." 
 
 "You just bet I've looked ahead." 
 
 "So have I, but not enough." 
 
 "Somehow, I never feel afraid. I could get a job to- 
 morrow if I had to." 
 
 "Say, dearie, if it comes to that, with twenty pounds 
 off me, there's not a, chorus I couldn't land back in." 
 
 "I worked once, you know, in Lichtig's import shop." 
 
 "Fifth Avenue." 
 
 "Yes. It was In between the Jew and Al. I sold two 
 thousand five hundred dollars' worth of gowns the first 
 week." 
 
 "Sure enough?" 
 • "'Girl,' old man Lichtig said to me the day I quit; 
 'girl,' he said, 'if ever you need this job again, come 
 back; It's waiting.' " 
 
 "Fine chance!" 
 
 "I've got the last twenty-five dollars I earned pinned 
 away this minute in the pocket of the little dark-blue suit 
 I wore to work. I paid for that suit with my first month's 
 savings. A little dark-blue Norfolk, Lichtig let me have 
 out of a stock for twenty-seven fifty." 
 
 "Were they giving them away with a pound of tea?" 
 
 "Honest, Kitty, it was neat. Little white shirt-waist,
 
 ii6 BACK PAY 
 
 tan shoes, and one of those slick little five-dollar sailors, 
 and every cent paid out of my salary. I could step into 
 that outfit to-morrow, look the part, and land back that 
 job or any other. I had a way with the trade, even 
 back at Finley's." 
 
 "Here, hold my jewel-bag, honey; I'm going to die of 
 cold-cream suffocation if she don't soon come back and 
 unsmear me." 
 
 "Opal beetle in it?" 
 
 "Yes, dearie; but it won't bite. It's muzzled with my 
 diamond horseshoe." 
 
 "Nothing doing. Kit. Put it under your pillow." 
 
 "You better watch out. There's a thirteenth letter in 
 the alphabet; you might accidentally use it some day. 
 You're going to have a sweet time to-night, you are!" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "The boys have engaged De Butera to come up to the 
 rooms." 
 
 "You mean the fortune-teller over at the Stag Hotel?" 
 
 "She's not a fortune-teller, you poor nervous wreck. 
 She's the highest-priced spiritualist in the world. Mov- 
 ing tables — spooks — woof!" 
 
 "Faugh!" said Hester, rising from her couch and feel- 
 ing about with her little bare feet for the daintiest of 
 pink-silk mules. "I could make tables move too, at forty 
 dollars an hour. Where's my attendant? I want an 
 alcohol rub." 
 
 They did hold seance that night in a fine spirit of lark, 
 huddled together in the de-luxe sitting-room of one of 
 their suites, and little half-hysterical shrieks and much 
 promiscuous ribaldry under cover of darkness. 
 
 Madame De Butera was of a distinctly fat and earthy 
 blondness, with a coarse-lace waist over pink, and short 
 hands covered with turquoise rings of many shapes and 
 blues. 
 
 Tables moved. A dead sister of Wheeler's spoke in 
 thin, high voice. Why is it the dead are always so vocally 
 thin and high? 
 
 A chair tilted itself on hind legs, eliciting squeals from 
 the women. Babe spoke with a gentleman friend long
 
 FANNIE HURST 117 
 
 since passed on, and Kitty with a deceased husband, 
 and began to cry quite sobbily and took little sips of high- 
 ball quite gulpily. May Denison, who was openly de- 
 fiant, allowed herself to be hypnotized and lay rigid be- 
 tween two chairs, and Kitty went off into rampant hys- 
 teria until Wheeler finally placed a hundred-dollar bill 
 over the closed eyes, and whether under it, or to the 
 legerdemain of madam's manipulating hands, the tight 
 eyes opened, May, amid riots of laughter claiming for 
 herself the hundred-dollar bill, and Kitty, quite resusci- 
 tated, jumping up for a table cancan, her yellow hair 
 tumbling, and her China-blue eyes with the dregs in them 
 inclined to water. 
 
 All but Hester. She sat off by herself in a peacock- 
 colored gown that wrapped her body-suavity as if the 
 fabric were soaking wet, a band of smoky blue about her 
 forehead. Never intoxicated, a slight amount of alcohol 
 had a tendency to make her morose. 
 
 "What's the matter, Cleo:" asked Wheeler, sitting 
 down beside her and lifting her cool fingers one by one, 
 and, by reason of some remote analogy that must 
 have stirred within him, seeing in her a Nile queen. 
 "What's the matter, Cleo; does the spook-stuff get your 
 goat.^" 
 
 She turned on him eyes that were all troubled up like 
 waters suddenly wind-blown. 
 
 "God!" she said, her fingers, nails inward, closing about 
 his arm. "Wheeler — can — can the — dead — speak?," 
 
 But fleeting as the hours themselves were the moods 
 of them all, and the following morning there they were, 
 the eight of them, light with laughter and caparisoned 
 again as to hampers, veils, coats, dogs, off for a day's 
 motoring through the springtime countryside. 
 
 "Where tor" shouted Wheeler, twisting from where 
 he and Hester sat in the first of the cars to call to the 
 two motor-loads behind. 
 
 "I thought Crystal Cave was the spot" — from May 
 Denison in the last of the cars, winding her head in a 
 scarlet veil. 
 
 "Crystal Springs it is, then."
 
 ii8 BACK PAY 
 
 "Is that through Demopolis?" 
 Followed a scanning of maps. 
 
 "Sure! Here it is! See! Granite City. Mitchell. 
 Demopolis. Crystal Cave." 
 
 "Good Lord, Hester, you're not going to spend any 
 time in that dump?" 
 
 "It's my home town," she replied coldly. "The only 
 relation I had is buried there. It's nothing out of your 
 way to drop me on the court-house steps and pick me 
 up as you drive back. I've been wanting to get there 
 ever since we're down here. Wanting to stop by your 
 home town you haven't seen in five years isn't unreason- 
 able, is it.'"' 
 
 He admitted it wasn't, leaning to kiss her. 
 She turned to him a face, soft, with one of the pouts he 
 usually found irresistible. 
 
 "Honey," she said, "what do you think?" 
 "What?" 
 
 "Chris is buying May that chinchilla coat I showed 
 you in Meyerbloom's window the day before we left." 
 
 "The deuce he is !" he said, letting go of her hand but 
 hers immediately covering his. 
 
 "She's wiring her sister in the 'Girlie Revue' to go in 
 and buy it for her." 
 
 "Outrage — fifteen thousand dollars to cover a woman's 
 back! Look at the beautiful scenery, honey! You're 
 always prating about views. Look at those hills over 
 there! Great — isn't it?" 
 
 "I wouldn't expect it, Wheeler, if it wasn't war-year 
 and you landing one big contract after another. I'd hate 
 to see May show herself in that chinchilla coat when we 
 could beat her to it by a wire. I could telegraph Meyer- 
 bloom himself. I bought the sable rug of him. I'd hate 
 it, Wheeler, to see her and Chris beat us to it. So 
 would you. What's fifteen thousand when one of your 
 contracts alone runs into the hundred thousands? 
 Honey?" 
 
 "Wire," he said sourly, but not withdrawing his hand 
 from hers.
 
 FANNIE HURST 119 
 
 They left her at the shady court-house steps in Demo- 
 polis, but with pleasantry and gibe. 
 
 "Give my love to the town pump." 
 
 "Rush the old oaken growler for me." 
 
 "So long!" she called, eager to be rid of them. "Pick 
 me up at six sharp." 
 
 She walked slowly up High Street. Passers-by turned 
 to stare, but otherwise she was unrecognized. There was 
 a new Five-and-Ten-Cent Store, and Finley Brothers 
 had added an ell. High Street was paved. She made a 
 foray down into the little side street where she had spent 
 those queerly remote first seventeen years of her life. 
 How dim her aunt seemed! The little unpainted frame 
 house was gone. There was a lumber-yard on the site. 
 Everything seemed to have shrunk. The street was nar- 
 rower and dirtier than she recalled it. 
 
 She made one stop, at the house of Alaggie Simms, a 
 high-school chum. It was a frame house, too, and she 
 remembered that the front door opened directly into the 
 parlor and the side entrance was popularly used in lieu. 
 But a strange sister-in-law opened the side door. Maggie 
 was married and living in Cincinnati. Oh, fine — a master 
 mechanic, and there were twins. She started back 
 toward Finley's, thinking of Gerald, and half-way she 
 changed her mind. 
 
 Maggie Simms married and living in Cincinnati. 
 Twins! Heigh-ho — what a world! The visit was hardly 
 a success. At half after five, she was on her way back 
 to the court-house steps. Stupid to have made it six! 
 
 And then, of course, and quite as you would have it, 
 Gerald Fishback came along. She recognized his blond- 
 ness long before he saw her. He was bigger and more 
 tanned, and, as of old, carried his hat in his hand. She 
 noticed that there were no creases down the front of his 
 trousers, but the tweed was good and he gave off that 
 intangible aroma of well-being. 
 
 She was surprised at the old thrill racing over her. 
 Seeing him was like an exquisite stab of quick steel 
 through the very pit of her being. She reached out, 
 touching him, before he saw her.
 
 120 BACK PAY 
 
 "Gerald," she said, soft and teaslngly. 
 
 It was actually as if he had been waiting for that touch, 
 because, before he could possibly have perceived her, her 
 name was on his lips. 
 
 "Hester!" he said, the blueness of his eyes flashing be- 
 tween blinks. "Not Hester?" 
 
 "Yes; Hester," she said, smiling up at him. 
 
 He grasped both her hands, stammering for words that 
 wanted to come quicker than he could articulate. 
 
 "Hester!" he kept repeating. "Hester!" 
 
 "To think you knew me, Gerald !" 
 
 "Know you ! I'd know you blind-folded. And how — 
 I — you're beautiful, Hester! I think you've grown five 
 years younger." 
 
 "You've got on, Gerald. You look it." 
 
 "Yes; I'm general manager now at Finley's." 
 
 "I'm so glad. Married?" 
 
 "Not while there's a Hester Bevins on earth." 
 
 She started at her own name. 
 
 "How do you know I'm not?" 
 
 "I — I know — " he said, reddening up. 
 
 "Isn't there some place we can talk, Gerald? I've 
 thirty minutes before my friends call for me." 
 
 "Thirty minutes?" 
 
 "Your rooms? Haven't you rooms or a room where 
 we could go and sit down?" 
 
 "Why — why, no, Hester," he said, still red. "I'd 
 rather you didn't go there. But here. Let's stop in at 
 the St. James HotCi. There's a parlor." 
 
 To her surprise, she felt herself color up and was 
 pleasantly conscious of her finger-tips. 
 
 "You darling!" She smiled up at him. 
 
 They were seated presently in the unaired plush-and- 
 cherry, Nottingham-and-Axminster parlor of a small- 
 town hotel. 
 
 "Hester!" he kept repeating. "Hester!" 
 
 "I'm a bad durl," she said, challenging his eyes for 
 what he knew. 
 
 "You're a little saint walked down and leaving an 
 empty pedestal in my dreams."
 
 FANNIE HURST 121 
 
 She placed his forefinger over his mouth. 
 
 "Sh-h," she said. "I'm not a saint, Gerald; you know 
 that." 
 
 "Yes," he said, with a great deal of boyishness in his 
 defiance; "I do know it, Hester, but it Is those who have 
 been through the fire who come out — new. It was your 
 early environment." 
 
 "My aunt died on the town, Gerald, I heard. I could 
 have saved her all that if I had only known. She was 
 cheap, aunt was. Poor soul! She never looked ahead." 
 
 "It was your early environment, Hester. I've ex- 
 plained that often enough to them here. I'd bank on 
 you, Hester — swear by you." 
 
 She patted him. 
 
 "I'm a pretty bad egg, Gerald. According to the 
 standards of a town like this, I'm rotten, and they're 
 about right. For five years, Gerald, I've — " 
 
 "The real yoti is ahead of, and not behind you, Hester." 
 
 "How wonderful," she said, "for you to feel that way, 
 but—" 
 
 "Hester," he said, more and more the big boy, his 
 knees touching the floor now, and his big blond head 
 nearing hers, "I don't care about anything that's past; 
 I only know that, for me, you are the — " 
 
 "Gerald," she said, "for God's sake!" 
 
 "I'm a two-hundred-a-month man now, Hester; I want 
 to build you the prettiest, the whitest little house in this 
 town. Out in the Brierwood section. I'll make them 
 kowtow to you, Hester; I — " 
 
 "Why," she said slowly, and looking at him with a cer- 
 tain sadness, "you couldn't keep me in stockings, Gerald. 
 The gora on this hat cost more than one month of your 
 salary." 
 
 "Good God!" he said. 
 
 "You're a dear, sweet boy just the same; but you re- 
 member what I told you about my crepe-de-Chine soul." 
 
 "Just the same, I love you best in those crispy white 
 shirt-waists you used to wear and the little blue suits and 
 sailor-hats. You remember that day at Finley's picnic, 
 Hester, that day, dear, that you — you — "
 
 122 BACK PAY 
 
 "You dear boy!" 
 
 "But it — your mistake — it — It's all over. You work 
 now, don't you, Hester?" 
 
 Somehow, looking into the blueness of his eyes and 
 their entreaty for her affirmative, she did what you or I 
 might have done. She half lied, regretting it while the 
 words still smoked on her lips. 
 
 "Why, yes, Gerald, I've held a fine position in Lichtig 
 Brothers, New York importers. Those places sometimes 
 pay as high as seventy-five a week. But I don't make 
 any bones, Gerald; I've not been an angel." 
 
 "The — the Jew, Hester?" — his lips quivering with a 
 nausea for the question. 
 
 "I haven't seen him in four years," she answered truth- 
 fully. 
 
 He laid his cheek on her hand. 
 
 "I knew you'd come through. It was your environ- 
 ment. I'll marry you to-morrow — to-day, Hester; I love 
 you." 
 
 "You darling boy!" she said, her lips back tight against 
 her teeth. "You darling, darling boy!" 
 
 "Please, Hester — we'll forget what has been." 
 
 "Let me go," she said, rising and pinning on her hat; "let 
 me go — or — or I'll cry, and — and I don't want to cry." 
 
 "Hester," he called, rushing after her and wanting to 
 fold her back into his arms, "let me prove my trust — my 
 love—" 
 
 "Don't! Let me go! Let me go!" 
 
 At slightly after six, the ultra cavalcade drew up at 
 the court-house steps. She was greeted with the pleas- 
 antries and the gibes. 
 
 "Have a good time, sweetness?" asked Wheeler, ar- 
 ranging her rugs. 
 
 "Yes," she said, lying back and letting her lids droop; 
 "but tired — very, very tired." 
 
 At the hotel, she stopped a moment to write a telegram 
 before going up for the vapor-bath, nap, and massage 
 that were to precede dinner. 
 
 "Meyerbloom & Company, Furriers. Fifth Avenue, 
 New York," it was addressed.
 
 FANNIE HURST 123 
 
 This Is not a war-story except as it has to do with 
 profiteering, parlor-patriots, and the return of Gerald 
 Fishback. 
 
 While Hester was living this tale, and the chinchilla 
 coat was enveloping her like an Ineffably tender caress, 
 three hundred thousand of her country's youths were at 
 strangle-hold across three thousand miles of sea, and on 
 a notorious night when Hester walked, fully dressed In a 
 green gown of iridescent fish-scales, into the electric 
 fountain of a seaside cabaret, and Wheeler had to carry 
 her to her car wrapped in a sable rug, Gerald Fishback 
 was lying with his face in Flanders mud, and his eye- 
 sockets blackly deep and full of shrapnel, and a lung- 
 eating gas-cloud rolling at him across the vast bombarded 
 dawn. 
 
 Hester read of him one morning, sitting up In bed 
 against a mound of lace-over-plnk pillows, a masseur at 
 the pink soles of her feet. It was as if his name cata- 
 pulted at her from a column she never troubled to read. 
 She remained quite still, looking at the name for a full 
 five minutes after it had pierced her full consciousness. 
 Then, suddenly, she swung out of bed, tilting over the 
 masseur. 
 
 "Tessie," she said, evenly enough, "that will do. I 
 have to hurry to Long Island to a base hospital. Go to 
 that little telephone in the hall — will you.'' — and call my 
 car. 
 
 But the visit was not so easy of execution. It required 
 two days of red tape and official dispensation before she 
 finally reached the seaside hospital that, by unpleasant 
 coincidence, only a year before had been the resort hotel 
 of more than one dancing-orgy. 
 
 She thought she would faint when she saw him, jerking 
 herself back with a straining of all her faculties. The 
 blood seemed to drain away from her body, leaving her 
 ready to sink, and only the watchful and threatening eye 
 of a man nurse sustained her. He was sitting up in bed, 
 and she would never have recognized in him anything 
 of Gerald except for the shining Scandinavian quality of
 
 124 BACK PAY 
 
 his hair. His eyes were not bandaged, but their sockets 
 were dry and bare like the beds of old lakes long since 
 drained. She had only seen the like in eyeless marble 
 busts. There were unsuspected cheek-bones, pitched now 
 very high in his face, and his neck, rising above the army 
 nightshirt, seemed cruelly long, possibly from thinness. 
 
 "Are you Hester?" whispered the man nurse. 
 
 She nodded, her tonsils squeezed together in an abso- 
 lute knot. 
 
 "He called for you all through his delirium," he said, 
 and went out. She stood at the bedside, trying to keep 
 down the screams from her speech when it should come. 
 But he was too quick for her. 
 
 "Hester," he said, feeling out. 
 
 And in their embrace, her agony melted to tears that 
 choked and seared, beat and scalded her, and all the time 
 it was he who held her with rigid arm, whispr ed to her, 
 soothed down the sobs which tore through her like the rip 
 of silk, seeming to split her being. 
 
 "Now — now. Why, Hester! Now — now — now. Sh-h 
 — it will be over in a minute. You mustn't feel badly. 
 Come now; is this the way to greet a fellow that's so darn 
 glad to see you that nothing matters.'' Sure I can see 
 you, Hester. Plain as day in your little crispy waist. 
 Now, now; you'll get used to it in a minute. Now — 
 now — " 
 
 "I can't stand it, Gerald; I can't! Can't! Kill me, 
 Gerald, but don't ask me to stand it!" 
 
 He stroked down the side of her, lingering at her cheek, 
 
 "Sh-h. Take your time, dear," he said, with the first 
 furry note in his voice. "I know it's hard, but take 
 your time. You'll get used to me. It's the shock, that's 
 all. Sh-h." 
 
 She covered his neck with kisses and scalding tears, 
 her compassion for him racing through her in chills. 
 
 "I could tear out my eyes, Gerald, and give them to 
 you. I could tear out my heart and give it to you. Fm 
 bursting of pain. Gerald! Gerald!" 
 
 There was no sense of proportion left her. She could 
 think only of what her own physical suffering might
 
 FANNIE HURST 125 
 
 do In penance. She would willingly have opened the 
 arteries of her heart and bled for him on the moment. 
 Her compassion wanted to scream. She, who had never 
 sacrificed anything, wanted suddenly to bleed at his feet, 
 and prayed to do so on the agonized crest of the 
 moment. 
 
 "There's a girl! Why, I'm going to get well, Hester, 
 and do what thousands of others of the blinded are doing. 
 Build up a new, a useful, and a busy life." 
 
 "It's not fair! It's not fair!" 
 
 "I'm ready now, except for this old left lung. It's 
 burned a bit, vou see. Gas." 
 
 "God! God!" 
 
 "It's pretty bad, I admit. But there's another way of 
 looking at it. There's a glory in being chosen to bear 
 your country's wounds." 
 
 "Your beautiful eyes! Your blue, beautiful eyes! O 
 God, what does it all mean? Living! Dying! All the 
 rotters, all the rat-eved ones I know, scot-free and Gerald 
 chosen. God, God, where are you?" 
 
 "He was never so close to me as now, Hester. And 
 with you here, dear, he is closer than ever." 
 
 "I'll never leave you, Gerald," she said, crying down 
 Into his sleeve again. "Don't be afraid of the dark, dear! 
 I'll never leave you." 
 
 "Nonsense," he said, smoothing her hair that the hat 
 had fallen away from. 
 
 "Never ! Never ! I wish I were a mat for you to 
 walk on. I Vv'ant to crawl on my hands and knees for 
 you. I'll never leave you, Gerald — never!" 
 
 "My beautiful Hester!" he said unsteadily, and then 
 again, "Nonsense." 
 
 But, almost on the moment, the man nurse returned, 
 and she was obliged to leave him, but not without throb- 
 bing promises of the morrow's return, and then there took 
 place, down-stairs In an ante-room, a long, a closeted, 
 and very private interview with a surgeon and more red 
 tape and filing of applications. She was so weak from 
 crying that a nurse was called finally to help her through 
 the corridors to her car.
 
 126 BACK PAY 
 
 Gerald's left lung was burnt out, and he had three, 
 possibly four, weeks to live. 
 
 All the way home, in her tan limousine with the little 
 yellow curtains, she sat quite upright, away from the 
 upholstery, crying down her uncovered face, but a sud- 
 den, an exultant determination hardening in her mind. 
 
 That night, a Strang* conversation took place in the 
 Riverside Drive apartment. She sat on Wheeler's left 
 knee, toying with his platinum chain, a strained, a rather 
 terrible pallor out in her face, but the sobs well under her 
 voice, and its modulation about normal. She had been 
 talking for over two hours, silencing his every interrup- 
 tion until he had fallen quite still. 
 
 "And — and that's all, Wheeler," she ended up. "I've 
 told you everything. We were never more than just — 
 friends — Gerald and me. You must take my word for 
 it, because I swear it before God." 
 
 "I take your word, Hester," he said huskily. 
 
 "And there he lies, Wheeler, without — without any 
 eyes in his head. Just as if they'd been burnt out by 
 irons. And he — he smiles when he talks. That's the 
 awful part. Smiles like — well, I guess like the angel he 
 — he almost is. You see, he says it's a glory to carry the 
 wounds of his country. Just think, just think — that boy 
 to feel that, the way he lies there!" 
 
 "Poor boy! Poor, poor boy!" 
 
 "Gerald's like that. So — so full of faith. And, Wheeler, 
 he thinks he's going to get well and lead a useful life like 
 they teach the blind to do. He reminds me of one of 
 those Greek statues down at the Athens Cafe. You 
 know — broken. That's it; he's a broken statue." 
 
 "Poor fellow! Poor fellow! Do something for him. 
 Buy the finest fruit in the town for him. Send a case 
 of wine. Two." 
 
 "I — I think I must be torn to pieces Inside, Wheeler, 
 the way Pve cried." 
 
 "Poor little girl!" 
 
 "Wheeler?" 
 
 "Now, now," he said; "taking it so to heart won't do 
 no good. It's rotten, I know, but worrying won't help.
 
 FANNIE HURST 127 
 
 Got me right upset, too. Come; get it off your mind. 
 Let's take a ride. Doll up; you look a bit peaked. 
 Come nov/, and to-morrow we'll buy out the town for 
 him." 
 
 "Wheeler?" she said. "Wheeler?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Don't look, Wheeler; I've got something else to ask 
 you — something queer." 
 
 "Now, now," he said, his voice hardening but trying to 
 maintain a chiding note; "you know what you promised 
 after the chinchilla — no more this year until — " 
 
 "No, no; for God's sake, not that! It's still about 
 Gerald." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Wheeler, he's only got four weeks to live. Five at 
 the outside." 
 
 "Now, now, girl; we've been all over that." 
 
 "He loves me, Wheeler, Gerald does." 
 
 "Yes?"— dryly. 
 
 "It would be like doing something decent — the only 
 decent thing I've done in all my life, Wheeler, almost 
 like doing something for the war, the way these women 
 in the pretty white caps have done, and you know we — 
 we haven't turned a finger for it except to — to gain — if I 
 was to — to marry Gerald for those few weeks, Wheeler. 
 I know it's a — rotten sacrifice, but I guess that's the only 
 kind I'm capable of making." 
 
 He sat squat, with his knees spread. 
 
 "You crazy?" he said. 
 
 "It would mean, Wheeler, his dying happy. He doesn't 
 know it's all up with him. He'd be made happy for the 
 poor little rest of his life. He loves me. You see, 
 Wheeler, I was his first — his only sweetheart. I'm on a 
 pedestal, he says, in his dreams. I never told you — but 
 that boy was willing to marry me, Wheeler, knowing — 
 some — of the things I am. He's always carried round a 
 dream of me, you see — no; you wouldn't see, but I've 
 been — well, I guess sort of a medallion that won't tarnish 
 in his heart — Wheeler, for the boy's few weeks he has 
 left? Wheeler?"
 
 128 BACK PAY 
 
 "Well, I'll be hanged !" 
 
 "I'm not turning holy, Wheeler. I am what I am. But 
 that boy lying out there — I can't bear it! It wouldn't 
 make any difference with us — afterward. You know 
 where you stand with me and for always, but it would 
 mean the dying happy of a boy who fought for us. Let 
 me marry that boy, Wheeler. Let his light go out in 
 happiness. Wheeler? Please, Wheeler?" He would 
 not meet her eyes. "Wheeler?" 
 
 "Go to it, Hester," he said, coughing about in his throat 
 and rising to walk away. "Bring him here and give him 
 the fat of the land. You can count on me to keep out 
 of the way. Go to it," he repeated. 
 
 And so they were married. Hester holding his hand 
 beside the hospital cot, the man nurse and doctor stand- 
 ing by, and the chaplain incanting the immemorial words. 
 A bar of sunshine lay across the bed, and Gerald pro- 
 nounced each "I will" in a lifted voice that carried to the 
 four corners of the little room. She was allowed to stay 
 that night past hospital-hours, and they talked with the 
 dusk flowing over them. 
 
 "Hester, Hester," he said, "I should have had the 
 strength to hold out against your making this terrible sac- 
 rifice." 
 
 "It's the happiest hour of my life," she said, kissing 
 him. 
 
 "I feel well enough to get up now, sweetheart." 
 
 "Gerald, don't force. You've weeks ahead before you 
 are ready for that." 
 
 "But to-morrow, dear, home! In whose car are you 
 calling for me to-morrow to take me home?" 
 
 "In a friend's, dearest." 
 
 "Won't I be crowding up our little apartment? Describe 
 it again to me, dearest — our home." 
 
 "It's so little, Gerald. Three rooms and the littlest 
 babiest kitchen. When you're once up, I'll teach its 
 every corner to you." 
 
 Tears seeped through the line where his lids had been, 
 and it was almost more than she could bear. 
 
 "I'll make it up to you though, Hester. I know I
 
 FANNIE HURST 129 
 
 should have been strong enough to hold out against your 
 marrying me, but I'll make it up. I've a great scheme; 
 a sort of braille system of accountancy — " 
 
 "Please, Gerald — not now!" 
 
 "If only, Hester, I felt easier about the finances. Will 
 your savings stand the strain.'' Your staying at home 
 from your work this way — and then me — " 
 
 "Gerald dear, I've told you so often — I've saved more 
 than we need." 
 
 "My girl !" 
 
 "My dear, my dear!" she said. 
 
 They moved him with hardly a jar in an army ambu- 
 lance, and with the yellow limousine riding alongside to 
 be of possible aid, and she had the bed stripped of its 
 laces and cool with linen for him, and he sighed out when 
 they placed him on it and would not let go her hand. 
 
 "What a feeling of space for so little a room!" 
 
 "It's the open windows, love." 
 
 He lay back tiredly. 
 
 "What sweet linen!" 
 
 "I shopped it for you." 
 
 "You, too — you're in linen, Hester?" 
 
 "A percale shirt-waist. I shopped it for you, too." 
 
 "Give me your hand," he said, and pressed a string 
 of close kisses into its palm. 
 
 The simplicity of the outrageous subterfuge amazed 
 even her. She held hot-house grapes at two dollars a 
 pound to his lips, and he ate them through a smile. 
 
 "Naughty, extravagant girl !" he said. 
 
 "I saw them on a fruit-stand for thirty cents, and 
 couldn't resist." 
 
 "Never mind; I'll make it up to you." 
 
 Later, he asked for braille books, turning his sightless 
 face toward her as he studied, trying to concentrate 
 through the pain in his lung. 
 
 "If only you wouldn't insist upon the books awhile yet, 
 dear. The doctor says it's too soon." 
 
 "I feel so strong, Hester, with you near, and, besides, 
 I must start the pot boiling."
 
 130 BACK PAY 
 
 She kissed down Into the high nap of his hair, softly. 
 Evenings, she read to him newspaper accounts of his 
 fellow soldiers, and the day of the peace, for which he 
 had paid so terribly, she rolled his bed, alone, with a 
 great tugging and straining, to the open window, where 
 the wind from the river could blow in against him and 
 steamboat whistles shoot up like rockets. 
 
 She was so inexpressibly glad for the peace-day. Some- 
 how, it seemed easier and less blackly futile to give him 
 up. 
 
 Of Wheeler, for three running weeks she had not a 
 glimpse, and then, one day, he sent up a hamper, not a 
 box but an actual trunk of roses, and she, in turn, sent 
 them up the back way to Kitty's fiat, not wanting even 
 their fragrance released. 
 
 With Kitty, there were little hurried confabs each day 
 outside the apartment door in the hallway before the ele- 
 vator-shaft. A veil of awe seemed to wrap the Drew 
 woman. 
 
 "I can't get it out of my head, Hester. It's like a fairy- 
 story, and, in another way, it's a scream — Wheeler stand- 
 ing for this." 
 
 "Sh-h, Kitty. His ears are so sensitive." 
 "Quit shushing me every time I open my mouth. Poor 
 kid! Let me have a look at him. He wouldn't know." 
 "No! No!" 
 
 "God, if it wasn't so sad, it would be a scream — 
 Wheeler footing the bills !" 
 "Oh— you ! Oh— oh— you !" 
 
 "All right, all right; don't take the measles over it. 
 I'm going. Here's some chicken broth I brought down. 
 Ed sent it up to me from Sherry's." 
 
 But Hester poured it into the sink for some nameless 
 reason, and brewed some fresh from a fowl she tipped the 
 hall-boy a dollar to go out and purchase. 
 
 She slept on a cot at the foot of his bed, so sensitive 
 to his waking that almost before he came up to con- 
 sciousness, she was at his side. All day she wore the 
 little white shirt-waists, a starchy one fresh each morn- 
 ing, and at night scratchy little unlacy nightgowns with
 
 FANNIE HURST 131 
 
 long sleeves and high yokes. He liked to run his hand 
 along the crispness of the fabric. 
 
 "I love you in cool stuff, Hester. You're so cool your- 
 self, I always think of you in the little white waist and 
 blue skirt. You remember, dear — Finley's annual?" 
 
 "I — I'm going to dress like that for you always, 
 Gerald." 
 
 "I won't let you be going back to work for long, sweet- 
 heart. I've some plans up my sleeve, I have." 
 
 "Yes ! Yes !" 
 
 But when the end did come, it was with as much of a 
 shock as if she had not been for days expecting it. The 
 doctor had just left, puncturing his arm and squirting 
 into his poor tired system a panacea for the pain. But 
 he would not react to it, fighting down the drowsiness. 
 
 "Hester," he said suddenly, and a little weakly, "lean 
 down, sweetheart, and kiss me — long — long — " 
 
 She did, and it was with the pressure of her lips to his 
 that he died. 
 
 It was about a week after the funeral that Wheeler 
 came back. She was on the chaise longue that had been 
 dragged out into the parlor, in the webbiest of white 
 negligees, a little large-eyed, a little subdued, but sweet- 
 ening the smile she turned toward him by a trick she 
 had of lifting the brows. 
 
 "Hel-lo Wheeler!" she said, raising her cheek to be 
 kissed. 
 
 He trailed his lips, but did not seek her mouth, sit- 
 ting down rather awkwardly and in the spread-knee'd 
 fashion he had. 
 
 "Well, girl— you all right?" 
 
 "You helped," she said. 
 
 "It gave me a jolt, too. I made over twenty-five 
 thousand to the Red Cross on the strength of it." 
 
 "Thank you, Wheeler." 
 
 "Lord!" he said, rising and rubbing his hands together. 
 "Give us a couple of fingers to drink, honey; I'm cotton- 
 mouthed." 
 
 She reached languidly for a blue-enameled bell, lying
 
 132 BACK PAY 
 
 back, with her arms dangling and her smile out. Then, 
 as if realizing that the occasion must be lifted, turned her 
 face to him. 
 
 "Old bummer!" she said, using one of her terms of 
 endearment for him and two-thirds closing her eyes. 
 Then did he stoop and kiss her roundly on the lips. 
 
 For the remainder of this tale, I could wish for a pen 
 supernally dipped, or for a metaphysician's plating to my 
 vernacular, or for the linguistic patois of that land off 
 somewhere to the west of Life. Or maybe, just a neurol- 
 ogist's chart of Hester's nerve-history would help. 
 
 In any event, after an evening of musical comedy and 
 of gelatinous dancing, Hester awoke at four o'clock the 
 next morning out of an hour of sound sleep, leaping to 
 her knees there in bed like a quick flame, her gesture 
 shooting straight up toward the jointure of wall and ceil- 
 ing. 
 
 "Gerald !" she called, her smoky black hair floating 
 around her and her arms cutting through the room's 
 blackness, "Gerald!" Suddenly the room was not black. 
 It was light with the Scanciinavian blondness of Gerald, 
 the head of him nebulous there above the pink-satin 
 canopy of her dressing-table and, more than that, the 
 drained lakes of his sockets were deep with eyes. Yes; 
 in all their amazing blueness, but queerly sharpened to 
 steel points that went through Hester and through her 
 as if bayonets were pushing into her breasts and her 
 breathing. 
 
 "Gerald!" she shrieked, in one more cry that curdled 
 the quiet, and sat up in bed, trembling and hugging her- 
 self, and breathing in until her lips were drawn shudder- 
 ingly against her teeth like wind-sucked window-shades. 
 
 "Gerald !" And then the picture did a sort of moving- 
 picture fade-out, and black Lottie came running with her 
 hair grotesquely greased and flattened to take out the 
 kink, and gave her a drink of water with the addition 
 of two drops from a bottle, and turned on the night-light 
 and went back to bed. 
 
 The next morning, Hester carried about what she called
 
 FANNIE HURST 133 
 
 "a head," and, since it was Wheeler's day at Rosencranz, 
 remained in bed until three o'clock, Kitty curled at the 
 foot of it the greater part of the forenoon. 
 
 "It was the rotten night did me up. Dreams — Ugh 
 — dreams!" 
 
 "No wonder," diagnosed Kitty sweetly. "Indigestion 
 from having your cake and eating it." 
 
 At three, she dressed and called for her car, driving 
 down to the Ivy Funeral Rooms, a gothic Thanatopsis, 
 set, with one of those laughs up her sleeves New York so 
 loves to indulge in, right in the heart of the city, between 
 an automobile-accessory shop and a quick-lunch room. 
 Gerald had been buried from there with simple-flag- 
 draped service in the Gothic chapel that was protected 
 from the view and roar of the elevated trains by suitably 
 stained windows. There was a check in Hester's purse 
 made out for an amount that corresponded to the state- 
 ment she had received from the Ivy Funeral Rooms. 
 And right here again, for the sake of your elucidation, I 
 could wish at least for the neurologist's chart. At the 
 very door to the establishment — with one foot across the 
 threshold, in fact — she paused, her face tilted toward the 
 corner where wall and ceiling met, and at whatever she 
 saw there, her eyes dilating widely, and her left hand 
 springing to her bosom as if against the incision of quick 
 steel. Then, without even entering, she rushed back to 
 her car again, urging her chauffeur, at the risk of every 
 speed-regulation, homeward. 
 
 That was the beginning of purgatorial weeks that were 
 soon to tell on Hester. They actually brought out a 
 streak of gray through her hair, vvhich Lottie promptly 
 dyed and worked under into the lower part of her coiffure. 
 For herself, Hester would have let it remain. 
 
 Wheeler was frankly perplexed. God knows it was 
 bad enough to be called upon to endure streaks of unrea- 
 sonableness at Rosencranz, but Hester wasn't there to 
 show that side to him if she had it. To be pretty frank 
 about it, she was well paid not to. Well paid ! He'd 
 done his part. Ivlore than nine out of ten would have 
 done. Been made a jay of, if the truth was known.
 
 134 BACK PAY 
 
 She was a Christmas-tree bauble, and was expected to 
 throw off holiday iridescence. There were limits ! 
 
 "You're off your feed, girl. Go off by yourself and 
 speed up." 
 
 "It's the nights, Gerald. Good God — I mean Wheeler! 
 They kill me. I can't sleep. Can't you get a doctor 
 who will give me stronger drops .^ He doesn't know my 
 case. Nerves, he calls it. It's the head. If only I could 
 get rid of this head!" 
 
 "You women and your nerves and your heads ! Are 
 you all alike? Get out and get some exercise. Keep 
 down your gasoline bills and it will send your spirits up. 
 There's such a thing as having it too good." 
 
 She tried to meet him in lighter vein after that, dress- 
 ing her most bizarrely, and greeting him one night in a 
 batik gown, a new process of dyeing that could be flam- 
 boyant and narrative in design. This one, a long, 
 sinuous robe that enveloped her slimness like a flame, 
 beginning down around the train in a sullen smoke and 
 rushing up to her face in a burst of crimson. 
 
 He thought her so exquisitely rare that he was not 
 above the poor, soggy device of drinking his dinner-wine 
 from the cup of her small crimson slipper, and she 
 dangled on his knee like the dangerous little flame she 
 none too subtly purported to be, and he spanked her 
 quickly and softly across the wrists because she was too 
 nervous to hold the match steadily enough for his cigar 
 to take light, and then kissed away all the mock sting. 
 
 But the next morning, at the fateful hour four o'clock, 
 and in spite of four sleeping-drops, Lottie on the cot at 
 the foot of her bed and the night-light burning, she awoke 
 on the crest of such a shriek that a stiletto might have 
 slit the silence, the end of the sheet crammed up and into 
 her mouth, and, ignoring all of Lottie's calming, sat up 
 on her knees, her streaming eyes on the jointure of wall 
 and ceiling, where the open accusing ones of Gerald 
 looked down at her. It was not that they were terrible 
 eyes. They were full of the sweet blue, and clear as 
 lakes. It was only that they knew. Those eyes knew. 
 They knew! She tried the device there at four o'clock
 
 FANNIE HURST 135 
 
 in the morning of tearing up the still unpaid check to the 
 Ivy Funeral Rooms, and then she curled up in bed with 
 her hand in the negro maid's, and her face half buried 
 in the pillow. 
 
 "Help me, Lottie," she begged; "help me!" 
 
 "Law, pore child! Gettin' the horrors every night 
 this away! I've been through it before with other ladies. 
 But I never saw a case of the sober horrors befoh. Looks 
 like they's the worst of all. Go to sleep, child. I'se 
 holdin'." 
 
 You see, Lottie had looked in on life where you and I 
 might not. A bird's-eye view may be very, very compre- 
 hensive, but a domestic-eye view can sometimes be very, 
 very close. 
 
 And then, one night, after Hester had beat her hands 
 down into the mattress and implored Gerald to close his 
 accusing eyes and she had screamed and sobbed up 
 against the jointure, she sat up in bed, waiting for the 
 first streak of dawn to show itself, railing at the pain in 
 her head. 
 
 "God, my head! Rub it, Lottie. My head! My 
 eyes ! The back of my neck !" 
 
 The next morning, she did what you probably have 
 been expecting she would do. She up and dressed, send- 
 ing Lottie to bed for a needed rest. Dressed herself in 
 the little old blue-serge suit that had been hanging in 
 the very back of a closet for four years, with a five- and 
 two ten-dollar bills pinned into its pocket, and pressed the 
 little five-dollar sailor down on the smooth winglike 
 quality of her hair. She looked smaller, peculiarly in- 
 describably younger. She wrote Wheeler a note, drop- 
 ping it down the mail chute in the hall, and then came 
 back, looking about rather aimlessly for something she 
 might want to pack. There was nothing; so she went 
 out quite bare and simply, with all her lovely jewels in 
 the leather case on the upper shelf of the bedroom closet, 
 as she had explained to Wheeler in the note. 
 
 That afternoon, she presented herself to Lichtig. He 
 was again as you would expect — round-bellied, and wore 
 his cigar up obliquely from one corner of his mouth. He
 
 136 BACK PAY 
 
 engaged her immediately at an increase of five dollars a 
 week, and as she was leaving with the promise to report 
 at eight-thirty the next morning, he pinched her cheek, 
 she pulling away angrily. 
 
 "None of that!" 
 
 "My mistake,", he apologized. 
 
 She considered it promiscuous and cheap, and you 
 know her aversion for cheapness. 
 
 Then she obtained, after a few forays in and out of 
 brownstone houses in West Forty-fifth Street, one of 
 those hall bed-rooms so familiar to human-interest stories 
 — the iron-bed, wash-stand, and slop-jar kind. There 
 was a five-dollar advance required. That left her twenty 
 dollars. 
 
 She shopped a bit then in an Eighth Avenue depart- 
 ment store, and, with the day well on the wane, took a 
 street-car up to the Ivy Funeral Rooms. This time, she 
 entered, but the proprietor did not recognize her until she 
 explained. As you know, she looked smaller and younger, 
 and there was no tan car at the curb. 
 
 "I want to pay this off by the week," she said, hand- 
 ing him out the statement and a much folded ten-dollar 
 bill. He looked at her, surprised. "Yes," she said, her 
 teeth biting off the word in a click. 
 
 "Certainly," he replied, handing her out a receipt for 
 the ten. 
 
 "I will pay five dollars a week hereafter." 
 
 "That will stretch it out to twenty-eight weeks," he 
 said, still doubtfully. 
 
 "I can't help it; I must." 
 
 "Certainly," he said, "that will be all right," but look- 
 ing puzzled. 
 
 That night, she slept in the hall bedroom in the Eighth 
 Avenue, machine-stitched nightgown. She dropped off 
 about midnight, praying not to awaken at four. But she 
 did — with a slight start, sitting up in bed, her eyes on the 
 jointure. 
 
 Gerald's face was there, and his blue eyes were open, 
 but the steel points were gone. They were smiling eyes. 
 They seemed to embrace her, to wash her in their fluid.
 
 FANNIE HURST 137 
 
 All her fear and the pain In her head were gone. She 
 sat up, looking at him, the tears streaming down over her 
 smile and her lips moving. 
 
 Then, sighing out like a child, she lay back on the 
 pillow, turned over, and went to sleep. 
 
 And this is the story of Hester which so insisted to be 
 told. I think she must have wanted you to know. And 
 wanted Gerald to know that you know, and, in the end, 
 I rather think she wanted God to know.
 
 Everybody's Magazine 
 
 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS
 
 A
 
 "CAB, SIR?"' 
 By SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 
 
 REVIEWING the facts candidly, the sike now at- 
 tributes his part in the crirn£_jto the stimulus of a 
 third cup of tea. The first two he took because he was 
 lonely. The third he had, for fellowship, on invitation 
 from a gob and a flit who perceived his condition. They 
 explained that they were lifelong friends, having orig- 
 inally met last week at a sing-song while waiting for their 
 final discharge papers; and why not see New York first.' 
 
 The sike said that he had no place to go short of Col- 
 lege City, Missouri. The gob, it appeared, had plenty of 
 places to go in the near vicinage, but did not wisli to re- 
 sume his old way of life which, he hinted, was ignomini- 
 ous if not actually criminal. The flit had to go to the 
 dental clinic in the morning, so he didn't care; he was 
 feeling reckless and suicidal. The hour was that of slack- 
 tide on Broadway, when the chorus is just opening the 
 second act. 
 
 "What is that which it is that we make to do this even- 
 ing?" inquired the gob, as they emerged from the War 
 Camp Community Service Club on Twenty-seventh 
 Street. 
 
 Having taken the cantonment course in Uncle Sam's 
 French Idioms for the Idiotic, the others comprehended 
 at once. 
 
 "Would a bus ride be a good start?" suggested the sike. 
 
 "Take a walk and get the kinks out of us," amended 
 the flit who still suflfered from transport cramp. 
 
 "What-ho about a roof-show?" queried the gob. 
 
 Madison Square Garden loomed flatly beside them 
 
 ■ ^ Copyright by Everybody's Magazine.
 
 142 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 while they were still debating it by the ambulant method. 
 A shaft of light from a side exit fell across their path. 
 The flit blinked into the aperture and withdrew his 
 tongue from his most peevish tooth for the purpose of 
 remarking: "Whoa, Dobbin!" 
 
 "It's a tank," observed the sike, following his gaze. 
 "What does the sign say?" He pointed to a placard, 
 pendent from the creature's neck. 
 
 " 'To be returned,' " read the gob. 
 
 "To return it, you first got to take it out," argued the 
 flit. "It spoke just in time. Maudie, I'm your little re- 
 turn ticket." 
 
 "You !" said the gob incredulously. "Where do you 
 come in? Can you run that thing?" 
 
 "I can run anything that drinks gasoline." 
 
 "It looks like Providence by special arrangement," 
 observed the gob. "What do you say. Buddy?" 
 
 "I told you I was for a bus ride," returned the sike 
 under the influence of the third cup of tea. 
 
 "D'you reckon this reptile's got a keeper?" asked the 
 flit. He entered the passageway and looked about, but 
 found no one. "Or a mouth?" he proceeded. "We've 
 got to persuade it to swallow us. Hey, gob; you're 
 tender and juicy. Tackle its whiskers." 
 
 "Those aren't whiskers. Those are machine guns. Hi! 
 Eureka! Here's the door with 'welcome' on the mat." 
 At his touch a panel at the front slowly unfolded out- 
 ward, displaying a lighted interior. 
 
 "Who'll join me in the Jonah Club?" invited the flit, 
 plunging down the wide gullet. "It's my idea we'd better 
 get moving before our little whale gets to whinnying and 
 raises its master. All aboard that's going aboard. Pub- 
 lic Library, Eagle Hotel, Soldier's Monument and way 
 stations to the Guard-House!" 
 
 The others clambered into the monster's interior. Its 
 mouth closed after them. 
 
 "Now, I hope the dum thing responds to gentle treat- 
 ment," the flit said. "I see how she starts, but I gotta 
 take a chance on how she steers. Are you ready? Grab 
 and stick; she may buck. Go!"
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 143 
 
 He did something intricate and skilled to some levers. 
 With a noise as of a boiler-shop attacked by convulsions, 
 the tank moved majestically forth and, after a moment 
 of doubt, which nearly cost a taxi its life, turned to the 
 left and the bright lights. The voyage had begun. 
 
 Here, for the benefit of those who have been living, 
 since the war began, a retired life in Tierra del Fuego or 
 Spitzbergen, it may be well to explain the terms of the 
 fellowship. A sike is a private of the Psychological Di- 
 vision of the Army Medical Corps. Morale is his special 
 concern; he is the man who keeps things stirring in camp 
 when it has rained for three solid weeks and the mail has 
 gone wrong and war is all that Sherman said of it and 
 more. He is usually a college professor who has seen a 
 great light. This one was, and had. His name is Fol- 
 lansbee James. A flit is a flying and prying person who 
 snoops about in an airplane of low elevation and man- 
 ners, poking his nose into matters which it is undesir- 
 able that he should know. Such is the shamelessness of 
 our Government that our flit, Frederick Slayter by name, 
 had actually been decorated for his ill-bred performances. 
 A gob is, of course — though nobody knows why — an able 
 seaman. Mr. "Chaw" Veeder was unusually able. He 
 had other names, but they had vanished owing to his 
 propensity for conserving a plug of tobacco unobtrusively 
 in his cheek. There is a deal of hidden vice in our Navy. 
 Having thus satisfied, I trust, inquiring minds of a scien- 
 tific and philological bent, I will now return to the delib- 
 erate and uproarious conveyance wherein I have left the 
 trio. 
 
 Bhoong - barrang - whroo - 00 - 00m - prrrrawng - 
 bomp - clink - whang - oomble - ga.wmm\e-B 00 M ! The 
 tank proceeded westward on Twenty-seventh Street at 
 a breakneck pace of three miles an hour. Windows flew 
 up. Pajama-clad figures, and others more frilly, ap- 
 peared therein, making somnolent and wrathful gestures. 
 Scandalized inhabitants rushed out of doorways and 
 rushed in again, for the tank was steering wildly. The 
 gob funneled his hands toward the flit. 
 
 "Where you going?" he bellowed above the riot.
 
 144 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 The answer came back faint and fragmentary, "Don't 
 — how — 'amthing — steers." 
 
 In a spirit of misplaced helpfulness, the gob seized 
 a lever and pulled it. Straightway the tank paused, 
 turned on its heel, executed a couple of airy pirouettes 
 and with a metallic roar rushed up on the sidewalk and 
 totally obliterated three garbage-cans which had been 
 playing the extrahazardous role of innocent bystanders. 
 It then cut obliquely across the corner, gently but firmly 
 removed an electric-light pole which sought to stay its 
 pace, debouched into Fifth Avenue, and pointing its nose 
 up-town, resumed its sedate progress. 
 
 "Don't — excite — agin," bawled the flit at the wheel 
 reprovingly to the gob. "Flighty — little — whiffet. Let- 
 ter — own — way." 
 
 Ensconced at a peep-hole the sike now delivered tid- 
 ings in a strained yell, "Cavalry attack." 
 
 The flit threw off the power so suddenly that his two 
 companions came and sat on his neck. Amidst the en- 
 suing peace the night roar of Fifth Avenue was as the 
 splash of ripples upon a gently sloping beach. 
 
 "Get off me!" protested the engineer. "I'm going to 
 chin with the law." 
 
 He opened the door and a policeman's head appeared. 
 At the same moment the sike retired and was dimly seen 
 behind a stanchion busily writing what the gob surmised 
 to be a long farewell to home and loved ones. The cop 
 opened a mouth upon which lurked the suspicion of a 
 grin. ^ 
 
 "Where are you boys trundling your little alarm-clock 
 on wheels?" he inquired. 
 
 "Back to quarters," replied the flit glibly. 
 
 The officer's glance fell upon the spread wings of the 
 flit's service. "Looka-here," he observed. "You belong 
 to the flying, don't you? You're in the wrong kind of bus." 
 
 "I'm goin' to fly this," asserted the operator blandly, 
 "as soon as we come to a good take-off." 
 
 "Sure!" agreed the cop. "I'd like to go up with you. 
 Just the same, I'll take a look at your papers. Hand 'em 
 
 out."
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 145 
 
 The flit's hand started to his head to scratch for ideas, 
 when it was arrested midway by another hand pressing 
 into it a sheet of paper. A whisper from the sike did the 
 rest. The document was duly presented to the repre- 
 sentative of the civil law who read therein, under the 
 insignium of the War Camp Community Service, which 
 looks very official and authoritative, if not too closely 
 scrutinized, that Corporal F. Slayter of the Aero Service, 
 Able Seaman Veeder, and Private James of the Sanitary 
 Corps, U. S. A., were specially detailed to operate Tractor 
 Tank No. 13 in such highways of New York City as they 
 might select for demonstration purposes. 
 
 "That gets by with me," announced the officer. "And 
 I'll pass the word up the Avenue. But look out for the 
 side-streets. Some of the cops on duty there are mean, 
 suspicious guys that wouldn't be above spoiling a pleas- 
 ant evening." 
 
 "Jesse James," observed the flit, turning admiringly to 
 the sike, after the obstacle to progress had withdrawn, 
 "as a psychologist you're a high-class forger. That touch 
 about 'demonstration purposes' — that's bad, I guess ! We 
 could swim the tank in Central Park Reservoir or shin 
 it up the Obelisk on the strength of that." 
 
 "And to think," sighed the sike, "that next week I'll be 
 burbling" about ethics in a stuffy classroom." 
 
 "Maybe not," returned the gob. "If Slayter does any 
 more of his fancy evolutions, you may be in the hospital." 
 
 "Oh, I've got her now," asseverated the helmsman con- 
 fidently, starting up the machinery. " — levers," he yelled, 
 "control-caterpillars. Pull — right — and — " He did so, 
 and the tank, executing a right about face, chased a hor- 
 rified limousine half-way up a flight of brownstone steps. 
 "Come back!" vociferated the exasperated flit, and hauled 
 the left lever with such telling effect that (so the gob 
 and the sike solemnly declare) the Waldorf-Astoria 
 leaped a foot from its foundations and then escaped an- 
 nihilation only by a fraction of an Inch. 
 
 "For Mike's sake!" howled the gob. "Stick to the 
 straight-and-narrow." 
 
 They lurched back into the main current, with a noise
 
 146 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 as of cosmic dissolution, and the traffic broke and fled 
 before their measured progress. As they went, there 
 came from the rear of the interior a sound faint, far- 
 away, and vague like the plaint of a discouraged cricket. 
 It was the sike singing: 
 
 "We don't know where we're going 
 But we're on — our — way." 
 
 "That reminds me," said the flit, shutting off. "Where 
 are we going .^" 
 
 "Rubbernecking," suggested the gob. 
 
 "I've got an idea," offered the sike. "If the captain of 
 this buoyant craft could steer around a corner — " 
 
 "I can steer around any number of corners," asserted 
 the flit with a shade of offense in his tone. 
 
 "Simultaneously," added the gob. 
 
 "Looka-here, Chaw!" cried the operator hotly. "If 
 you don't like the way I run this bus — " 
 
 "Calm yourself, corporal," adjured the sike, "and tell 
 me, do you think you could negotiate the perilous straits 
 that lead to the stage door of that sprightly ragtime 
 operetta, taken from the French without opposition on 
 their part and entitled 'Cherchez la Chicken'? I have im- 
 portant business there." 
 
 "Cutie in the chorus," surmised the flit, looking pained 
 and moral. "Oh, Perfessorl I bid for an introduction. 
 We're off!" 
 
 Cautiously manipulating the controls, the chauffeur 
 contrived to achieve the turn into the side street with no 
 incident or accident other than the conversion of a too 
 torpid fruit-stand into a mixture of wood-pulp and citrus 
 juices, the proprietor barely escaping with his life. The 
 last act of "Cherchez la Chicken" had reached that point 
 of delicate and original humor where the comedian, seated 
 in a cuUard pie, sings a farewell to his mother-in-law 
 while the chorus dances, when the side-alley which leads 
 up to the stage burst into thunderous reverberations. 
 There are numerous exits from the place — It Is the one 
 redeeming virtue of the show — and all of them promptly 
 jammed. The comedian arose from the pie. The so-
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 147 
 
 prano fainted. The chorus dispersed. The management, 
 wringing its already overringed hands, rushed out into 
 the alley, now being patrolled by the tank, back, and 
 forth, amidst horrible echoes. 
 
 "Go away!" he shrieked. "What you want? Shut 
 your noise." 
 
 The monster fell silent. From the orifice which should 
 have been its mouth, the serious face of the sike emerged. 
 
 "Sir," said he, "last night I attended your perform- 
 ance." 
 
 "Who are you?" demanded the manager. "You spoil 
 my show!" 
 
 "Four days' pay you mulcted me. And you seated me 
 behind a pillar." 
 
 "Tell your troubles to the box-office," retorted the 
 manager brutally. "I ain't inter — " 
 
 "I willingly concede," continued the sike calmly, "that 
 the pillar was preferable, from any view-point, to the per- 
 formance. But I want my four dollars back." 
 
 "A fat chance!" retorted the manager. 
 
 "Half speed ahead, if you please," requested the sike. 
 
 "Phsrang - bang - guzzoom - wurrong - kong-hong- 
 whang!" clamored the monster, advancing upon the man- 
 ager. 
 
 "Yi-yl-hi ! Whoo-00-ee-ee-ee !" sounded in piercing 
 antiphony from within, where the soprano was having 
 hysterics. 
 
 From the fourth rung of the fire-escape ladder the 
 manager waved surrender with a roll of bills. "Black- 
 mail !" he moaned as the sike selected a five and returned 
 a dollar. "Please go away quietly." 
 
 The sike, turning, was intercepted by a small, fattish 
 gentleman in evening clothes. 
 
 "On behalf of self and friend," said the man, "I thank 
 you." 
 
 "You are attending the performance?" inquired the 
 sike politely. 
 
 "I am. Less fortunate than yourself I did not draw 
 a pillar. As for my friend, whom I was seeking to dis- 
 tract from a depression of the soul, he insulted me and
 
 148 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 fled. He is now doubtless wandering about the city, a 
 prey to unrelieved melancholy." 
 
 "What's biting your friend.^" queried the flit, project- 
 ing an interested face into the dialogue. 
 
 The stranger accepted the interrogation in the spirit 
 of metaphor in which it was ofl'ered. "Woman," he 
 stated succinctly. "If you should happen to encounter 
 six-foot two of correctly attired manhood baying the 
 moon on a street corner, that is him. Or, if not him, he. 
 Be kind to him, address him as Reuben Renssalaer Watts, 
 and play him your little anvil chorus. It might cheer 
 him up. I return to my martyrdom." He saluted and 
 retired. 
 
 In deference to the manager's entreaty, the tank backed 
 out discreetly, making hardly more commotion than the 
 average railway collision, and retired along Forty-fourth 
 Street toward the Avenue. It roused a corpulent and 
 fluffy dog, lolling richly in a waiting motor-car, who 
 leaped out through the window with terrifying growls, 
 and undertook to harry it, performing just in front of 
 the left caterpillar that progressive three-legged canine 
 dance familiar to all motorists. But a tank is not a 
 motor-car. The fluffy dog conceived a misplaced con- 
 tempt for its speed. He loitered on the way. There was 
 a surprised and pained exclamation in the canine lan- 
 guage, and the fluffy dog, ceasing to exist in the custom- 
 ary three dimensions, passed to the fourth, leaving as a 
 souvenir only the first and second — to wit, length and 
 breadth — upon the asphalt. He that so lately had been 
 a beribboned and pampered darling was now as the 
 shadow of a dream, a breath upon glass, a highly im- 
 pressionistic silhouette limned against the unsympathetic 
 pavement, above which a fat blond lady tore her costly 
 hair, uttering tragic and vengeful cries. Hastily checking 
 the juggernaut, the flit descended, and was promptly ad- 
 dressed as a murderer by the blond lady. The gob came 
 to the rescue, and learned something to his disadvantage 
 and that of his parentage. Then the sike tactlessly 
 offered his hard-wrung four dollars in reparation. Him 
 she smote upon the ear with violence, and after one in-
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 149 
 
 effectual attempt to scrape Pettie from the bosom of 
 Mother Earth retired, wailing, to her car, where she 
 ordered the chauffeur to take her to her lawyer. 
 
 "And to think," murmured the sike, tenderly caressing 
 the spot where the assault had taken place, "that next 
 month I'll be instilling moral precepts into the minds of 
 the rising generation. Such is life!" 
 
 "This is where we oil up," announced the flit, and, hav- 
 ing herded his passengers in, went at it. 
 
 The delay was untimely. Hardly had the tank, re- 
 freshed and lubricated, resumed its way, when above the 
 uproar was heard a sharp "ping!" It was twice repeated. 
 
 "Somebody applying for admittance," surmised the 
 sike, in a well-attuned howl. 
 
 The gob applied his eye to a rear peep-hole. "It's 
 one of those side-street cops; the bad ones our friend 
 down the Avenue told us about. He's shooting at us." 
 
 "A hold-up," observed the flit. He stopped the engine, 
 just as a fourth bullet, deflected from the upper armor, 
 crashed through a brightly illuminated second-story win- 
 dow. There was the sound of a meeting adjourning sine 
 die, and an oratorically-garbed gentleman, thrusting his 
 head out of an upper window, sounded the alarum, 
 "Bolshez^^^ki ! Bolshezr^rki!" in a melancholy and mo- 
 notonous shriek. 
 
 The pursuing policeman rushed around to the front of 
 the tank. "Lady says you killed her dog," he announced. 
 "Open up." 
 
 The flit obligingly opened the door to explain. Straight- 
 way the oflicer's gun was brought to bear upon his head. 
 "Now, you stay put," came the grim order. The flit 
 stayed. 
 
 But not for long. Acting, apparently, quite on its own 
 initiative, the machine gun of the forward turret deliber- 
 ately and noiselessly swung about until it pointed accu- 
 rately at the third button, counting upward, of the police- 
 man's tunic. It is very disconcerting to have a machine 
 gun aim itself at the pit of one's stomach, particularly 
 when there is no evidence as to whether it is loaded or 
 not. And a machine gun always looks loaded.
 
 ISO "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 The cop blinked and wavered. A solemn voice emerged 
 from the hollow interior: 
 
 " 'Who touches a hair of yon red head 
 Dies like a dog! March on !' he said." 
 
 "Whaddye mean, 'red head'?" indignantly demanded 
 the flit, who was sensitive on the subject; and he ducked 
 inside seeking explanation. 
 
 The gob immediately pulled-to the steel door. "We 
 will now parley," he announced. 
 
 The officer took off his helmet and fanned a wrinkled 
 brow. "You gotta keep off this street," he said, but with- 
 out conviction. 
 
 "Why?" demanded the gob. 
 
 "You're a truck," said the cop. 
 
 "You're another," retorted the flit hotly. "We're a 
 pleasure-car; that's what we are!" 
 
 "Well, you're a heavy traffic, anyway," argued the cop. 
 "You got no right here." 
 
 "Lightest tank in the service," declared the gob. "Less 
 than six tons on the hoof. Stripped dovv^'n for speed, in 
 light marching accouterment with one day's ammunition 
 and a marked-down meal ticket, we're only — " 
 
 "For Gawd's sake!" broke in the harassed officer; "git 
 off my beat before I report yer, if I can think of some- 
 thin' to report that the Cap would believe." 
 
 Thus delivered from the Philistines, the equipage pro- 
 ceeded, amid the wonder and consternation of an ear- 
 smitten public. But there was one who paid no tribute 
 of notice to its thunderous progress. He stood on the 
 corner of Fifth Avenue, and gazed into vacancy. The 
 gleam of his candid shirt-front attracted the eye of the 
 gob, who was acting as lookout. 
 
 "Lighthouse off the port bow," he informed the 
 chauffeur. "Seems to be deserted. Run alongside; I fain 
 would hail it." 
 
 The tank, after a preliminary wobble, drew up, facing 
 the abstracted individual. He deigned to droop an un- 
 interested eye at it, and straightway resumed his contem- 
 plation of nothingness. The gob semi-emerging from the 
 tank's door, addressed him.
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 151 
 
 "Cab, sir?" 
 
 "Eh? What?" said the other vaguely. 
 
 "Taxi, sir? Fine night for a ride," said the gob per- 
 suasively. 
 
 "Certainly," assented the bystander with the air of one 
 who welcomes any diversion, however slight. He stepped 
 inside. 
 
 "Where to, sir?" 
 
 The fare considered. "Eight-seventy-seven Park Ave- 
 nue," he said at length. 
 
 "What for?" interposed the flit with suspicion. 
 
 "To make a polite and formal call on a young lady." 
 
 "Look at the time," protested the flit. "Won't she be 
 asleep?" 
 
 "Not after little Pussyfoot enters the block," said the 
 fare with conviction. "Besides that — have I hired this 
 hack or haven't L^" 
 
 "You sure have," confirmed the gob. "Montmorency, 
 behave!" he admonished the flit. "We are about to go 
 into Society. I can tell it by the address. By the left 
 wheel, hrrumph!" 
 
 "One moment," said the passenger. "It is my duty to 
 tell you that Bingle Foxley will be coming down the Ave- 
 nue drunk and chiefly on the wrong side, about this 
 hour." 
 
 "Who's he?" demanded the chauflfcur. 
 
 "The Demon Motorist. Trafllic rules are a red rag to 
 him. As a cousin of the Big Chief he's immune from 
 arrest, and gets a clear path." 
 
 "What's the big idea?" demanded the flit. 
 
 "Just so that you can slide out the way when you hear 
 his siren," returned the fare, with apparent innocence. 
 
 The flit grinned. "Ick hobby dick, Steefen, as we say 
 in Coblenz," he observed. "We're off." 
 
 The Fifth Avenue trafllic obligingly made way again. 
 After essaying several polite and casual observations in 
 a stentorian tone, with the effect of a microbe's whisper, 
 the passenger gathered together his vocal powers, and 
 stuck his voice into the gob's ear.
 
 152 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 "I want to explain. I'm going to let you into a little 
 SECRET," he bellowed into a suddenly developed stillness, 
 consequent upon the flit's shutting off power at a crowded 
 corner. 
 
 "One little tone louder," suggested the gob, "and you'll 
 let in South Norwalk and the Oranges." 
 
 "Let me explain to you all," said the passenger while 
 the gathering crowd outside passed the word that the 
 tank was conveying a violently mad German spy to the 
 asylum. "I'm very much interested in — " 
 
 "Not me!" expostulated the flit. "The last guy in a 
 dress suit that explained what he was very much inter- 
 ested in, got me very much interested too, and stung me 
 four months' pay for four cents' worth of phony stock." 
 
 "This is a young lady," said the other, with dignity. 
 "She objects to me because she says I am too proper and 
 conventional to be really human." 
 
 "Are you?" inquired the sike with interest. 
 
 "Before the war, possibly. I admit it." 
 
 "And the war cured you?" 
 
 "Judge for yourself. The third day of the Argonne 
 debate I nearly got court-martialed for biting a chunk out 
 of my captain's ear. It was dark, and I thought when 
 we came together after the charge and he tried to gouge 
 my left eye out, that he was a Fritzie. Now I put it to 
 you as pals, is that overrefined and finicky?" 
 
 "Pals is right," stated the flit heartily, "if you was at 
 Argonne Woods. And as man to man and one having 
 experience, I'd advise you to handle her likewise. Not 
 bite her ear off, you get me? But join the tanks and 
 treat 'em rough." 
 
 "Precisely why I hired this cab." 
 
 "So woman is your trouble," observed the sike. "I 
 salute you, J\Ir. Reuben Renssalaer Watts." 
 
 "The devil you do!" retorted that gentleman. "When 
 did you graduate into the Intelligence Department? Or 
 have I met you in a previous existence?" 
 
 "Neither. It is quite simple," began the sike, when a 
 swelling, soaring, blare from up the Avenue cut him short. 
 
 "Mr. Foxley requests the courtesy of a clear path," 
 said Mr. Watts.
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 153 
 
 "Sure," remarked the flit between his teeth. "Sic 'em, 
 Maudie!" 
 
 Gathering speed, the tank proceeded to weave and 
 writhe across the roadway in a manner suggestive of a 
 beetle with the stomach-ache. Hoots, rude, imperative 
 and monitory, sounded from ahead. A huge green car 
 manned by a huge red youth came rushing down upon 
 them. At sight of the tank, the car emitted a subH- 
 mated yawp of surprise and horror followed by penetrat- 
 ing shrieks as the brakes bit in, the youth uttered a whoop 
 of desperation, the outfit hit the unmoved tank slant- 
 wise, skimmed across the sidewalk on two wheels and 
 sought cover in a window placarded "Special Bargains in 
 Lingerie" whence presently emerged the almost total ruin 
 of Mr. Foxley draped pinkly in a chemise. It beat the 
 air with frenzied hands, yelled feebly, and disappeared 
 around the corner in the direction of its club. Revivified 
 later (though not by the usual agencies, which he reso- 
 lutely refused, to the alarm of his fellows), Mr. Foxley 
 related how, while driving quietly down the Avenue he 
 had been beset by a mud-turtle in armor. A very large, 
 ferocious, prehistoric mud-turtle, waving an American 
 flag, which without provocation had attacked his un- 
 offending car, bitten oflF its two front wheels and chased 
 it through a plate-glass window. And as for him, he 
 wouldn't care if July first came to-morrow! He was off" it! 
 
 "Where do they come from and why did they let 'em 
 out?" demanded Mr. Foxley passionately. 
 
 The maligned tank, passing upon its sentimental quest, 
 was now spreading the echoes of Bedlam through peace- 
 ful Park Avenue. At number cight-sevcnty-seven, the 
 equipage stopped. The clamor didn't. A surprised and 
 extremely attractive face beneath the cap of the National 
 League for Woman's Service Motor Corps appeared at a 
 third-floor window. 
 
 "Shut off! Shut off!" yelled Reuben Rcnssalaer Watts. 
 "I want to talk to her." 
 
 "Can't," bellowed the flit. "She's jammed." 
 
 The face at the window became indignant. It made 
 urgent gestures like a policeman.
 
 154 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 "The lady wants us to move on," the gob informed the 
 perspiring Mr. Watts. 
 
 Out upon the sidewalk stepped the sike. He faced the 
 lovely and indignant apparition overhead and squared his 
 manly form. With his right hand he majestically indi- 
 cated the zenith; his left he placed tenderly upon the pit 
 of his stomach. Immediately he thrust his left north- 
 northeast and started a pivot-blow with the other. He 
 then boxed the compass in swift, successive two-arm 
 movements. The ornament of the window nodded and 
 disappeared. 
 
 "See here!" said Mr. Watts. "Do you knotv that 
 lady?" 
 
 "I do not," returned the sike, "though I live in hopes." 
 
 "Then why the convulsions?" demanded, Mr. Watts 
 severely. 
 
 "Semaphoring, my dear sir. I simply wigwagged the 
 lady that if she would descend to Mother Earth, a com- 
 munication of semi-official import having a vital bearing 
 on her prospects in life would be made to her. Or words 
 to that effect," said the sike. "The rest is up to you." 
 
 The final observation might well have been addressed 
 to the Mayor of New Rochelle, as, coincident with its 
 utterance the chauffeur had stilled his engine. He joined 
 the sidewalk group, followed by the gob. The girl 
 emerged. 
 
 "Is it an ambulance job?" she asked professionally. 
 
 "No, madam," answered the sike. 
 
 "Then why did you S. O. S. me?" 
 
 Mr. Reuben Renssalaer Watts stepped forward. 
 "Renny!" she exclaimed and turned to a pink so delicate 
 and bewitching that the gob hastily and surreptitiously 
 extracted his beloved quid and tossed it under the iron 
 monster, 
 
 'A social call," said that gentleman. "Good evening, 
 Carey." He stepped forward and with nonchalance and 
 promptitude kissed the newcomer fair and full upon the 
 lips. 
 
 "Renny!" gasped the girl; and the pink deepened to a 
 fiery red. "Wh-Wh-Wnst — how — are you crazy?"
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 155 
 
 "I've joined the tanks," exclaimed Mr. Watts urbanely. 
 " 'Treat 'em rough' is our motto. Come and have a joy- 
 ride on me." 
 
 The girl recovered herself. "Who are these gentle- 
 men.'^ 
 
 "Hanged if I know. I hired the crew with the ship 
 and they are now my fellow piratical voyagers on faerie 
 seas forlorn. Fellows, this is Miss Carey Vail." 
 
 "Pleased to meetcher," said the flit, stepping forward 
 courteously. "My name's Mr. Slayter. The gob, here, is 
 Chaw Veeder. He's rough stuff from the gas-house, but 
 with ladies present he'll kindly soft-pedal. The other 
 guy is a stuffed professor at home, at present consider- 
 able alive. Name, Perfessor James." He turned to ad- 
 dress Watts. "Now, where to, sir?" 
 
 "Where do you suggest:" 
 
 "If this is a ladies' game," responded the flit tenta- 
 tively, "there's a party named Miss Nora AlcSears who 
 cashes at an all-night restaurant on East Fifty-eighth 
 Street, very clean and respectable." 
 
 "Right! Go to Fifty-eighth Street. Will you get in, 
 Carey?" 
 
 Miss Carey Vail sniffed the air daintily and observed 
 the tank with doubt. "Do you think your steed is safe?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "He's uncertain when hungry," explained the gob; 
 "but he's just fed. He's had one small dog, one large 
 fruit-stand, three cans of garbage, a corner of the Wal- 
 dorf-Astoria and a chew of the best plug. You could 
 trust him to tow a baby-carriage down Peacock Alley." 
 
 Miss Vail embarked. Her next observation, "Do be- 
 have yourself, Renny," was inferred rather than heard, in 
 the commotion of their turning. Nor was their converse 
 thereafter, though earnest, of import to the others, who 
 considerately concentrated their attention upon the outer 
 world. 
 
 The Recherche Restaurant was doing a languid, ten- 
 cent-to-a-quarter trade, when East Fifty-eighth Street 
 burst into "The Anvil Chorus." Its entire clientele
 
 156 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 rushed to the door, followed by a tall, calm-eyed girl with 
 the cash-register in her arms. The tank brought up with 
 a lurch opposite her. 
 
 "Good evening, Miss Nora," said the flit, emerging. 
 
 "Good evening, yourself, and who are you?" returned 
 Miss McSears placidly. 
 
 The flit assumed an air of profound injury. "Did you 
 or did you not, one year back, come St. Patrick's Day, 
 after the Club dance at camp, take my regimental pin to 
 wear and say you'd never forget Private F. Slayter, now 
 corporal?" 
 
 "Maybe I did," admitted the girl, "But your face was 
 clean then." 
 
 "I've joined the tanks since," said Corporal Slayter. 
 "Treat 'em rough." Selecting the nearest dimple in Miss 
 McSears's piquant face, he saluted it in form. 
 
 "Move on!" cried that young lady, helpless by reason 
 of the cash-machine, but wrathful. "My father's a police- 
 man and I'll be telephoning for him." 
 
 "Ask him can I keep company with his daughter," sug- 
 gested the unperturbed flit. "We'll move on when you 
 move with us." 
 
 "In that?" retorted the girl, bestowing a scornful look 
 upon the monster. "I don't believe it's even respectable. 
 Who's in there?" 
 
 Responding to the flit's unspoken appeal, the woman 
 passenger stepped out. "I'm Carey Vail," she began in 
 her quiet, assured voice. "You may know — " 
 
 "Hello, Vail," interrupted Miss McSears. 
 
 "Why, Mac! Bless your old heart! How are you?" 
 
 The two did not fall on each other's neck. They shook 
 hands in manly fashion. "This is one of our emergency 
 volunteers for the 'flu' work," explained the girl in 
 uniform. "They don't make them any better." 
 
 "They don't need to, as far's I'm concerned," mur- 
 mured Mr. Slayter, relieving the bearer of the cash-reg- 
 ister. "Are you on for our little party, Nora?" 
 
 "Wait till I telephone for a substitute," said Miss Mc- 
 Sears. "And do you behave yourself, you with your 
 'Nora'!"
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 157 
 
 Upon her return, after some delay, there was heard 
 issuing from the tank's interior dolorous music, in the 
 sike's plaintive baritone: 
 
 "No one to pity him, none to cay-ress 
 No one to help him in his sad dy-stress." 
 
 "The Sweet Singer of Michigan has broken his parole," 
 observed the gob. "Hey, you inside, what's on your 
 bursting chest?" 
 
 "I'm lonely," stated the sike. "All my lovely com- 
 panions are faded and gone. Captive to the fair sex. 
 
 "Oh, bury me on the lone pray-r^i?/ 
 Where the wild ki-yotes can't pester me." 
 
 "Goodness gracious! What's that?" queried Miss Mc- 
 Sears. 
 
 "I believe it's some kind of a professor," explained 
 Miss Vail, as the flit obligingly turned an interior light 
 upon the sike. Miss McSears viewed the exhibit with 
 critical approval. 
 
 "It looks good to me," she said. "Couldn't we get 
 somebody to take care of it for the evening and make 
 this a real party? Any of your crowd on, Vail?" 
 
 "Eleven twenty-five," said the corps-girl, examining a 
 wrist-watch. "Dollv Barrett'U just be coming off duty. 
 She'd fit in." 
 
 "Great!" assented Miss McSears, and the two girls re- 
 tired to telephone. 
 
 "Did you get her?" chorused the crew of the tank, when 
 they returned. 
 
 "Of course," said Miss Vail. "We told her to meet us 
 at eleven-fifty on the south side of Columbus Circle 
 where Broadway comes in." 
 
 "That's a nice, retired spot for a tryst," said Mr. Watts 
 sardonically. "Did you tell her how we were coming?" 
 
 "No. I just said we'd pick her up in a car." 
 
 "She'll be surprised." 
 
 "Surprise will do her good. She's been overworked 
 lately and needs livening up." 
 
 Surprise was obviously the trysted one's portion when,
 
 iS8 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 with the sound of earthquake and avalanche, battle, mur- 
 der, and sudden death, the "cab" arrived. Nor was the 
 initial surprise the only one. A perfect stranger with a 
 long, lean, pleasant face stepped out and regarded her 
 with appreciative and twinkling eyes. In the background 
 she dimly apprehended Miss Vail and Miss McSears. 
 On his part the sike contemplated a small, trim young 
 person with very black hair, very gray eyes under 
 black brows and lashes and a mouth that was an entice- 
 ment to disorderly conduct. His bedazzled regard failed 
 to note certain features of her costume. His once pro- 
 fessorial spirit was in a turmoil, a reckless, desperate 
 glow, 
 
 "Good evening," he said rapidly. "We've come to take 
 you riding. Let me help you in. My name is Follans- 
 bee James. I've joined the tanks. Treat 'em rough." 
 Smack! The disorderly conduct was committed. 
 
 "Attention !" snapped the enraged victim of the caress. 
 
 The sike fell into a rigor, a paralysis, intended for a 
 salute. His horrified eyes were riveted on the newcom- 
 er's nearest shoulder. A silver bar shone there. 
 
 "Lord help me! I've kissed my superior officer, " 
 groaned the sike, and collapsed into the waiting arms of 
 the gob. 
 
 The others immediately supplied a chorus of explana- 
 tion and apology, greatly enjoyed and appreciated by the 
 gathering crowd. "Let's get out of here," said Lieuten- 
 ant Dolly Barrett, bewilderedly rubbing the corner of 
 her chin (for the sike had been nervous and his marks- 
 manship below par). "Go into the Park, where it's 
 quiet." 
 
 Their progress spread a horrific stridor through the 
 peace and decorum of the Park's ordered avenues, and 
 the squirrels awoke in the tree-tops, gibbering with terror, 
 and the birds took wing and fled into the unknown, and 
 the new hippopotamus of the Zoo, surmising that the day 
 of judgment was upon him, repented of his sins in a wail 
 that scarred the ear-drums of the sleeping neighborhood; 
 and policemen, singly and in squads, rushed to the scene 
 and retired before the sight of a moving fortress display-
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 159 
 
 ing the American flag, and Reuben Renssalaer Watts 
 chose that time as propitious for a whirlwind advance, 
 under cover of the riot, upon the heart of Miss Carey 
 Vail. As he pleaded earnestly, and with vast expendi- 
 ture of lung-power, which did not reach beyond the atten- 
 tive ear of the girl, who was listening with an expression 
 somewhere between happiness, panic, and surrender, the 
 flit tactlessly and abruptly shut down the power to in- 
 quire his way, and Mr. Watts was heard (from the Bat- 
 tery on the south to the Bronx on the north) proclaiming 
 the finale and climax of his wooing: 
 
 " GOING TO MARRY ME THIS VERY NIGHT, AS IS !" 
 
 A dead, blank, dismayed silence supervened. The un- 
 intentional eavesdroppers stared at each other and away 
 from the pair. Ten blocks distant the hippopotamus 
 laughed raucously. Mr. Watts, justly indignant, turned 
 upon the chauffeur. 
 
 "Keep her going, you fourth-rate, donkey-engine mis- 
 fit!" he roared, in tones which proved that he didn't care 
 who heard him this time. 
 
 ''What church?" inquired the flit promptly. 
 
 "Not any church," cried Miss Carey Vail. "I want 
 to go ho-o-ome." 
 
 "Oh, be a sport, Vail," adjured her superior officer. 
 "He looks all right to me. Why not marry him and 
 put him out of his misery?" 
 
 "Go on; do!" urged Miss McSears. "It'll be so 
 romantic." 
 
 "Maybe it'd be catching," hopefully suggested Cor- 
 poral Slayter, who appeared to be holding Miss Mc- 
 Sears's hand. 
 
 "Happy thought!" contributed the sike. "Don't spoil 
 the evening's fun just because of a weak prejudice about 
 formality." 
 
 "Oh, I think you're all mad!" declared Miss Vail 
 tremulously, and suddenly, despite her uniform, she 
 looked very small and feminine and helpless. "You, 
 most of all, Rcnny, I don't know what's come to you." 
 
 "I've joined the tanks," said Reuben Renssalaer Watts 
 promptly, "And — "
 
 i6o "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 "Don't!" wailed Miss Vail, half a second too late to 
 forestall the action which went with the statement. "I 
 want to go ho-o-ome!" she faltered. But there was more 
 bewilderment than conviction in her appeal. 
 
 "Directly after the ceremony," promised the progressive 
 wooer. "We'll ride up in my special taxi and break the 
 news to the family." 
 
 "Look here, folkses," broke in the gob. "I'm all for 
 this Lohengrin-Mendelssohn stuff. But it'll take some 
 scheming. We've got the rest of the night, free of en- 
 tanglements and engagements, except the one we've just 
 been witness to, is it not?" 
 
 "It is," responded a chorus, minus the voice of Miss 
 Carey Vail who was temporarily speechless. 
 
 "All right, I'm going to blow to supper." 
 
 "Not at twelve-fifteen, in this man's burg," corrected 
 Mr. Watts. "It's closed." 
 
 "If you can give a wedding party, I guess I can give a 
 supper party," retorted the gob. "And I'm going to if I 
 have to hold up somebody else's. Corporal, conduct Airy 
 Fairy Lillian up Mr. Fifth's well-known avenue while I 
 man the lookout, and be ready to stop on signal." 
 
 The signal was given, opposite a house of modest size 
 (for that part of the thoroughfare) with evidences of 
 activity in the front rooms. The gob ran up the steps 
 and was met by a flustered-looking person who made 
 gestures of expostulation, which presently were mollified 
 to gestures of deprecation. 
 
 "Come one, come all," invited the gob, returning. 
 "There'll be a short wait while my friend in the shirt- 
 sleeves — " 
 
 "Who is this guv. Chaw?" demanded the flit. 
 
 "He's the butler.'" 
 
 "Whose butler?" queried Miss McSears. 
 
 "Don't make any odds whose. He's ours at present." 
 
 "How did you get him?" questioned Watts. 
 
 "It's a long story of my seamy past," answered the gob. 
 "He's an ex-con, and I've got a strangle-hold on him. So 
 he's invited us to supper and when the family gets home 
 from the country in the morning he can fix up his own
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS i6i 
 
 explanation of the ice-box to suit himself and them. I've 
 ordered fizz." 
 
 "That's all very well," observed Miss McSears with 
 firmness. "But I don't go to midnight suppers in other 
 folks' houses, with a bunch of strangers — " 
 
 "Strangers once but lovers now," stated the flit firmly, 
 "speaking for self and lady friend." 
 
 " — and no chaperon," pursued the spokeswoman of the 
 proprieties, reddening but obstinate. "So you count — " 
 
 "Silence in the ranks!" ordered Dolly Barrett. "I'm 
 an officer and a widow. Is that enough?" 
 
 "Plenty for me, and praise to Heaven for the good 
 news," said the sike, enthusiastically. "I don't mean the 
 officer part," he added significantly, "but the other." 
 
 Mr. Watts regarded him curiously. "There may be 
 more in these Western universities than a Harvard man 
 would suspect," he murmured. 
 
 "And to think," sighed the sike, "that a few weeks 
 hence I shall be pouring pious platform platitudes into 
 the happy ears of inattentive youth!" 
 
 "Forward in light foraging order!" commanded the gob. 
 
 The party entered the house, which was evidently being 
 hastily cleaned for the return of the owners. A subdued 
 noise as of servants in commotion could be heard in the 
 rear. On a hall stand stood a collection of mail in three 
 piles. The flit chancing to glance at it, stood petrified. 
 Selecting a post-card he advanced upon the rear of the 
 unheeding gob, turned up the bottom of the wide and 
 floppy left trouser-leg, read from the sewn-in slip the 
 name inscribed thereon, compared it with the address 
 on the post-card, turned down the trouser-leg to one fold 
 and with a sudden, sardonic inspiration not only left It so, 
 but adjusted the other one to match It. 
 
 "Mr. Schuyler Tappan Veeder," he observed with con- 
 centrated bitterness, straightening up. 
 
 "Here," responded the gob, cheerfullv. "What about 
 it?" 
 
 "This is your joint," declared the flit in solemn accusa- 
 tion.
 
 i62 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 "Not while my fond parents enjoy their present 
 health," was the genial reply. 
 
 But the soul of Corporal Slayter was hot with sus- 
 picion. "What kinda con game you been workin' on 
 me?" he said, surlily. "Call yourself Chaw Veeder." 
 
 "Barring the presence of ladies, you're a liar," retorted 
 the gob promptly. "It's my pals call me Chaw. Which 
 reminds me." Producing a rich-hued bar from his 
 pocket, he bit off a generous chunk and expertly stowed it. 
 The angry eyes of his pal flickered a little. But he was 
 unconvinced. 
 
 "You're phony," he growled. "A masqueradin' dude." 
 He pointed to the trousers which he had left "cuffed." 
 "That's your style," he asserted. "Me, I'm through. I'll 
 not be made a guy of. C'mon, Nora." 
 
 The gob stretched forth an iron-muscled hand which he 
 inserted forcibly and affectionately between the flit's neck 
 and his collar. "Pause a 'moment, Claude," he be- 
 sought. "Girls, will you kindly muffle your ears? 
 Thanks. Now, Freddie, you lop-sided, cross-grained, 
 bone-headed, swivel-eared, pizen-souled descendant of 
 ten generations of mule-thieves, before I break your jaw 
 in three places at once, listen while I tell you what you 
 are." And he told him. But of the telling there is no 
 record, because after the preface, Mr. Watts retired for 
 air and the sike ran out to seek a pencil and paper and 
 returned too late for the exordium. The flit, spell-bound, 
 relaxed his expression of disfavor. When it was over he 
 bent down and readjusted the gob's trouser-legs to the 
 regulation straightness. Apology could go no further. 
 
 "You win. Chaw," said he shamefacedly. "Speed up 
 the wedding feast." 
 
 It is recorded in the unwritten history of Fifth Avenue's 
 most costly and exclusive section, that there came, upon 
 a midnight clear, a din as of ten thousand structural 
 riveters in progressive action, giving place to sounds of 
 revelry by early morning, which in turn was succeeded by 
 the Anvil Chorus, above the surface of which soared a 
 valiant barytone proclaiming, "The Voice that Breathed
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 163 
 
 O'er Eden." Mr. Chaw Veeder's supper-party, back In 
 the tank, was adjourning to night-court to seek a marry- 
 ing magistrate. For, as in the old song, love (in the per- 
 son of Mr. Reuben Renssalaer Watts) had found out the 
 way, and the telephone, i-eaching a friendly judge, had 
 arranged a special emergency license. 
 
 Many queer equipages with strange cargoes visit night- 
 court on sundry errands; but the tank with its wedding- 
 party broke the record. 
 
 Court adjourned informally, to rush out and ascertain 
 who was bombing the locality and why. When the party 
 entered, they beheld two policemen struggling to extri- 
 cate the magistrate from the frantic embrace of Mr. 
 Bingle Foxley, who was yelling: 
 
 "Save me! It's coming after me. I hear it. Don't 
 let it get me. Judge !" 
 
 When at length his Honor was released, the sike greeted 
 him with surprise. 
 
 "It's you, is it?" 
 
 "It's me," agreed the magistrate. "Or if not me, I." 
 He was the bearded victim of "Cherchez la Chicken." 
 
 "We found him," remarked the sike, indicating Mr. 
 Reuben Renssalaer Watts. 
 
 "So I perceive. It's a small world." 
 
 "Small like a Harlem flat," confirmed IMiss Nora Mc- 
 Sears discontentedly. "You can't turn around in it with- 
 out rousing the family. That," she pursued, pointing out 
 to Corporal Slayter one of the policemen engaged in pre- 
 venting Mr. Foxlev from crawling into the commitment 
 file, "is Pa." 
 
 "Howdy, Pa!" said the flit. 
 
 "Whaddye mean, 'Pa'?" demanded the thunderstruck 
 officer. 
 
 "In-law," explained Mr. Slayter. "To-be," he added. 
 
 "Perhaps," amended Miss McSears. 
 
 "Sure thing," asseverated the flit blithely. "It's in the 
 air. You can't dodge it." 
 
 "Other things difiicult to dodge are in the air," ob- 
 served the magistrate. "Reuben, as friend to friend and 
 unofficially, how did you get these?"
 
 i64 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 "By the hour," replied Mr. Watts. "I hh-ed 'em." 
 
 "Are you responsible for their actions?" 
 
 "Upon and after the hour of 11:05 p.m., I am." 
 
 "You escape," pronounced the magistrate. "At 11:02 
 P.M. I am informed, an armored tank filled with des- 
 peradoes, I. W. W. Bolshevists, anarchists, nihilists, pro- 
 hibitionists and other enemies of the public welfare, in- 
 vaded West Forty-fourth Street and did there and then 
 interrupt an orderly meeting of the Society for the Aboli- 
 tion of Tobacco, Bridge, Dancing and other Hellish 
 Habits, by felonious means, to wit: firing upon it with 
 machine guns, gatlings, howitzers, hand-grenades, rifles, 
 revolvers and sundry lethal weapons, against the ordi- 
 nances duly made and provided for the maintenance of 
 the peace." 
 
 "So help me God," intoned a large, solemn, pulpy 
 person, rising in his seat. 
 
 "That's the guy," cried the flit, "that called us 'Bol- 
 she-'y^ff-ki !' Lemme attim." 
 
 "Then you admit that you are them," said the magis- 
 trate. "Or, if not them, they." 
 
 "We do," said the gob; "with mitigating circumstances." 
 
 "There is a warrant out against you." 
 
 A blond and frescoed portent projected itself upward 
 from a side bench. "Make it two. Judge. And make 
 the second one for murder." 
 
 "Saints preserve us !" groaned the sike. "The sorrow- 
 ing protectress of the silhouetted pup!" 
 
 "It is a small world," repeated the magistrate. "This 
 gentleman (indicating the stricken Mr. Foxley) who 
 originally came here for the purpose of taking the pledge, 
 now prefers the charge that you instigated to attack him 
 without provocation a prehistoric monster of the dragon 
 or fire-spouting persuasion which, after destroying his 
 automobile, chased him through a plate-glass window 
 and totally wrecked his nerves. Comparing his descrip- 
 tion of the monster with my own impression of your 
 vehicle, and remembering that the female of the species 
 is more deadly than the male, I conclude that it is her. 
 Or, if not her, it. What have you to say?"
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 165 
 
 "Just this," answered Mr. Watts with annoyance, "I 
 came here to be married, not prosecuted. Come now, 
 Hartley, as friend to friend, can't you fix this? It may be 
 my last chance." 
 
 "Your friend with the talent for blackmail seems to be 
 a person of infinite resource," said the magistrate, glanc- 
 ing toward the sike. "Has he any suggestions:" 
 
 "If I may be permitted," said the sike, modestly 
 rising, "I suggest, first, that Mr. Foxley is too good a 
 sport to spoil a wedding, if assured that the groom will 
 never again travel Fifth Avenue in a tank. (Mr. Foxley 
 grunted.) As for the noble cause of Suppression of 
 Tobacco et cetera, I propose a generous epithalamic con- 
 tribution thereto by the happy bridegroom. We now 
 come to the ill-fated canine, and its sorrowing owner. 
 Though myself in a state of genteel poverty, I will gladly 
 start a subscription to bury it, or if that prove imprac- 
 ticable, to have it pasted in a scrap-book, with appro- 
 priate honors." 
 
 "Nothin' doin' !" asserted the bereaved blonde in angry 
 tones. "I wanta tell you — " 
 
 "One moment, please. Would it not soothe your in- 
 jured feelings to be invited to the wedding and to sign 
 as legal witness? There is a reporter present, and I 
 assume that the nuptials of Mr. Reuben Renssalaer Watts 
 with Miss Carey Vail will receive a meed of desirable pub- 
 licity extending to all who participate." 
 
 "Not the Miss Carey Vail!" exclaimed the awe-struck 
 blonde, who went into Society eagerly, though vicariously, 
 through the medium of the daily press. 
 
 "The same," declared Mr. Watts. "Positively last ap- 
 pearance in that role. That is," he added anxiously, "if 
 you accept our earnest invitation to come to the wed- 
 ding." 
 
 "Chawmed, I'm suah," murmured the lady, and pro- 
 ceeded to powder her nose from an apparatus concealed 
 in a dangling bag. 
 
 The sike felt a soft touch on his elbow. Lieutenant 
 Dolly Barrett's large gray eyes glowed warmly up into his. 
 
 "You ought to be running the Peace Conference," she 
 opined.
 
 i66 "CAB, SIR?" 
 
 "And to think," mourned the sike, "that next month 
 I'll be acting the melancholy mentor to a flock of corn- 
 fed prairie-rubes." 
 
 "Court will convene in my private room for matrimo- 
 nial purposes at once," proclaimed the magistrate. 
 
 The ceremony was brief and business-like. The wit- 
 nesses were the sike and Mrs. Barrett, quite close to- 
 gether, the flit and Miss McSears (bracketed by the 
 former), the gob, with rating and ship attached, Mr. 
 Foxley in a shaken hand, and Mrs. Eudora Fotheringay 
 in letters half an inch high and ninety degrees slant. The 
 whole party attended by the court officials went out to 
 see the pair off". The flit, saluting, stepped forward. 
 
 "Cab, sir?" 
 
 "Certainly," assented the bridegroom. 
 
 "Certainly not," amended the bride. 
 
 "Not?" queried the flit, crestfallen. 
 
 "Taxi," said the new Mrs. Watts decisively, hailing 
 one as it rounded the corner. 
 
 "Cab, lady?" coyly invited the flit, turning to Miss 
 McSears, as the bridal couple were whirled away. 
 
 "Subway," retorted Pa McSears emphatically, "speak- 
 ing for self and daughter." 
 
 "Cab, sir?" the operator solicited Mr. Bingle Foxley. 
 
 "Help!" responded that gentleman, making a leap for 
 the nearest haven, which chanced to be Mrs. Fotherin- 
 gay's limousine, where he was hospitably received. 
 
 "Cab, Chaw?" cried the desperate flit, seeing his cus- 
 tom dropping away. 
 
 "Life is sweet," observed the gob, and followed Mr. 
 Foxley into his perfumed retirement. 
 
 "Cab, buddy?" almost wept Corporal Slayter, address- 
 ing himself in a seductive coo to Professor Follansbee 
 James. ''^And sister," he added, noting the confidential 
 juxtaposition of the two heads. 
 
 "We are walking, thank you so much," said Lieuten- 
 ant Barrett sweetly. 
 
 "Old Bird," the sorrowing flit addressed the metallic 
 accomplice of his crimes, " we are, as it were, dumped 
 into Cupid's ash-can. Cheer up! I will never desert
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 167 
 
 you." His eyes fell upon the legend, "To be returned." 
 "I'd forgotten about that," he murmured, "Where to, 
 I wonder?" He reversed the placard and was confronted 
 by this warning in red and minatory letters: 
 
 Do Not Operate 
 Condemned as 
 DANGEROUS 
 
 The flit cast a pensive eye up the street where the dust 
 of the bridal departure still hung, shifted it to the wake 
 of the Fotheringay limousine bearing the gob and the re- 
 formed Foxley from the stricken field, glanced yearn- 
 ingly toward the corner where Miss Nora McSears, 
 temporarily a parental captive, threw him a swift and 
 comforting signal, and regarded with benignity two uni- 
 formed figures marching along the sidewalk side-by-side, 
 in that sweet accord which apostles of the millennium pre- 
 scribe not alone for the lion and the lamb, but also for 
 the officer and the soldier in the ranks. 
 
 "Dangerous," he repeated, as a grin, appreciative but 
 tender, lighted up his rugged features. Then, with con- 
 viction, "77/ say it is I"
 
 McClure's Magazine 
 
 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 BY 
 
 EDNA FERBER
 
 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH ' 
 By EDNA FERBER 
 
 WHEN you try to do a story about three people like 
 Sid Hahn and Mizzi Markis and Wallic Ascher 
 you find yourself pawing around among the personalities, 
 helplessly. For the three of them are what is known 
 in newspaper parlance as national figures. One n. f. is 
 enough for any short story. Three would swamp a book. 
 It's like one of those plays advertised as having an all- 
 star cast. By the time each luminary has come on, and 
 been greeted, and done his twinkling, the play has faded 
 into the background. You can't see the heavens for the 
 stars. 
 
 Surely Sid Hahn, like the guest of honor at a dinner, 
 needs no introduction. And just as surely will he be in- 
 troduced. He has been described elsewhere and often; 
 perhaps nowhere more concisely than on page 16, para- 
 graph two, of a volume that shall be nameless, though 
 quoted, thus: 
 
 "Sid Hahn, erstwhile usher, call-boy, press agent, ad- 
 vance man, had a genius for things theatrical. It was 
 inborn. Dramatic, sensitive, artistic, intuitive, he was 
 often rendered inarticulate by the very force and variety 
 of his feelings. A little, rotund, ugly m-in, with the eyes 
 of a dreamer, the wide, mobile mouth of a humorist, the 
 ears of a comic ol' clo'es man. His generosity was pro- 
 verbial, and it amounted to a vice." 
 
 Not that that covers him. No one paragraph could. 
 You turn a fine diamond this way and that, and as its 
 facets catch the light you say, "It's scarlet! No — it's 
 blue ! No — rose I — orange ; — lilac ! — no — " 
 
 That was Sid Hahn. 
 
 ^ Copyright by McClure's Magazine
 
 172 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 I suppose he never really sat for a photograph and yet 
 you saw his likeness in all the magazines. He was 
 snapped on the street, and in the theatre, and even up 
 in his famous library-study-office on the sixth and top 
 floor of the Thalia Theatre Building. Usually with a fat 
 black cigar, unlighted, in one corner of his commodious 
 mouth. Everyone interested in things theatrical (and 
 whom does that not include?) knew all about Sid Hahn — 
 and nothing. He had come, a boy, from one of those 
 middle-western towns with a highfalutin Greek name. 
 Parthenon, Ohio, or something incredible like that. No 
 one knows how he first approached the profession which 
 he was to dominate in America. There's no record of 
 his having asked for a job in a theatre, and received it. 
 He oozed into it, indefinably, and moved with it, and be- 
 came a part of it and finally controlled it. Satellites, fur- 
 collared and pseudo-successful, trailing in his wake, used 
 to talk loudly of I-knew-him-when. They all lied. It 
 had been Augustin Daly, dead these many years, who 
 had first recognized in this boy the genius for discovering 
 and directing genius. Daly was, at that time, at the 
 zenith of his career — managing, writing, directing, pro- 
 ducing. He fired the imagination of this stocky, gar- 
 goyle-faced boy with the luminous eyes and the humorous 
 mouth. I don't know that Sid Hahn, hanging about 
 the theatre in every kind of menial capacity, ever said 
 to himself in so many words: 
 
 "I'm going to be what he is. I'm going to concen- 
 trate on it. I won't let anything or anybody interfere 
 with it. Nobody knows what I'm going to be. But I 
 know . . . And you've got to be selfish. You've got to 
 be selfish." 
 
 Of course no one ever really made a speech like that 
 to himself, even in the Horatio Alger books. But if the 
 great ambition and determination running through the 
 whole fibre of his being could have been crystallized into 
 spoken words they would have sounded like that. 
 
 By the time he was forty-five he had discovered more 
 stars than Copernicus. They were not all first magnitude
 
 EDNA FERBER 173 
 
 twinklers. Some of them even glowed so feebly that you 
 could see their light only when he stood behind them, the 
 steady radiance of his genius shining through. But taken 
 as a whole they made a brilliant constellation, furnishing 
 much of the illumination for the brightest thoroughfare 
 in the world. 
 
 He had never married. There are those who say that 
 he had had an early love affair, but that he had sworn 
 not to marry until he had achieved what he called 
 success. And by that time it had been too late. It was 
 as though the hot flame of ambition had burned out 
 all his other passions. Later they say he was respon- 
 sible for more happy marriages contracted by people 
 who did not know that he was responsible for them, than 
 a popular East Side shadchen. He grew a little tired, 
 perhaps, of playing with make-believe stage characters, 
 and directing them, so he began to play with real ones, 
 like God. But always kind. 
 
 No woman can resist making love to a man as in- 
 different as Sid Hahn appeared to be. They all tried 
 their wiles on him; the red-haired ingenues, the blonde 
 soubrettes, the stately leading ladies, the war horses, the 
 old-timers, the ponies, the prima donnas. He used to sit 
 there in his great, luxurious, book-lined inner office, smil- 
 ing and inscrutable as a plump joss-house idol, while 
 the fair ones burnt incense and made offering of shew- 
 bread. Figuratively he kicked over the basket of shew- 
 bread and of the incense said, "Take away that stuff! 
 It smells!" 
 
 Not that he hated women. He was afraid of them, 
 at first. Then, from years of experience with the fem- 
 ininity of the theatre, not nearly afraid enough. So, 
 early, he had locked that corner of his mind, and had 
 thrown away the key. When, years after, he broke in 
 the door, lo! (as they say when an elaborate figure of 
 speech is being used) lo! the treasures therein had turned 
 to dust and ashes. 
 
 It was he who had brought over from Paris to the 
 American stage the famous Renee Paterne, of the incor-
 
 174 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 rigible eyes. She made a fortune and swept the country 
 with her song about those delinquent orbs. But when 
 she turned them on Hahn, in their first interview in his 
 office, he regarded her with what is known as a long 
 level look. She knew at that time not a word of English. 
 Sid Hahn was ignorant of French. He said, very low, 
 and with terrible calm to Wallie Ascher who was then 
 acting as a sort of secretary, "Wallie, can't you do some- 
 thing to make her stop rolling her eyes around at me like 
 that.^ It's awful! She makes me think of those heads 
 you shy balls at, out at Coney. Take away my inkwell." 
 
 Renee had turned swiftly to Wallie and had said some- 
 thing to him in French. Sid Hahn cocked a quick ear. 
 "What's that she said?" 
 
 "She says," translated the obliging and gifted Wallie, 
 "that monsieur is a woman-hater." 
 
 "My God! I thought she didn't understand English!" 
 
 "She doesn't. But she's a woman. Not only that, 
 she's a Frenchwoman. They don't need to know a lan- 
 guage to understand it." 
 
 "Where did you get that, h'm? That wasn't included 
 in your Berlitz course, was it.'"' 
 
 Wallie Ascher had grinned — that winning flash lighting 
 up his dark, keen face. "No, I learned that In another 
 school." 
 
 Wallie Ascher's early career in the theatre. If repeated 
 here, might almost be a tiresome repetition of Hahn's be- 
 ginning. And what Augustin Daly had been to Sid 
 Hahn's Imagination and ambition, Sid Flahn was to 
 Wallie's. Wallie, though, had been born to the theatre 
 ■ — if having a tumbler for a father and a prestidigitator's 
 foil for a mother can be said to be a legitimate entrance 
 into the world of the theatre. 
 
 He had been employed about the old Thalia for years 
 before Hahn noticed him. In the beginning he was a 
 spindle-legged office boy in the up-stairs suite of the firm 
 of Hahn & Lohman, theatrical producers, the kind of 
 office boy who is addicted to shrill clear whistling unless 
 very firmly dealt with. No one in the outer office 
 realized how faultless, how rhythmic were the arpeggios
 
 EDNA FERBER 175 
 
 and cadences that issued from those expertly puckered 
 lips. There was about his performance an unerring pre- 
 cision. As you listened you felt that his ascent to the 
 inevitable high note was a thing impossible of achieve- 
 ment. Up — up — up he would go, while you held your 
 breath in suspense. And then he took the high note — 
 took it easily, insouciantly — held it, trilled it, tossed it. 
 
 "Now look here," Miss Feldman would snap — Miss 
 Feldman of the outer office typewriter — "look here, you 
 kid. Any more of that bird warbling and you go back 
 to the woods where you belong. This ain't a — a — " 
 "Aviary," suggested Wallie, almost shyly. 
 Miss Feldman glared. "How did vou know that 
 word !" 
 
 "I don't know," helplessly. "But it's the word, isn't it?" 
 Miss Feldman turned back to her typewriter. "You're 
 too smart for your age, you are." 
 
 "I know it," Wallie had agreed, humbly. 
 There's no telling where or how he learned to play 
 the piano. He probably never did learn. He played it, 
 though, as he whistled — brilliantly. No doubt it was as 
 imitative and as unconscious, too, as his whistling h::d 
 been. They say he didn't know one note from another, 
 and doesn't to this day. 
 
 At twenty, when he should have been in love with at 
 least three girls, he had fixed in his mind an image, a 
 dream. And it bore no resemblance to twenty's accepted 
 dreams. At that time he was living in one room (rear) 
 of a shabby rooming house in Thirty-ninth Street. And 
 this was the dream: By the time he was — well, long 
 before he was thirty — he would have a bachelor apart- 
 ment with a Jap, Saki. Saki was the perfect servant, 
 noiseless, unobtrusive, expert. He saw little dinners just 
 for four — or, at the most, six. And Saki, white-coated, 
 deft, sliding hot plates when plates should be hot; cold 
 plates when plates should be cold. Then, other even- 
 ings, alone, when he wanted to see no one — when, in a 
 silken lounging robe (over faultless dinner clothes, of 
 course, and uearing the kind of collar you see in the back 
 of the magazines) he would say, "That will do, Saki."
 
 176 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 Then, all evening, he would play softly to himself those 
 little, intimate, wistful Schumanny things in the firelight 
 with just one lamp glowing softly — almost sombrely — at 
 the side of the piano (grand). 
 
 His first real meeting with Sid Hahn had had much to 
 do with the fixing of this image. Of course he had seen 
 Hahn hundreds of times in the office and about the 
 theatre. They had spoken, too, many times. Hahn 
 called him vaguely, "Heh, boy!" but he grew to know 
 him later as Wallie. From errand boy, office boy, call 
 boy, he had become, by that time, a sort of unofficial as- 
 sistant stage manager. No one acknowledged that he 
 was invaluable about the place, but he was. When a new 
 play was in rehearsal at the Thalia, Wallie knew more 
 about props, business, cues, lights, and lines than the direc- 
 tor himself. For a long time no one but Wallie and the di- 
 rector was aware of this. The director never did admit it. 
 But that Hahn should find it out was inevitable. 
 
 He was nineteen or thereabouts when he was sent, one 
 rainy November evening, to deliver a play manuscript to 
 Hahn at his apartment. Wallie might have refused to 
 perform an errand so menial, but his worship of Hahn 
 made him glad of any service, however humble. He but- 
 toned his coat over the manuscript, turned up his collar, 
 and plunged into the cold drizzle of the November 
 evening. 
 
 Hahn's apartment — he lived alone — was in the early 
 fifties, off Fifth Avenue. For two days he had been ill 
 with one of the heavy colds to which he was subject. He 
 was unable to leave the house. Hence Wallie's errand. 
 
 It was Saki — or Saki's equivalent — who opened the 
 door. A whi,te-jacketed, soft-stepping Jap, world old 
 looking like the room glimpsed just beyond. Some one 
 was playing the piano with one finger, horribly. 
 
 "You're to give this to Mr. Hahn. He's waiting for it." 
 
 "Genelmun come in," said the Jap, softly. 
 
 "No, he doesn't want to see me. Just give it to him, see.'"' 
 
 "Genelmun come in." Evidently orders. 
 
 "Oh, all right. But I know he doesn't want — " 
 
 Wallie turned down his collar with a quick fiip, looked
 
 EDNA FERBER i77 
 
 doubtfully at his shoes, and passed through the glowing 
 little foyer into the room beyond. He stood in the door- 
 way. He was scarcely twenty then, but something in him 
 sort of rose, and gathered, and seethed, and swelled, and 
 then hardened. He didn't know it then but it was his 
 great resolve. 
 
 Sid Hahn was seated at the piano, a squat, gnomelike 
 little figure, with those big ears, and that plump face, and 
 those soft eyes — the kindest eyes in the world. He did 
 not stop playing as Wallie appeared. He glanced up at 
 him, ever so'bricfly, but kindly, too, and went on playing 
 the thing with one short forefinger, excruciatingly. Wal- 
 lie waited. He had heard somewhere that Hahn would 
 sit at the piano thus, for hours, the tears running down 
 his cheeks because of the beauty of the music he could re- 
 member but not reproduce; ancl partly because of his own 
 inability to reproduce it. 
 
 The stubby little forefinger faltered, stopped. He 
 looked up at Wallie. 
 
 "God, I wish I could play!" 
 
 "Helps a lot." 
 
 "You playr" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Oh, most anything I have heard once. And some 
 things I kind of make up." 
 
 "Compose, you mean:" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Play one of those." 
 
 So Wallie Ascher played one of those. Of course you 
 know "Good Night — Pleasant Dreams." He hadn't 
 named it then. It wasn't even published until almost 
 two years later, but that was what he played for Sid Hahn. 
 Since "After the Ball," no popular song has achieved the 
 success of that one. No doubt It was cheap, and no 
 doubt It was sentimental, but so, too, are the "Suwanee 
 River" and "My Old Kentucky Home," and they'll be 
 singing those when more classical songs have long been for- 
 gotten. As Wallie played it his dark, thin face seemed 
 to gleam and glow in the lamplight.
 
 178 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 When he had finished playing Sid Hahn was silent for 
 a moment. Then, "What're you going to do with it?" 
 
 "With what?" 
 
 "With what you've got. You know." 
 
 Wallie knew that he did not mean the song he had 
 just played. "I'm going to — I'm going to do a lot 
 with it." 
 
 "Yeh, but how?" 
 
 Wallie was looking down at his two lean brown hands 
 on the keys. For a long minute he did not answer. 
 Then: "By thinking about it all the time. And work- 
 ing like hell. . . . And you've got to be selfish, . . . 
 You've got to be selfish...." 
 
 As Sid Hahn stared at him, as though hypnotized, the 
 Jap appeared in the doorway. So Hahn said, "Stay and 
 have dinner with me," instead of what he had meant to 
 say. 
 
 "Oh, I can't! Thanks. I — " He wanted to, terribly, 
 but the thought was too much. 
 
 "Better." 
 
 They had dinner together. Even under the influence 
 of Hahn's encouragement, and two glasses of mellow 
 wine whose name he did not know, Wallie did not be- 
 come fatuous. They talked about music — neither of them 
 knew anything about it, really. Wallie confessed that 
 he used it as an intoxicant and a stimulant. 
 
 "That's it!" cried Hahn, excitedly. "If I could play 
 I'd have done more." 
 
 "Why don't you get one of those piano-players? 
 Whatyoucallems — " then, immediately, "No, of course 
 
 not." 
 
 "Nah, that doesn't do it," said Hahn, quickly. "That's 
 like adopting a baby when you can't have one of your 
 own. It isn't the same. It isn't the same. It looks like a 
 baby, and acts like a baby, and sounds like a baby — but it 
 isn't yours. It isn't you. That's it! It isn't you!" 
 
 "Yeh," agreed Wallie, nodding. So perfectly did they 
 understand each other, this ill-assorted pair. 
 
 It was midnight before Wallie left. They had both 
 forgotten about the play manuscript whose delivery had
 
 EDNA FERBER 179 
 
 been considered so important. The big room was gra- 
 cious, quiet, soothing. A fire flickered in the '^^rate. One 
 lamp glowed softly — almost sombrely. 
 
 As Wallie rose at last to go he shook himself slightly 
 like one coming out of a trance. He looked about the 
 golden room. "Gee!" 
 
 "Yes, but it isn't worth it," said Hahn, "after you've 
 got it." 
 
 "That's what they all say," — grimly — "after they've 
 got it." 
 
 The thing that had been born in Sid Hahn's mind thirty 
 years before was now so plainly stamped on this boy's 
 face that Hahn was startled into earnestness. "But I 
 tell you, it's true! It's true!" 
 
 "Maybe. Some day, when I'm living in a place like 
 this, I'll let you know if you're right." 
 
 In less than a year Wallie Ascher was working with 
 Hahn. No one knev/ his oflicial title or place. But, "Ask 
 Wallie. He'll know," had become a sort of slogan in 
 the office. He did know. At twenty-one his knowledge 
 of the theatre was infallible (this does not include plays 
 unproduced. In this no one is infallible) and his feeling 
 for it amounted to a sixth sense. There was something un- 
 canny about the way he could talk about Lotta, for exam- 
 ple, as if he had seen her; or Mrs. Siddons; or Mrs. Fiske, 
 when she was Minnie Maddern, the soubrette. It was as 
 though he had the power to cast himself back in the past. 
 No doubt it was that pov/cr which gave later to his group 
 of historical plays (written by him between the ages of 
 thirty and thirty-five) their convincingness and authority. 
 
 When W^allie was about twenty-three or four years old 
 Sid Hahn took him abroad with him on one of his annual 
 scouting trips. Yearly, in the spring, Hahn swooped 
 down upon London, Paris, Berlin, seeking that of the 
 foreign stage which might be translated, fumigated, des- 
 iccated or otherwise rendered suitable for home use. 
 He sent W^allie on to Vienna, alone, on the trail of a mus- 
 ical comedy which was rumored to be a second Merry 
 Widotu in tunefulness, chic and charm. Of course it 
 wasn't. Merry Widozus rarely repeat themselves. Wallie
 
 i8o YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 wired back to Hahn, as arranged. The telegram is un- 
 important, perhaps, but characteristic. 
 
 Mr. Sid Hahn, 
 Hotel Savoy, 
 London, 
 
 England. 
 
 It's a second all right but not a second Merry 
 Widow. Heard of a winner in Budapest shall I go. 
 Spent to-day from eleven to five running around 
 the Ringstrasse looking for mythical creature known 
 as the chic Viennese. After careful investigation 
 wish to be quoted as saying the species if any is extinct. 
 
 This, remember, was in the year 1913, B. W. VVal- 
 lie, obeying instructions, went to Budapest, witnessed the 
 alleged winner, found it as advertised, wired Hahn and was 
 joined by that gentleman three days later. 
 
 Budapest, at that time, was still Little Paris, only wick- 
 eder. A city of magnificent buildings, and unsalted 
 caviar, and beautiful dangerous women, and frumpy men 
 (civilian) and dashing officers in red pants, and Cigany 
 music, and cafes, and paprika, and two-horse droshkies. 
 Buda, low and flat, lay on one side; Pest, high and hilly, 
 perched picturesquely on the other. Between the two 
 rolled the Blue Danube (which is yellow). 
 
 It was there that Hahn and Wallie found Mizzi Mar- 
 kis. Wallie found her, really. Mizzi Markis, then a 
 girl of nineteen, was a hod-carrier. 
 
 As Hahn stepped from the train, geometrically square 
 in a long ulster that touched his ears and his heels, Wallie 
 met him with a bound. 
 
 "Hello, S. H. ! Great to see you ! Say, listen, I've 
 found something. I've found something big!" 
 
 Hahn had never seen the boy so excited. "Oh, 
 shucks ! No play's as good as that." 
 
 "Play! It isn't a play." 
 
 "Why, you young idiot, you said it was good! You said 
 it was darn good ! You don't mean to tell me — " 
 
 "Oh, that! That's all right. It's good — or will be 
 when you get through with it."
 
 EDNA FERBER i8i 
 
 "What you talking about then? Here, let's take one 
 of these things with two horses. Gee, you ought to 
 smoke a fat black seegar and wear a silk hat when you, 
 ride in one of these ! I feel like a parade." He was like a 
 boy on a holiday. 
 
 "But let me tell you about this girl, won't you!" 
 
 "Oh, it's a girl! What's her name? What's she do?" 
 
 "Her name's Mizzi." 
 
 "Mizzi what?" 
 
 "I don't know. She's a hod-carrier. She — " 
 
 "That's all right, Wallie. I'm here now. An ice bag 
 on your head and real quiet for two or three days. You'll 
 come around fine." 
 
 But Wallie was almost sulking. "Wait till you see her, 
 S. H. She sings." 
 
 "Beautiful, is she?" 
 
 "No, not particularly. No." 
 
 "Wonderful voice, h'm?" 
 
 "N-n-no. I wouldn't say it was what you'd call exactly 
 wonderful." 
 
 Sid Hahn stood up in the droshky and waved his short 
 arms in windmill circles. "Well, what the devil does she 
 do then, that's so good! Carry bricks?" 
 
 "She is good at that. When she balances that pail of 
 mortar on her head and walks off with it, her arms hang- 
 ing straight at her sides — " 
 
 But Sid Hahn's patience was at an end. "You're a 
 humorist, )'ou are. If I didn't know you I'd say you were 
 drunk. FU bet you are, anyway. You've been eating 
 paprika, raw. You make me sick." 
 
 Inelegant, but expressive of his feelings. But Wallie 
 only said, "You wait. You'll see." 
 
 Sid Hahn did see. Fie saw next day. Wallie woke him 
 out of a sound sleep so that he might sec. It was ten- 
 thirty a. m. so that his peevishness was unwarranted. 
 They had seen the play the night before and Hahn had 
 decided that translated and with interpolations (it was a 
 comic opera) it would captivate New York. Then and 
 there he completed the negotiations which Wallie had 
 begun. Hahn was all for taking the first train out, but
 
 i82 . YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 Wallie was firm. "You've got to see her, I tell you. 
 You've got to see her." 
 
 Their hotel faced the Corso. The Corso is a wide 
 promenade that runs along the Buda bank of the Dan- 
 ube. Across the river, on the hill, the royal palace looks 
 down upon the little common people. In the day the 
 monde and the demi-monde of Budapest walked on the 
 Corso between twelve and one. Up and down. Up and 
 down. The women, tall, dark, flashing-eyed, daringly 
 dressed. The men sallow, meager, and wearing those 
 trousers which, cut very wide and flappy at the ankles, 
 make them the dowdiest men in the world. Hahn's room 
 and Wallie's were on the second floor of the hotel, and at 
 a corner. One set of windows faced the Corso, the river, 
 and Pest on the hill. The other set looked down upon a 
 new building being erected across the way. It was on 
 this building that Mizzi Markis worked as hod-carrier. 
 
 The War accustomed us to a million women in overalls 
 doing the work of a million men. We saw them ploughing, 
 juggling steel bars, making shells, running engines, stok- 
 ing furnaces, handling freight. But to these two American 
 men, at that time, the thing at which these laboring 
 women were employed was dreadful and incredible. 
 
 Said Wallie: "By the time v.'e've dressed, and had 
 breakfast, and walked a little and everything it'll be 
 almost noon. And noon's the time. After they've eaten 
 their lunch. But I want you to see her before." 
 
 By now his earnestness had impressed Hahn who still 
 feigned an indifference he did not feel. It was about 11 :30 
 when Wallie propelled him by the arm to the unfinished 
 building across the way. And there he met Mizzi. 
 
 They were just completing the foundation. The place 
 was a busy hive. Back and forth with pails. Back and 
 forth with loads of bricks. 
 
 "What's the matter with the men?" was Hahn's first 
 question. 
 
 Wallie explained. "They do the dainty work. They 
 put one brick on top of the other, with a dab of mortar 
 between. But none of the back-breaking stuff" for them. 
 The women do that."
 
 EDNA FERBER 183 
 
 And it was so. They were down in the pits mixing the 
 mortar, were the women. They were carrying great pails 
 of it. They were hauling bricks, up one ladder and down. 
 They wore short full skirts with a musical comedy chorus 
 effect. Some of them looked seventy and some seventeen. 
 It was fearful work for a woman. A keen wind was blow- 
 ing across the river. Their hands Vv'ere purple. 
 
 "Pick Mizzi," said Wallie. "If you can pick her I'll 
 know I'm right. But I know it, anyway." 
 
 Five minutes passed. The two men stood silent. "The 
 one with the walk and the face," said Hahn, then. Which 
 wasn't very bright of him, because they all walked and 
 they all had faces. "Going up the pit-ladder now. With 
 the pail on her head." Wallie gave a little laugh of 
 triumph. But then, Hahn wouldn't have been Hahn had 
 he not been able to pick a personality when he saw it. 
 
 Years afterward the reviewers always talked of Mizzi's 
 walk. They called it her superb carriage. They didn't 
 know that you have to walk very straight, on the balls of 
 your feet, with your hips firm, your stomach held in fiat, 
 your shoulders back, your chest out, your chin out and a 
 little down, if you are going to be at all successful in bal- 
 ancing a pail of mortar on your head. After a while that 
 walk becomes a habit. 
 
 "Watch her with that pail," said Wallie. 
 
 Mizzi filled the pail almost to the top with the heavy 
 white mixture. She filled it quickly, expertly. The pail, 
 filled, weighed between seventeen and twenty kilos. One 
 kilo is equal to about two and one-fifth pounds. The girl 
 threw down her scoop, stooped, grasped the pail by its two 
 handles and with one superb unbroken motion raised the 
 pail high in her two strong arms and placed it on her head. 
 Then she breathed deeply, once, set her whole figure, 
 turned stiffly, and was off with it. Sid Hahn took a long 
 breath as though he himself had just accomplished the 
 gymnastic feat. 
 
 "Well, so far it's pretty good. But I don't know that 
 the American stage is clamoring for any hod-carriers and 
 mortar mixers, exactly." 
 
 A whistle blew. Twelve o'clock. Bricks, mortar.
 
 i84 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 scoops, shovels were abandoned. The women in their 
 great clod-hopping shoes flew chattering to the tiny hut 
 where their lunch boxes were stored. The men followed 
 more slowly, a mere handful of them. Not one of them 
 wore overalls or apron. Out again with their bundles and 
 boxes of food — very small bundles. Very tiny boxes. 
 They ate ravenously the bread and sausage and drank 
 their beer in great gulps. Fifteen minutes after the whistle 
 had blown the last crumb had vanished. 
 
 "Now, then," said Wallie. And guided Hahn nearer. 
 He looked toward Mizzi. Everyone looked toward her. 
 Mizzi stood up, brushing crumbs from her lap. She had 
 a little four-cornered black shawl, folded cross-wise, over 
 her head and tied under her chin. Her face was round 
 and her cheeks red. The shawl, framing this, made her 
 look young and cherubic. 
 
 She did not put her hands on her hips, or do any of 
 those story-book things. She grinned, broadly, showing 
 strong white teeth, made strong and white through much 
 munching of coarse black bread; not yet showing the 
 neglect common to her class. She asked a question in a 
 loud clear voice. 
 
 "What's that?" asked Hahn. 
 
 "She's talking a kind of hunky Hungarian, I guess. 
 The people here won't speak German, did you know that? 
 They hate it." 
 
 The crowd shouted back with one voice. They settled 
 themselves comfortably, sitting or standing. Their faces 
 held the broad smile of anticipation. 
 
 "She asked them what they want her to sing. They 
 told her. It's the same every day." 
 
 Mizzi Markis stood there before them in the mud, 
 and clay, and straw of the building debris. And she sang 
 for them a Hungarian popular song of the day which, 
 translated, sounds idiotic and which runs something 
 like this: 
 
 "A hundred geese in a row 
 At the head of the procession 
 Going into a coop 
 A stick over his shoulder — "
 
 EDNA FERBER 185 
 
 No, you can't do it. It means less than nothing that 
 way, and certainly would not warrant the shrieks of mirth 
 that came from the audience gathered round the girl. 
 Still, when you recall the words of "A Hot Time": 
 
 "When you hear them bells go ting-ling-ling, 
 All join round and sweetly you must sing 
 And when the words am through in the chorus all join in 
 There'll be a hot time 
 In the old tozvn 
 Tonight 
 My 
 Ba- 
 By." 
 
 And yet it swept a continent, and Europe, and in Japan 
 they still think it's our national anthem. 
 
 When she had finished the crowd gave a roar of de- 
 light, and clapped their hands, and stamped their feet, 
 and shouted. She had no unusual beauty. Her voice 
 was untrained, though possessed of strength and flexibility. 
 It wasn't what she had sung, surely. You heard the 
 song in a hundred cafes. Every street boy whistled it. 
 It wasn't that expressive pair of shoulders, exactly. 
 It wasn't a certain soothing tonal quality that made you 
 forget all the things you'd been trying not to remember. 
 
 There is something so futile and unconvincing about an 
 attempted description of an intangible thing. Some call 
 it personality; some call it magnetism; some a rhythm 
 sense; and some, genius. It's all these things, and none 
 of them. Whatever it is, she had it. And whatever it is, 
 Sid Hahn has never failed to recognize it. 
 
 So now he said, quietly, "She's got it." 
 
 "You bet she's got it!" from Wallie. 
 
 "She's got more than Renee Paterne ever had, A year 
 of training and some clothes — " 
 
 "You don't need to tell me. I'm in the theatrical busi- 
 ness, myself." 
 
 "I'm sorry," stiffly. 
 
 But Hahn, too, was sorry immediately. "You know 
 how I am, Wallie. I like to run a thing oflf by myself. 
 What do you know about her? Find out anything?"
 
 i86 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 "Well, a little. She doesn't seem to have any people. 
 And she's decent. Kind of a fierce kid, I guess, and fights 
 when offended. They say she's Polish, not Hungarian. 
 Her mother was a peasant. Her father — nobody knows, 
 I had a dickens of a time finding out anything. The most 
 terrible language in the world — Hungarian. They'll 
 stick a 'b' next to a 'k' and follow it up with a 'z' and put 
 an accent mark over the whole business and call it a word. 
 Last night I followed her home. And guess what!" 
 
 "What.^" said Hahn, obligingly. 
 
 "On her way she had to cross the big square — the one 
 they call Gisela Ter, with all the shops around it. Well, 
 when she came to Gerbeaud's — " 
 
 "What's Gerbeaud's?" 
 
 "That's the famous tea room and pastry shop where all 
 the swells go and guzzle tea with rum in it and eat cakes 
 — and say! It isn't like our pastry that tastes like saw- 
 dust covered with shaving soap. Alarvelous stuff, this is !" 
 
 After all, he was barely twenty-four. So Hahn said, 
 good-naturedly, "All right, all right. We'll go there this 
 afternoon and eat an acre of it. Go on. When she came 
 to Gerbeaud's — " 
 
 "Well, when she came to Gerbeaud's she stopped and 
 stood there, outside. There was a strip of red carpet from 
 the door to the street. You know — the kind they have at 
 home when there's a wedding on Fifth Avenue. There 
 she stood at the edge of the carpet, waiting, her face, 
 framed in that funny little black shawl, turned toward 
 the window, and the tail of the little shawl kind of wag- 
 gling in the wind. It was cold and nippy. I waited, too. 
 Finally I sort of strolled over to her — I knew she couldn't 
 any more than knock me down — and said, kind of casual, 
 'What's doing?' She looked up at me, like a kid, in that 
 funny shawl. She knew I was an Englees' right away. 
 I guess I must have a fine open countenance. And I had 
 motioned toward the red carpet, and the crowded windows. 
 Anyway, she opens up with a regular burst of fireworks 
 Hungarian, in that deep voice of hers. Not only that, 
 she acted it out. In two seconds she had on an imagi- 
 nary coronet and a court train. And haughty! Gosh!
 
 EDNA FERBER 187 
 
 I was sort of stumped, but I said, 'You don't say!' and 
 waited some more. And then they flung open the door 
 of the tea shop thing. At the same moment up dashed 
 an equipage— you couldn't possibly call it anything less 
 —with flunkeys all over the outside, like trained monkeys. 
 The people inside the shop stood up, with their mouths 
 full of cake, and out came an old frump with a terrible 
 hat and a fringe. And it was the Arch-Duchess, and her 
 name is Josefa." 
 
 "Your story interests me strangely, boy," Hahn said, 
 grinning, "but I don't quite make you. Do Arch-Duch- 
 esses go to tea rooms for tea? And what's that got to do 
 with our gifted little hod-carrier?" 
 
 "This Duchess does. Believe me, those tarts are good 
 enough for the Queen of Hearts, let alone a duchess, no 
 matter how arch. But the plot of the piece is this. The 
 duchess person goes to Gerbeaud's about twice a week. 
 And they always 'spread a red carpet for her. And Mizzi 
 always manages to cut away in time to stand there in 
 front of Gerbeaud's and see her come out. She's a gor- 
 geous mimic, that little kid. And though I couldn't under- 
 stand a word she said I managed to get out of it just this: 
 That some day they're going to spread a red carpet for 
 Mizzi and she's going to walk down it in glory. If you'd 
 seen her face when she said it, S. H., you wouldn't laugh." 
 
 "I wouldn't laugh anyway," said Hahn, seriously. 
 
 And that's the true story of Mizzi Markis's beginning. 
 Few people know it. 
 
 There they were, the three of them. And of the three, 
 Mizzi's ambition seemed to be the fiercest, the most implac- 
 able. She worked like a horse, cramming English, 
 French, singing. In some things she was like a woman 
 of thirty; in others a child of ten. Her gratitude to Hahn 
 was pathetic. No one ever doubted that he was in love 
 with her almost from the first — he who had resisted the 
 professional beauties of three decades. 
 
 You know she wasn't — and isn't — a beauty, even in 
 that portrait of her by Sargent, with her two black-haired, 
 stunning-looking boys, one on each side. But she was 
 one of those gorgeously healthy women whose very pres-
 
 i88 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 ence energizes those with whom she comes in contact. 
 And then there was about her a certain bounteousness. 
 There's no other word for it, really. She reminded you 
 of those gracious figures you see posed for pictures 
 entitled "Autumn Harvest." 
 
 While she was studying she had a little apartment with 
 a middle-aged woman to look after her, and she must 
 have been a handful. A born cook, she was, and Hahn 
 and Wallie used to go there to dinner whenever she would 
 let them. She cooked it herself. Hahn would give up 
 any engagement for a dinner at Mizzi's. When he entered 
 her little sitting-room his cares seemed to drop from him. 
 She never got over cutting bread as the peasant women 
 do it — the loaf held firmly against her breast, the knife 
 cutting toward her. Hahn used to watch her and laugh. 
 Sometimes she would put on the little black head-shawl 
 of her Budapest days and sing the street-song about the 
 hundred geese in a row. A delightful, impudent figure. 
 
 With the very first English she learned she told Hahn 
 and Wallie that some day they were going to spread a fine 
 red carpet for her to tread upon and that all the world 
 would gaze on her with envy. It was in her mind a 
 symbol typifying all that there was of earthly glory. 
 
 "It'll be a long time before they do any red carpeting 
 for you, my girl," Sid Hahn had said. 
 
 She turned on him fiercely. "I will not rest — I will 
 not eat — I will not sleep — I will not love — until I have it." 
 
 Which was, of course, an exaggerated absurdity. 
 
 "Oh, what rot!" Wallie Asch'er had said, angrily. 
 And then he had thought of his own symbol of success, 
 and his own resolve. And his face had hardened. Sid 
 Hahn looked at the two of them; very young, both of 
 them, very gifted, very electric. Very much in love with 
 each other, though neither would admit it even in their 
 own minds. Both their stern young faces set toward 
 the goal which they thought meant happiness. 
 
 Now, Sid Hahn had never dabbled in this new stuff 
 — you know — complexes and fixed ideas and images. 
 But he was a very wise man, and he did know to what 
 an extent these two v^^ere possessed by ambition for that 
 which they considered desirable.
 
 EDNA FERBER 189 
 
 He must have thought It over for weeks. He was i" 
 love with Mizzi, remember. And his fondness for Walhe 
 was a thing almost paternal. He watched these two for 
 a long, long time, a queer grim little smile on his gargoyle 
 face. And then his mind was made up. He had always 
 had his own way. He must have had a certain terrible 
 enjoyment in depriving himself of the one thing he 
 wanted most in the world — the one thing he wanted more 
 than he had ever wanted anything. 
 
 He decided that Destiny— a ponderous, slow-moving 
 creature at best — needed a little prodding from him. 
 His plans were simple, as all effective plans are. 
 
 Mizzi had been in America just a year and a half. Her 
 development was amazing, but she was far from being 
 the finished product that she became in later years. Hahn 
 decided to chance it. Mizzi had no fear of audiences. 
 He had tried her out on that. An audience stimulated 
 her. She took it to her breast. She romped with it. 
 
 He found a play at last. A comedy, with music. 
 It was frankly built for Mizzi. He called Wallie Ascher 
 into his office. 
 
 "I wouldn't try her out here for a million. New York's 
 too fly. Some little thmg might be wrong — you know 
 how they are. And all the rest would go for nothing. 
 The kindest audience in the world — when they like you. 
 And the crudest in the world when they don't. We'll go 
 on the road for two weeks. Then we'll open at the 
 Blackstone in Chicago. I think this girl has got more 
 real genius than any woman since — since Bernhardt in 
 her prime. Five years from now she won't be singing. 
 She'll be acting. And it'll be acting." 
 
 "Aren't you forcing things just a little?" asked Wallie, 
 coolly. 
 
 "Oh, no. No. Anyway, it's just a try-out. By the 
 way, Wallie, Fll probably be gone almost a month. If 
 things go pretty well in Chicago I'll run over to French 
 Lick for eight or ten days and see if I can't get a 
 little of this stiffness out of my old bones. Will you do 
 something for me?" 
 
 "Sure."
 
 190 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 "Pack a few clothes, and go up to my place and live 
 there, will you? The Jap stays on, anyway. The last 
 time I left it alone things went wrong. You'll be doing 
 me a favor. Take it and play the piano, and have your 
 friends in, and boss the Jap around. He's stuck on 
 you, anyway. Says he likes to hear you play." 
 
 He stayed away six weeks. And any one who knows 
 him knows what hardship that was. He loved New York, 
 and his own place, and his comfort, and his books; and 
 hotel food gave him hideous indigestion. 
 
 Mizzi's first appearance was a moderate success. It 
 was nothing like the sensation of her later efforts. She 
 wasn't ready, and Hahn knew it. Mizzi and her middle- 
 aged woman companion were installed at the Blackstone 
 Hotel, which Is just next door to the Blackstone Theatre, 
 as any one is aware who knows Chicago. She was adver- 
 tised as the Polish comedienne Mizzi Markis, and the 
 announcements hinted at her royal though remote ances- 
 try. And on the night the play opened, as Mizzi stepped 
 from the entrance of her hotel on her way to the stage 
 door just forty or fifty feet away, there she saw stretched 
 on the pavement a scarlet path of soft-grained carpet for 
 her feet to tread. From the steps of the hotel to the 
 stage door of the theatre, there it lay, a rosy line of 
 splendor. 
 
 The newspaper played It up as a publicity stunt. Every 
 night, while the play lasted, the carpet was there. It was 
 rolled up when the stage door closed upon her. It was 
 unrolled and spread again when she came out after the 
 performance. Hahn never forgot her face when she first 
 saw it and realized its significance. The look was there 
 on the second night, and on the third, but after that it 
 faded, vanished, and never came again. Mizzi had tasted 
 of the golden fruit and found it dry and profitless, without 
 nourishment or sweetness. 
 
 The show closed in the midst of a moderate success. 
 It closed abruptly, without warning. Together they came 
 back to New York. Just outside New York Hahn 
 knocked at the door of Mizzi's drawing room and stuck 
 his round ugly face in at the opening.
 
 EDNA FERBER 191 
 
 "Let's surprise Wallie," he said. 
 
 "Yes," said Mizzi, listlessly. 
 
 "He doesn't know the show's closed. We'll take a 
 chance on his being home for dinner. Unless you're too 
 tired." 
 
 "I'm not tired." 
 
 The Jap admitted them, and Hahn cut off his staccato 
 exclamations with a quick and smothering hand. They 
 tiptoed into the big, gracious, lamp-lighted room. 
 
 Wallie was seated at the piano. He had on a silk 
 dressing-gown with a purple cord. One of those dressing- 
 gowns you see in the haberdashers' windows, and wonder 
 who buys them. He looked very tall in it, and rather 
 distinguished and a little Favershammy, but not quite 
 happy. He was playing as they came In. They said, 
 "Boo!" or something idiotic like that. He stood up. 
 And his face! 
 
 "Why, hello!" he said, and came forward, swiftly, 
 "Hello! Hello!" 
 
 "Hello!" Hahn answered. "Not to say hello-hello." 
 Wallie looked at the girl. "Hello, Mizzi." 
 
 "Hello," said Mizzi. 
 
 "For God's sake, stop saying hello!" roared Hahn. 
 
 They both looked at him absently, and then at each 
 other again. 
 
 Hahn flung his coat and hat at the Jap and rubbed his 
 palms briskly together. 
 
 "Well, how did you like it?" he said, and slapped 
 Wallie on the back. "How'd you like it — the place I 
 mean, and the Jap boy and all? H'm?" 
 
 "Very much," Wallie answered, formally. "Very nice." 
 
 "You'll be having one of your own some day soon. 
 That's sure." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Wallie, indifferently. 
 
 "I would like to go home," said Mizzi, suddenly, in her 
 precise English. 
 
 At that Wallie leaped out of his lounging coat. "I'll 
 take you! I'll — I'll be glad to take you." 
 
 Hahn smiled a little, ruefully. "We were going to have 
 dinner here, the three of us. But if you're tired, Mizzi,
 
 192 YOU'VE GOT TO BE SELFISH 
 
 I'm not so chipper myself, when it comes to that." He 
 looked about the room, gratefully. "It's good to be 
 home." 
 
 Wallie, hat in hand, was waiting in the doorway. 
 Mizzi, turning to go, suddenly felt two hands on her 
 shoulders. She was whirled around. Hahn — he had to 
 stand on tiptoe to do it — kissed her once on the mouth, 
 hard. Then he gave her a little shove toward the door. 
 "Tell Wallie about the red carpet," he said. 
 
 "I will not," Mizzi replied, very distinctly. "I hate red 
 carpets." 
 
 Then they were gone. Hahn hardly seemed to notice 
 that they had left. There were, I suppose, the proper 
 number of good-byes, and see you to-morrows, and 
 thank-yous. 
 
 Sid Hahn stood there a moment in the middle of the 
 room, very small, very squat, rather gnomelike, but not 
 at all funny. He went over to the piano and seated him- 
 self, his shoulders hunched, his short legs clearing the 
 floor. With the forefinger of his right hand he began 
 to pick out a little tune. Not a sad little tune. A Hun- 
 garian street song. He did it atrociously. The stubby 
 forefinger came down painstakingly on the white keys. 
 Suddenly the little Jap servant stood in the doorway. 
 Hahn looked up. His cheeks were wet with tears. 
 
 "God! I wish I could play!" he said.
 
 Metropolitan Magazine 
 
 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 BY 
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON
 
 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" ' 
 By BOOTH TARKINGTON 
 
 MR. AND AIRS. BAXTER, having walked a hot half 
 mile from church, drooped thankfully into wicker 
 chairs upon their front porch, though their ten-year-old 
 daughter, Jane, who had accompanied them, immediately 
 darted away, swinging her hat by its ribbon and skipping 
 as lithesomely as if she had just come forth upon a cool 
 morning. 
 
 'T don't know how she does it!" her father moaned, 
 glancing after her and drying his forehead temporarily 
 upon a handkerchief. "That would merely kill me dead, 
 after walking in this heat." 
 
 Then, for a time, the two were content to sit In silence, 
 nodding to occasional acquaintances who passed in the 
 desultory after-church procession. Mr. Baxter fanned 
 himself with sporadic little bursts of energy which made 
 his straw hat creak, and Mrs. Baxter sighed with the heat, 
 and gently rocked her chair. 
 
 But, as a group of five young people passed along the 
 other side of the street, Mr. Baxter abruptly stopped 
 fanning himself, and, following the direction of his gaze, 
 Mrs. Baxter ceased to rock. In half-completed attitudes 
 they leaned slightly forward, sharing one of those pauses 
 of parents who unexpectedly behold their offspring. 
 
 The oITspring, In this case, was their son, William. 
 
 "M}- soul!" said William's father. "Hasn't that girl 
 gone home yd?" 
 
 "He looks pale to me," Mrs. Baxter murmured absently. 
 "I don't think he seems at all well, latclv." 
 
 During the seventeen years since the arrival of William, 
 their first born, Mr. Baxter had gradually learned not to 
 
 * Copyright by Metropolian Magazine
 
 196 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 protest anxieties of this kind, unless he desired to argue 
 with no prospect of ever getting a decision. 
 
 "Hasn't she got any home?" he demanded testily. 
 "Isn't she ever going to quit visiting the Parchers and 
 let people have a little peace?" 
 
 Mrs. Baxter disregarded this outburst as he had dis- 
 regarded her remark about William's pallor, "You mean 
 Miss Pratt?" she inquired dreamily, her eyes following 
 the progress of her son. "No, he really doesn't look 
 well at all." 
 
 "Is she going to visit the Parchers all summer?" Mr. 
 Baxter insisted. 
 
 "She already has, almost," said Mrs. Baxter. 
 
 "Look at that boy!" the father grumbled. "Mooning 
 along with those other moon-calves — can't even let her go 
 to church alone! I wonder how many weeks of time, 
 counting it out in hours, he's wasted that way this sum- 
 mer?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know! You see, he never goes there in 
 the evening now." 
 
 "What of that? He's there all day, isn't he? What 
 do they find to talk about? That's the mystery to me! 
 Day after day, hours after hours — My soul! What 
 do they say?" 
 
 Mrs. Baxter laughed indulgently. "People are always 
 wondering that about the other ages. Poor Willie! I 
 think that a great deal of the time their conversation 
 would be probably about as general as it is now. You 
 see Willie and Joe Bullitt are walking one on each side 
 of Miss Pratt, and Johnnie Watson has to walk behind 
 with May Parcher. Joe and Johnnie are there about 
 as much as Willie is, and of course it's often his turn 
 to be nice to May Parcher. He hasn't many chrnces to 
 be tete-a-tete with Miss Pratt." 
 
 "Well, she ought to go home. I want that boy to get 
 back into his senses. He's awful !" 
 
 "I think she is going soon," said Mrs. Baxter. "The 
 Parchers are to have a dance for her Friday night, and 
 I understand there's a floor to be laid in the yard and 
 great things. It's a farewell party."
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 197 
 
 "That's one mercy, anyhow!" 
 
 "And if you wonder what they say," she resumed, 
 '•why, probably they're all talking about the party. And 
 when Willie is alone with her — well, what does anybody 
 say?" Mrs. Baxter interrupted herself to laugh. "Jane, 
 for instance — she's always fascinated by that darkey, 
 Genesis, when he's at work here in the yard, and they 
 have long, long talks; I've seen them from the window. 
 What on earth do you suppose they talk about? That's 
 where Jane is now. She knew I told Genesis I'd give 
 him something if he'd come and freeze the ice-cream for 
 us to-day, and when we got here she heard the freezer 
 and hopped right around there. If you went out to the 
 back porch you'd find them talking steadily — but what 
 on earth about I couldn't guess to save my life!" 
 
 And yet nothing could have been simpler: as a mat- 
 ter of fact, Jane and Genesis were talking about society. 
 That is to say, their discourse was not sociologic; 
 rather it was of the frivolous and elegant. Watteau pre- 
 vailed with them over John Stuart Mill — in a word, they 
 spoke of the beau mondc. 
 
 Genesis turned the handle of the freezer with his left 
 hand, allowing his right the freedom of gesture which 
 was an intermittent necessity when he talked. In the 
 matter of dress. Genesis had always been among the most 
 informal of his race, but to-day there was a change almost 
 unnerving to the Caucasian eye. He wore a balloonish 
 suit of purple^ strangely scalloped at pocket and cuff, 
 and more strangely decorated with lines of small para- 
 site buttons, in color blue, obviously buttons of leisure. 
 His bulbous new shoes flashed back yellow fire at the em- 
 barrassed sun, and his collar (for he had gone so far) sent 
 forth other sparkles, playing upon a polished surface over 
 an inner graining of soot. Beneath it hung a simple, 
 white, soiled evening tie, draped in a manner unintended 
 by its manufacturer, and heavily overburdened by a green 
 glass medallion of the Emperor Tiberius, set in brass. 
 
 "Yes'm," said Genesis. "Now I'm in 'at Swim — flvin' 
 roun' ev'y even' wif all lem blue-vein people — I say, 
 *Mus' go buy me some blue-vein clo'es! Ef I'm go'n
 
 198 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 a start, might's well start high!' So firs', I buy me 
 thishere gol' necktie pin wi' thishere lady's face carved 
 out o' green di'mon, sittin' in the middle all 'at gol'. 'Nen 
 I buy me pair Royal King shoes. I got a frien' o' mine, 
 thishere Blooie Bowers; he say Royal King shoes same 
 kineo' shoes he wear, an' I walk straight in 'at sto' where 
 they keep 'em at. 'Don' was'e my time showin' me no 
 ole-time shoes,' I say. 'Run out some them big, yella, 
 lump-toed Royal Kings befo' my eyes, an' firs' pair fit 
 me I pay price, an' wear em' right off on me !' 'Nen I 
 got me thishere suit o' clo'es — oh, oh! Sign on 'em in 
 window: 'Ef you wish to be bes'-dress' man in town take 
 me home fer six dolluhs ninety-sevum cents.' "At's kine o' 
 suit Genesis need,' I say. 'Ef Genesis go'n a start dressin' 
 high, might's well start top!'" 
 
 Jane nodded gravely, comprehending the reasonableness 
 of this view. "What made you decide to start, Genesis?" 
 she asked earnestly. "I mean, how did it happen you 
 began to get this way?" 
 
 "Well, suh, 't all come 'bout right like kine o' slidin' 
 Into it 'stid o' hoppin' an' jumpin'. I'z spen' the even' 
 at 'at lady's house, Fanny, what cook nex' do', las' year. 
 Well, suh, 'at lady Fanny, she quit privut cookin', she 
 kaytliss — " 
 
 "She's what?" Jane asked. "What's that mean, Genesis 
 — kaytliss?" 
 
 "She kaytuhs," he exclaimed. "Ef It's a man you call 
 him kaytuh; ef it's a lady she's a kaytliss. She does kay- 
 tun fer all lem blue-vein fam'lies In town. She make re- 
 feshmuns, bring waituhs — 'at's kaytun. You maw give 
 big dinnuh, she have Fanny kaytuh, an' don't take no 
 trouble 'tall herself. Fanny take all 'at trouble." 
 
 "I see," said Jane. "But I don't see how her bein' a 
 kaytliss started you to dressin' so high. Genesis." 
 
 "Thishere way, Fanny say, 'Look here, Genesis, I got 
 big job t'morra night an' Fm man short, 'count o' havin* 
 to have a 'nouncer.' " 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "Fanny talk jes' that way. Goin' be big dinnuh 
 potty, an' thishere blue-vein fam'ly tell Fanny they want
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 199 
 
 whole lot of extry sploogin'; tell her put fine lookin 
 cullud man stan' by drawin'-room do' — ask ev'ybody 
 name an' holler out whatever name they say, jes' as 
 they walk in. Thishere fam'ly say they goin' show 
 what's what, 'nis town, an' they boun' Fanny go git 'em 
 a 'nouncer. 'Well, what's mattuh you doin' 'at 'noun- 
 cin'r' Fanny say. 'Who — me:' I tell her. 'Yes, you 
 kin too!' she say, an' she say len' me 'at waituh 
 suit yoosta b'long ole Henry Gimlet what die' when he 
 owin' Fanny sixteen dolluhs — an' Fanny tuck an' keep 
 'at waituh suit. She use 'at suit on extry waituhs when 
 she got some on her hands w^hat ain' got no waituh 
 suit. 'You w'ear 'at suit,' Fanny say, 'an' you be good 
 'nouncer, 'cause you' a fine, big man, an' got a big gran' 
 voice; nen you learn befo' long be a waituh, Genesis, 'an 
 git dolluh an' half ev'y even' you waitin', 'sides all 'at 
 money you make cuttin' grass daytime.' Well, suh, 
 I'z Stan' up doin' 'at 'nouncin' ve'y nex' night. White 
 lady an' ge'lmun walk todes my do', I step up to 'em — I 
 step up to 'em thisaway." Here Genesis found it pleas- 
 ant to present the scene with some elaboration. He 
 dropped the handle of the freezer, rose, assumed a stately 
 but ingratiating expression and "stepped up" to the 
 imagined couple, using a pacing and rhythmic gait — 
 a conservative prance, which plainly indicated the 
 simultaneous operation of an orchestra. Then bending gra- 
 ciously, as though the persons addressed were of dwarfish 
 stature, " 'Scuse me," he said, "but kin I please be so 
 p'lite as to 'quiah you' name?" For a moment he listened 
 attentively, then nodded, and, returning with the same 
 aristocratic undulations to an imaginary doorway near 
 the freezer, "Alisto an' Alissuz Orlosko Rlnktuml" he 
 proclaimed sonorously. 
 
 "Who?" cried Jane, fascinated. "Genesis, 'nounce that 
 again, right away!" 
 
 Genesis heartily complied. 
 
 "Misto an' Missuz Orlosko Rinktum!" he bawled. 
 
 "Was that really their names?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 "Well, I kine o' fergit," Genesis admitted, resuming 
 his work with the freezer. "Seem like I rickalect some-
 
 200 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 body got name good deal like what I say, 'cause some 
 mighty blue-vein names at "at dinnuh-potty, yes-suh! 
 But I on'y git to be 'nouncer one time, 'cause Fanny 
 tellin' me nex' fam'ly have dinnuh-potty make heap o' 
 fun. Say I done my 'nouncin' good as kin be, but say 
 what's use hoUer'n names jes' fer some the neighbors or 
 they own aunts an' uncles to walk in, when ev'rybody 
 awready knows 'em? So Fanny pummote me to waituh, 
 an' I roun' right in amongs' big doin's mos' ev'y night. 
 Pass ice-cream, lemonade, lemon-ice, cake, sammitches. 
 'Lemme han' you lil mo' chicken-salad, ma'am' — ' 'Low me 
 be so kine as to git you f'esh cup coffee, suh' — 's way 
 ole Genesis talkin' ev'y even' 'ese days !" 
 
 Jane looked at him thoughtfully. "Do you like it 
 better than cuttin' grass. Genesis?" she asked. 
 
 He paused to consider. 
 
 "Yes'm — when ban' play all lem tunes! My goo'ness, 
 do soun' gran'!" 
 
 "You can't do it to-night, though. Genesis," said Jane. 
 "You haf to be quiet on Sunday nights, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes'm. Ain' got no mo' kaytun till nex' Friday even'." 
 
 "Oh, I bet that's the party for Miss Pratt at Air. Par- 
 cher's!" cried Jane. "Didn't I guess right?" 
 
 "Yes'm. I reckon Fm a go'n a see one you' fam'ly 'at 
 night; see him dancin' — wait on him at refeshmuns." 
 
 Jane's expression became even more serious than usual. 
 "Willie? I don't know whether he's goin', Genesis." 
 
 "Lan' name!" Genesis exclaimed. "He die ef he don' 
 git znvite to 'at ball !" 
 
 "Oh, he's invited," said Jane. "Only I think maybe 
 he won't go." 
 
 "My goo'ness! Why ain't he goin'?" 
 
 Jane looked at her friend studiously before reply- 
 ing. "Well, it's a secret," she said, finally, "but it's a 
 very inter'sting one, an' Fll tell you if you never tell." 
 
 "Yes'm; I ain't tellin' nobody." 
 
 Jane glanced round, then stepped a little closer and 
 told the secret with the solemnity it deserved. "Well, 
 when Miss Pratt first came to visit Miss May Parcher, 
 Willie used to keep papa's evening clo'es in his window-
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 201 
 
 seat, an' mamma wondered what had become of 'em. 
 Then, after dinner, he'd slip up there an' put 'eni on him, 
 an' go out through the kitchen an' call on Miss Pratt. 
 Then mamma found 'em, and she thought he oughtn't to do 
 that, so she didn' tell him or anything, an' she didn't 
 even tell papa, but she had the tailor make 'em ever an' 
 ever so much bigger, 'cause they were gettin' too tight for 
 papa. An', well, so after that, even if Willie could get 'em 
 out o' mamma's clo'es closet where she keeps 'em now, 
 he'd look so funny in 'em he couldn't wear 'em. Well, 
 an' then he's never been to see Miss Pratt in the evening 
 one single time since then because mamma says after he 
 started to go there in that suit he couldn't go without it, 
 or maybe Miss Pratt or the other ones that's in love of 
 her would think it was pretty queer, and maybe kind of 
 expeck it was papa's all the time. Mamma says she thinks 
 Willie must have worried a good deal over reasons to say 
 why he'd always go in the daytime after that, an' 
 never came in the evening, an' now they're goin' to have 
 this party, an' she says he's been gettin' paler an' paler 
 every day since he heard about it. Mamma says he's 
 pale some, because Miss Pratt's goin' away, but she thinks 
 it's a good deal more because, well, if he would wear 
 those evening clo'es just to go callin', how would It be 
 to go to that party an' not have any? That's what 
 mamma thinks — an'. Genesis, you promised you'd never 
 tell as long as you lived !" 
 
 "Yes'm. I ain' tellin'," Genesis chuckled. "Fm a 
 go'n a git me one nem waituh suits befo' long, myse'f, 
 so's I kin quit wearin' 'at ole Henry Gimlet suit what 
 b'longs to Fanny, an' have me a privut suit o' my own. 
 They's a secon' han' sto', ovuh on the avynoo, where 
 they got swaller-tail suits all way f'um sevum doUuhs to 
 nineteen doUuhs an' ninety-eight cents. Fm a — " 
 
 Jane started, interrupting him. "Sh," she whispered, 
 laying a finger warningly upon her lips. William had 
 entered the yard at the back gate, and, approaching over 
 the lawn, had arrived at the steps of the porch before 
 Jane perceived him. She gave him an apprehensive 
 look, but he passed into the house absent-mindedly, not
 
 202 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 even glancing at Clematis, the humble and faithful dog 
 in attendance upon Genesis — and that was remarkable, 
 because the sight of Clematis was nearly always but 
 too obviously painful to William. Clematis was so min- 
 gled a dog that he shook one's faith in any defmiteness 
 of design on the part of Nature: it hurt William to see 
 him about the premises, and William showed his feelings, 
 for he feared that people might think Clemate belonged to 
 him or to his family. But to-day he passed without flinch- 
 ing — and Mrs Baxter was right: William did look pale. 
 "I guess he didn't hear us," said Jane, when he had 
 disappeared into the interior. "He acks awful funny!" 
 she added thoughtfully. "First when he was in love 
 with Miss Pratt, he'd be mad about somep'm' almost 
 every minute he was home. Couldn't anybody say any- 
 thing to him but he'd just behave as if it was awful, an' 
 then if you'd see him out walkin' with Miss Pratt, well, 
 he'd look like — like — " Jane paused; her eye fell upon 
 Clematis and by a happy inspiration she was able to 
 complete her simile with remarkable accuracy. "He'd 
 look like the way Clematis looks at people! That's 
 just exackly the way he'd look, Genesis, when he was 
 walkin' with Miss Pratt; an' then when he was home he 
 got so quiet he couldn't answer questions an' wouldn't 
 hear what anybody said to him at table or anywhere, 
 an' papa'd just almost bust. Mamma 'n' papa'd talk 
 an' talk about it, an' " — she lowered her voice — "an' I 
 an' sometimes he'd sit in there without any light, or he'd 
 hardly ever get mad any more; he'd just sit in his room, 
 an' sometimes he'd sit in there without any light, or he'd 
 sit out in the yard all by himself all evening maybe, an' 
 th' other evening after I was In bed I heard 'em, an' 
 papa said — well, this Is what papa told mamma." And 
 again lowering her voice, she proffered the quotation 
 from her father In a tone somewhat awestruck. "Papa 
 said, by Gosh! if he ever 'a' thought a son of his could 
 make such a Word idiot of himself he almost wished 
 we'd both been girls !" 
 
 Having completed this report In a violent whisper Jane
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 203 
 
 nodded repeatedly, for emphasis, and Genesis shook his 
 head to show that he was as deeply Impressed as she 
 wished him to be. "I guess," she added, after a pause, 
 "I guess Willie didn't hear anything we talked about 
 him, or clo'es, or anything." 
 
 She was mistaken in part. William had caught no 
 reference to himself, but he had overheard something, 
 and he was now alone in his room, thinking about it 
 almost feverishly. "A secon' han' sto', ovuh on the avynoo, 
 where they got swaller-tail suits all way frum sevem doUuhs 
 to nineteen dolluhs an' ninety-eight cents." 
 
 . . . Civilization is responsible for certain longings in 
 the breast of man — artificial longings, but sometimes as 
 poignant as hunger and thirst. Of these the strongest 
 are those of the maid for che bridal veil, of the lad for 
 long trousers, and of the youth for a tailed coat of state. 
 To the gratification of this last, few of the more hushed 
 joys in life are comparable. Indulged youths, too rich, 
 can know, to the unctuous full, neither the longing nor 
 the gratification; but one such as William, in "moderate 
 circumstances," is privileged to pant for his first even- 
 ing clothes as the hart panteth after the water-brook — 
 and sometimes, to pant in vain. Also, this was a crisis 
 in William's life: in addition to his yearning for" such ap- 
 parel, he was racked by a passionate urgency. 
 
 As Jane had so precociously understood, unless he 
 should somehow manage to obtain the proper draperies 
 he could not go to the farewell dance for Miss Pratt. 
 Other unequipped boys could go in t>heir ordinary "best 
 clothes," but William could not; for, alack! he had 
 dressed too well too soon! 
 
 He was in desperate case. The sorrow of the approach- 
 ing great departure was but the heavier because It had 
 been so long deferred. To William it had seemed that 
 this flower-strewn summer could actually end no more 
 than he could actually die, but Time had begun its awful 
 lecture, and even Seventeen was listening. Aliss Pratt, 
 that magic girl, was going home. 
 
 To the competent twenties, hundreds of miles sug-
 
 204 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 gesting no impossibilities, such departures may be rend- 
 ing but not tragic. Implacable, the difference to Seven- 
 teen! Miss Pratt was going home, and Seventeen could 
 not follow; it could only mourn upon the lonely shore, 
 tracing little angelic footprints left in the sand. To Seven- 
 teen such a departure is final; it is a vanishing. 
 
 And now it seemed possible that William might be 
 deprived even of the last romantic consolations: of the 
 "last waltz together," of the last, last "listening to music 
 in the moonlight together"; of all those sacred lasts of 
 the "last evening together." And this was a thought 
 that turned him cold on the hot day: it was unbearable. 
 
 He had pleaded strongly for a "dress-suit" as a fitting 
 recognition of his seventeenth birthday anniversary, but 
 he had been denied by his father with a jocularity more 
 crushing than rigor. Since then — in particular since the 
 arrival of Miss Pratt — Mr. Baxter's temper had been 
 growing steadily more and more even. That is, as af- 
 fected by William's social activities, it was uniformly 
 bad. Nevertheless,, after heavy brooding, William decided 
 to make one final appeal before he resorted to measures 
 which the necessities of despair had brought to his mind. 
 
 He wished to give himself every chance for a good 
 effect; therefore he did not act hastily, but went over 
 what he intended to say, rehearsing it with a few appro- 
 priate gestures, and even taking some pleasure in the 
 pathetic dignity of this performance, as revealed by 
 occasional glances at the mirror of his dressing-table. 
 But in spite of these little alleviations, his trouble was 
 great and all too real, for, unhappily, the previous rehearsal 
 of an emotional scene does not prove the emotion insincere. 
 
 Descending, he found his father and mother still sit- 
 ting upon the front porch. Then, standing before them, 
 solemn-eyed, he uttered a preluding cough, and began: 
 
 "Father," he said, in a loud voice, "I have come to — " 
 
 "Dear me!" Mrs. Baxter exclaimed, not perceiving that 
 she was interrupting an intended oration. "Willie, you do 
 look pale! Sit down, poor child; you oughtn't to walk 
 so much in this heat." 
 
 "Father," William repeated. "Fath— "
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 205 
 
 "I suppose you got her safely home from church," Mr. 
 Baxter said. "She might have been carried off by high- 
 waymen if you three boys hadn't been along to take care 
 of her!" 
 
 But William persisted heroically. "Father — " he said. 
 "Father, I have come to — " 
 
 "What on earth's the matter with you?" Mr. Baxter 
 ceased to fan himself, Mrs. Baxter stopped rocking, and 
 both stared, for it had dawned upon them that something 
 unusual was beginning to take place. 
 
 William backed to the start and tried it again. 
 "Father, I have come to — " He paused and gulped, 
 evidently expecting to be interrupted, but both of his 
 parents remained silent, regarding him with puzzled sur- 
 prise. "Father," he began once more, "I have come — I 
 have come to — to place before you something I think it's 
 your duty as my father to undertake, and I have thought 
 over this step before laying it before you." 
 
 "My soul!" said Mr. Baxter under his breath. "My 
 soul!" 
 
 "At my age," William continued, swallowing, and fixing 
 his earnest eyes upon the roof of the porch to avoid 
 the disconcerting stare of his father, "at my age there's 
 some things that ought to be done and some things that 
 ought not to be done. If you asked me what I thought 
 ought to be done, there is only one answer: When any- 
 body as old as I am has to go out among other young 
 men his own age that already got one, like anyway half 
 of them have, who I go with, and their fathers have al- 
 ready taken such a step, because they felt it was the only 
 right thing to do, because at my age and the young men 
 I go with's age it is the only right thing to do because that 
 is something nobody could deny, at my age — " Here 
 William drew a long breath, and, deciding to abandon 
 that sentence as irrevocably tangled, began another: "I 
 have thought over this step, because there comes a time 
 to every young man when they must lay a step before 
 their father before something happens that they would 
 be sorry for. I have thought this undertaking over, and 
 I am certain it would be your honest duty — "
 
 2o6 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 "My soul!" gasped Mr. Baxter. "I thought I knew 
 you pretty well, but you talk like a stranger to me! What 
 is all this? What you ivant?" 
 
 "A dress-suit!" said William. He had Intended to say 
 a great deal more before coming to the point, but though 
 through nervousness he had lost some threads of his re- 
 hearsed plea, it seemed to him he was getting along well, 
 and putting his case with some distinction and power. 
 He was surprised and hurt, therefore, to hear his father 
 utter a wordless shout in a tone of wondering derision. 
 
 "I have more to say — " William began. 
 
 But, disregarding this, Mr. Baxter cut him off. "A 
 dress-suit!" he cried. "Well, I'm glad you were talking 
 about something, because I honestly thought it must be 
 too much sun!" 
 
 At this, the troubled William brought his eyes do'vn f ronri 
 the porch roof and forgot his rehearsal. He lifted his 
 hand appealingly. "Father," he said, "I got to have one!" 
 
 "'Got to!'" Mr. Baxter laughed a laugh that chilled 
 the supplicant through and through. "At your age I 
 thought I was lucky if I had any suit that was fit to be 
 seen in. You're too young, Willie. I don't want you to 
 get your mind on such stuflf, and if I have my way, you 
 won't have a dress-suit for four years more, anyhow." 
 
 "Father, I got to have one. I got to have one right 
 away !" The urgency in William's voice was almost tear- 
 ful. "I don't ask you to have it made, or to go to ex- 
 pensive tailors, but there's a plenty of good ready-made 
 ones that only cost about forty dollars; they're advertised 
 in the paper. Father, wouldn't you spent just forty 
 dollars? I'll pay it back when I'm in business. I'll work — " 
 
 Mr. Baxter waved all this aside. "It's not the money. 
 It's the principle that I'm standing for, and I don't In- 
 tend—" 
 
 "Father, won't you do It?" 
 
 "No, I will not!" 
 
 William saw that sentence had been passed and all ap- 
 peals for a new trial denied. He choked, and rushed Into 
 the house without more ado.
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 207 
 
 "Poor boy!" his mother said. 
 
 ''Poor boy nothing!" fumed Mr, Baxter. "He's almost 
 lost his mind over that Aliss Pratt. Think of his coming 
 out here and starting a regular debating society declama- 
 tion before his mother and father! Why, I never heard 
 anything like it in my life! I don't like to hurt his feel- 
 ings, and I'd give him anything I could afford that would 
 do him any good, but all he wants it for now is to splurge 
 around in at this party before that little yellow-haired 
 girl ! I guess he can wear the kind of clothes most of the 
 other boys wear — the kind / wore at parties — and never 
 thought of wearing anything else. What's the world get- 
 ting to be like.'' Seventeen years old and throws a fit be- 
 cause he can't have a dress-suit!" 
 
 Mrs. Baxter looked thoughtful. "But — but suppose 
 he felt he couldn't go to the dance unless he wore one, 
 poor boy — " 
 
 "All the better," said Mr. Baxter firmly. "Do him good 
 to keep away and get his mind on something else." 
 
 "Of course," she suggested, with some timidity, "forty 
 dollars isn't a great deal of money, and a ready-made 
 suit, just to begin with — " 
 
 Naturally Mr. Baxter perceived whither she was drift- 
 ing. "Forty dollars isn't a thousand," he interrupted, 
 "but what you want to throw it away for? One reason 
 a boy of seventeen oughtn't to have evening clothes is the 
 way he behaves with any clothes. Forty dollars ! Why, 
 only this summer he sat down on Jane's open paint-box, 
 twice in one week !" 
 
 "Well — Miss Pratt is going away, and the dance will 
 be her last night. I'm afraid it would really hurt him to 
 miss it. I remember once, before we were engaged — that 
 evening before papa took me abroad, and you — " 
 
 "It's no use, mamma," he said. "We were both over 
 twenty — why, / was six years older than Willie, even then. 
 There's no comparison at all, I'll let him order a dress- 
 suit on his twenty-first birthday and not a minute before, 
 I don't believe in it, and I intend to see that he gets all 
 this stuff out of his system. He's got to learn some hard 
 
 sense!"
 
 2o8 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 Mrs. Baxter shook her head doubtfully, but she said no 
 more. Perhaps she regretted a little that she had caused 
 Mr. Baxter's evening clothes to be so expansively enlarged 
 — for she looked rather regretful. She also looked rather 
 incomprehensible, not to say cryptic, during the long 
 silence which followed, and Mr. Baxter resumed his rock- 
 ing, unaware of the fixity of gaze which his wife maintained 
 upon him — a thing the most loyal will do sometimes. 
 The incomprehensible look disappeared before long, 
 but the regretful one was renewed in the mother's eyes 
 whenever she caught glimpses of her son, that day, and at 
 the table, where William's manner was gentle — even 
 toward his heartless father. 
 
 Underneath that gentleness, the harried self of William 
 was no longer debating a desperate resolve, but had fixed 
 upon it, and on the following afternoon Jane chanced to 
 be a witness of some resultant actions. She came to her 
 mother with an account of them. 
 
 "Mamma, what you s'pose Willie wants of those two 
 ole market baskets that were down cellar?" 
 
 "Why, Jane.?"_ 
 
 "Well, he carried 'em in his room, an' then he saw me 
 lookin', an' he said 'G'way from here!' an' shut the door. 
 He looks so funny ! What's he want of those ole baskets, 
 mamma:" 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps he doesn't even know himself, 
 J^^e." 
 
 But W^illiam did know, definitely. He had set the 
 baskets upon chairs, and now, with pale determination, 
 he was proceeding to fill them. When his task was com- 
 pleted the two baskets contained, between them: 
 
 One heavy-weight winter suit of clothes. 
 
 One light-weight summer suit of clothes. 
 
 Two pairs of white flannel trousers. 
 
 Two Madras negligee shirts. 
 
 Two flannel shirt--- 
 
 Two silk shirts. 
 
 Seven soft collars. 
 
 Three silk neckties. 
 
 One crocheted tie.
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 209 
 
 Eight pairs of socks. 
 
 One pair of patent-leather shoes. 
 
 One overcoat. 
 
 Some underwear. 
 
 One two-foot shelf of books, consisting of several sterling 
 works upon mathematics, in a damaged condition; five 
 of Shakespeare's plays, expurgated and edited for schools 
 and colleges, and also damaged; a work upon political 
 economy and another upon the science of physics; "Web- 
 ster's Collegiate Dictionary," "How to Enter a Drawing- 
 Room and 500 Other Hints," "Witty Sayings From Here 
 and There," "Lorna Doone," "Quentin Durward," "The 
 Adventures of Sherlock f-Iolmes," a very old copy of 
 "Moths," and a small Bible. 
 
 William spread handkerchiefs upon the two overbulging 
 cargoes, that their nature might not be disclosed to the 
 curious, and, after listening a moment at his door, took 
 the baskets, one upon each arm, then went quickly down 
 the stairs and out of the house, out of the yard, and into 
 the alley — by which route he had modestly chosen to 
 travel. 
 
 . . . After an absence of about two hours, he returned 
 empty-handed and anxious. "Mother, I want to speak to 
 you," he said, addressing Mrs. Baxter in a voice which 
 clearly proved the strain of these racking days. "I want to 
 speak to vou about something important." 
 
 "Yes, Willie?" 
 
 "Please send Jane away. I can't talk about important 
 things with a child in the room." 
 
 Jane naturally wished to stay, since he was going to say 
 something important. "Mamma, do I haf to go:" 
 
 "Just a few minutes, dear." 
 
 Jane walked submissively out of the door, leaving it 
 open behind her. Then, having gone about six feet farther, 
 she halted, and, preserving a breathless silence, consoled 
 herself for her banishment bv listenins; to what was said, 
 hearmg it all as satisfactorily as if she had remained m 
 the room. Quiet, thoughtful children, like Jane, avail 
 themselves of these little pleasures oftener than is sus- 
 pected.
 
 210 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 "Mother," said William, with great intensity, "I want 
 to ask you please to lend me three dollars and sixty cents." 
 
 "What for, Willie?" 
 
 "Mother, I just ask you to lend me three dollars and 
 sixty cents." 
 
 "But what for?" 
 
 "Mother, I don't feel I can discuss it any; I simply ask 
 you: Will you lend me three dollars and sixty cents.''" 
 
 Mrs. Baxter laughed gently. "I don't think I could, 
 Willie, but certainly I should want to know what for," 
 
 "Mother, I am going on eighteen years of age, and 
 when I ask for a small sum of money, like three dollars 
 and sixty cents, I think I might be trusted to know how 
 to use it for my own good without having to answer ques- 
 tions like a ch — " 
 
 "Why, Willie!" she exclaimed. "You ought to have 
 plenty of money of your own." 
 
 "Of course I ought," he agreed warmly. "If you'd ask 
 father to give me a regular allow — " 
 
 "No, no; I mean you ought to have plenty left out of 
 that old junk and furniture I let you sell, last month. You 
 had nearly nine dollars !" 
 
 "That was five weeks ago," William explained wearily. 
 
 "But you certainly must have some of it left. Why, 
 it was more than nine dollars, I believe! I think it was 
 nearer ten. Surely you haven't — " 
 
 ■ "Ye Gods !" cried the goaded William. "A person going 
 on eighteen yeai3 old ought to be able to spend nine dollars 
 in five weeks without everybody's acting like it was a 
 crime! Mother, I ask you the simple question: Will you 
 please lend me three dollars and sixty cents?" 
 
 "I don't think I ought to, dear. I'm sure your father 
 wouldn't wish me to, unless you'll tell me what you want it 
 for. In fact, I won't consider it at all unless you do tell me." 
 
 "You won't do it?" he quavered. 
 
 She shook her head gently. "You see, dear, I'm afraid 
 the reason you don't tell me is because you know that 
 I wouldn't give it to you if I knew what you wanted it for." 
 
 And this perfect diagnosis of the case so disheartened 
 him that after a few monosyllabic efforts to continue the
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 211 
 
 conversation with dignity, he gave it up, and left in such 
 a preoccupation with despondency that he passed the sur- 
 prised Jane, in the hall, without suspecting what she had 
 been doing. 
 
 That evening, after dinner, he made to his father an 
 impassioned appeal for three dollars and sixty cents, lay- 
 ing such stress of pathos on his principal argument that 
 if he couldn't have a dress-suit, at least he ought to be 
 given three dollars and sixty cents (the emphasis is 
 William's), that Mr. Baxter was moved in the direction 
 of consent — but not far enough. "I'd like to let you have 
 it, Willie," he said, excusing himself for refusal, "but 
 your mother felt she oughtn't to do it, unless you'd say 
 what you wanted it for, and I'm sure she wouldn't like me 
 to do it. I can't let you have it unless you get her to say 
 she wants me to." 
 
 Thus advised, the unfortunate made another appeal to 
 his mother the next day, and having brought about no 
 relaxation of the situation, again petitioned his father, on 
 the following evening. So it went, the torn and driven 
 William turning from parent to parent; and surely, since 
 the world began, the special sum of three dollars and sixty 
 cents has never been so often mentioned in any one house 
 and in the same space of time as it was in the house of 
 the Baxters during Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and 
 Thursday of that oppressive week. But on Friday William 
 disappeared after breakfast and did not return to lunch. 
 
 Mrs. Baxter was troubled. During the afternoon she 
 glanced often from the open window of the room where 
 she had gone to sew, but the peaceful neighborhood con- 
 tinued to be peaceful, and no sound of the harassed foot- 
 steps of William echoed from the pavement. However, 
 she saw Genesis arrive (in his week-day costume) to do 
 some weeding, and Jane immediately skip forth for 
 mingled purposes of observation and conversation. 
 
 "What do they say?" thought Mrs. Baxter, observing 
 that both Jane and Genesis were unusually animated. 
 But for once that perplexity was to he dispersed. After 
 an exciting half-hour Jane came flying to her mother, 
 breathless.
 
 212 ''CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 "Mamma," she cried, "I know where Willie is ! Genesis 
 told me, 'cause he saw him, an' he talked to him while he 
 was doin' it." 
 
 "Doing what? Where?" 
 
 "Mamma, listen! What you think Willie's doin'? I bet 
 you can't g — " 
 
 "Jane!" Mrs. Baxter spoke sharply. "Tell me what 
 Genesis said, at once." 
 
 "Yes'm. Willie's over in a lumber-yard that Genesis 
 comes bv on his wav from over on the avynoo where all 
 the colored people live — an' he's countin' knot-holes in 
 shingles." 
 
 "He is zvhatV 
 
 "Yes'm. Genesis knows all about it, because he was 
 thinkin' of doin' it himself, only he says it would be too 
 slow. This is the way it is, mamma — listen, mamma, 
 because this is just exactly the way it is. Well, this lum- 
 ber-yard man got into some sort of a fuss because he 
 bought millions an' millions of shingles, mamma, that had 
 too many knots In, an' the man don't want to pay for 'em, 
 or else the store where he bought 'em won't take 'em back, 
 an' they got to prove how many shingles are bad shingles, 
 or somep'm, and anyway, mamma, that's what Willie's 
 doin'. Every time he comes to a bad shingle, mamma, 
 he puts it somewheres else, or somep'm like that, mamma, 
 an' every time he's put a thousand bad shingles in this 
 other place, they give him six cents. He gets the six cents 
 to keep, mamma — an' that's what he's been doin' all day!" 
 
 "Good gracious!" 
 
 "Oh, but that's nothing, mamma — just you wait till you 
 hear the rest. That part of it isn't anything a tall, mamma ! 
 You wouldn't hardly notice that part of It, if you knew 
 the other part of It, mamma. Why, that isn't anything!" 
 Jane made demonstrations of scorn for the Insignificant 
 information already imparted. 
 
 "Jane!" 
 
 "Yes'm?" 
 
 "I want to know everything Genesis told you," said her 
 mother, "and I want you to tell It as quickly as you can." 
 
 "Well, I am tellin' It, mamma !" Jane protested. "I'm
 
 BOOTH Tx\RKINGTON 213 
 
 just beginning to tell it. I can't tell it unless there's a 
 beginning, can I? How could there be anything unless 
 you had to begin it, mamma?" 
 
 "Try your best to go on, Jane !" 
 
 "Yes'm. Well, Genesis says — Mamma!" Jane inter- 
 rupted herself with a little outcry. "Oh ! I bet that's what 
 he had those two market baskets for! Yes, sir! That's 
 just what he did! An' then he needed the rest o' the 
 money and you an' papa wouldn't give him any, and so 
 he began countin' shingles to-day 'cause to-night's the night 
 of the party an' he just hass to have it!" 
 
 Mrs. Baxter, who had risen to her feet, recalled the 
 episode of the baskets and sank into a chair. "How did 
 Genesis know Willie wanted forty dollars, and if Willie's 
 pawned something how did Genesis know that? Did 
 Willie tell Gen—" 
 
 "Oh, no, mamma, Willie didn't want forty dollars — only 
 fourteen!" 
 
 "But he couldn't get even the cheapest ready-made 
 dress-suit for fourteen dollars." 
 
 "Mamma, you're gcttin' it all mixed up!" Jane cried. 
 "Listen, mamma ! Genesis knows all about a second- 
 hand store over on the avynoo; an' it keeps 'most every- 
 thing, an' Genesis says it's the nicest store! It keeps waiter 
 suits all the way up to nineteen dollars and ninety-nine 
 cents. Well, an' Genesis wants to get one of those suits, 
 so he goes in there all the time an' talks to the man an' 
 bargains an' bargains with him, 'cause Genesis says this 
 man is the bargainest man in the wide worl', mamma ! 
 That's what Genesis says. Well, an' so this man's name 
 is One-eye Beljus, mamma. That's his name, an' Genesis 
 says so. Well, an' so this man that Genesis told me about 
 that keeps the store — I mean One-eye Beljus, mamma — 
 well, One-eye Beljus had Willie's name written down in 
 a book, an' he knew Genesis worked for fam'lies that have 
 boys like Willie in 'em, an' this morning One-eye Beljus 
 showed Genesis Willie's name written down in his book, 
 an' One-eye Beljus asked Genesis if he knew anybody 
 by that name an' all about him. Well, an' so at first 
 Genesis pretended he was tryin' to remember, because
 
 214 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 he wanted to find out what Willie went there for. Genesis 
 didn't tell any stories, mamma; he just pretended he 
 couldn't remember, an' so, well. One-eye Beljus kept talkin' 
 an' pretty soon Genesis found out all about it. One-eye 
 Beljus said Willie came in there and tried on the coat of 
 one of those waiter suits — " 
 
 "Oh, no!" gasped Mrs. Baxter. 
 
 "Yes'm, an' One-eye Beljus said it was the only one 
 that would fit Willie, an' One-eye Beljus told Willie that 
 suit was worth fourteen dollars, an' Willie said he didn't 
 have any money, but he'd like to trade something else 
 for it. Well, an' so One-eye Beljus said this was an awful 
 fine suit an' the only one he had that had b'longed to a 
 white gentleman. Well, an' so they bargained, an' bar- 
 gained, an' bargained, an' bargained! An' then, well, an' 
 so at last Willie said he'd go an' get everything that 
 b'longed to him, an' One-eye Beljus could pick out enough 
 to make fourteen dollars' worth, an' then Willie could 
 have the suit. Well, an' so Willie came home an' put 
 everything he had that b'longed to him into those 
 two baskets, mamma — that's just what he did, 'cause Gen- 
 esis says he told One-eye Beljus it was everything that 
 b'longed to him, an' that would take two baskets, mamma. 
 Well then, an' so he told One-eye Beljus to pick out four- 
 teen dollars' worth, an' One-eye Beljus ast Willie if he 
 didn't have a watch. Well, Willie took out his watch, an' 
 One-eye Beljus said it was an awful bad watch but he 
 would put it in for a dollar; an' he said, T'll put your 
 necktie pin in for forty cents more,' so Willie took it out 
 of his necktie; an' then One-eye Beljus said it would take 
 all the things in the baskets to make I forget how much, 
 mamma, and the watch would be a dollar more, an' the 
 pin forty cents, an' that would leave just three dollars and 
 sixty cents more for Willie to pay before he could get the 
 suit." 
 
 Mrs. Baxter's face had become suffused with high color, 
 but she wished to know all that Genesis had said, and, mas- 
 tering her feelings with an effort, she told Jane to proceed 
 — a command obeyed after Jane had taken several long 
 breaths.
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 215 
 
 "Well, an' so the worst part of it is, Genesis says, it's 
 because that suit is haunted." 
 
 "What !" 
 
 "Yes'm," said Jane solemnly; "Genesis says it's haunted. 
 Genesis says everybody over on the avynoo knows all 
 about that suit, an' he says that's why One-eye Beljus 
 never could sell it before. Genesis says One-eye Beljus 
 tried to sell it to a colored man for three dollars, but the 
 man said he wouldn't put it on for three hunderd dollars, 
 an' Genesis says he wouldn't either, because it belonged to 
 a Dago waiter that — that — " Jane's voice sank to a whis- 
 per of unctuous horror: she was having a wonderful time! 
 "Mamma, this Dago waiter, he lived over on the avynoo, 
 an' he took a case-knife he'd sharpened — an^ he cut a 
 lady's head off with it!" 
 
 Mrs. Baxter screamed faintly. 
 
 "An' he got hung, mamma ! If you don't believe it you 
 can ask One-eye Beljus — I guess he knows! An' you can 
 ask—" 
 
 "Hush!" 
 
 "An' he sold this suit that Willie wants to One-eye Beljus 
 when he was in jail, mamma. He sold it to him before 
 he got hung, mamma." 
 
 "Hush, Jane!" 
 
 But Jane couldn't hush now. "An' he had that suit on 
 when he cut the lady's head off, mamma, an' that's why 
 it's haunted. They cleaned it all up exccp' a few little spots 
 of bl— " 
 
 "Jane!" shouted her mother. "You must not talk about 
 such things, and Genesis mustn't tell vou stories of that 
 sort!" 
 
 "Well, how could he help it, if he told me about Willie?" 
 Jane urged reasonably, 
 
 "Never mind ! Did that crazy ch — Did Willie leave 
 the baskets in that dreadful placer" 
 
 "Yes'm — an' his watch an' pin," Jane informed her im- 
 pressively. "An' One-eye Beljus wanted to know if Gene- 
 sis knew Willie, because One-eye Beljus wanted to know 
 if Genesis thought Willie could get the three dollars an' 
 sixty cents, an' One-eye Beljus wanted to know if Genesis
 
 2i6 ''CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 thought he could get anything more out of him besides 
 that. He told Genesis he hadn't told Willie he could have 
 the suit, after all; he just told him he thought he could, 
 but he wouldn't say for certain till he brought him the 
 three dollars an' sixty cents. So Willie left all his things 
 there, an' his watch an' — " 
 
 "That will do!" Mrs. Baxter's voice was sharper than 
 it had ever been in Jane's recollection. "I don't need to 
 hear any more — and I don't want to hear any more!" 
 
 Jane was justly aggrieved. "But mamma, it Isn't viy 
 fault!" 
 
 Mrs. Baxter's lips parted to speak, but she checked 
 herself. "Fault.'" she said gravely. "I wonder whose fault 
 it really is!" 
 
 And with that she went hurriedly into William's room, 
 and made a brief inspection of his clothes-closet and dress- 
 ing-table. Then, as Jane watched her in awed silence, she 
 strode to the window and called loudly: 
 
 "Genesis!" 
 
 "Yes'mr" came the voice from below. 
 
 "Go to that lumber-yard where Air. William is at work 
 and bring him here to me at once. If he declines to come, 
 tell him — " Her voice broke oddly; she choked, but Jane 
 could not decide with what emotion. "Tell him — tell him 
 I ordered you to use force if necessary! Hurry!" 
 
 Jane ran to the window in time to see Genesis departing 
 seriouslv through the back gate. 
 
 "Mamma—" 
 
 "Don't talk to me now, Jane," Mrs. Baxter said crisply. 
 "I want you to go down in the yard, and when Willie 
 comes tell him I'm waiting for him here in his own rooi".. 
 And don't come with him, Jane. Run!" 
 
 "Yes, mamma." Jane was pleased with this appoint- 
 ment: she anxiously desired to be the first to see how 
 Willie "looked." 
 
 . . . He looked flurried and flustered and breathless, 
 and there were blisters upon the reddened palms of his 
 hands. "What on earth's the matter, mother?" he asked, 
 as he stood panting before her. "Genesis said something
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 217 
 
 was wrong, and he said you told him to hit me if I 
 wouldn't come." 
 
 "Oh, no!" she cried. "I only meant I thought perhaps 
 you wouldn't obey any ordinary message — " 
 
 "Well, well, it doesn't matter, but please hurry and say 
 what you want to because I got to get back and — " 
 
 "No," IVIrs. Baxter said quietly. "You're not going back 
 to count any more shingles, Willie. How much have you 
 earned?" 
 
 He swallowed, but spoke bravely. "Thirty-six cents. 
 But I've been getting lots faster the last two hours and 
 there's a good deal of time before six o'clock. Mother — " 
 
 "No," she said. "You're going over to that horrible 
 place where you've left your clothes and your watch and 
 all those other things in the two baskets, and you're going 
 to bring them home at once." 
 
 "Mother!" he cried aghast. "Who told you?" 
 
 "It doesn't matter. You don't want your father to find 
 out, do you? Then get those things back here as quickly 
 as you can. They'll have to be fumigated after being in 
 that den." 
 
 "They've never been out of the baskets," he protested 
 hotly, "except just to be looked at. They're my things, 
 mother, and I had a right to do what I needed to with 
 'em, didn't I?" His utterance became difficult. "You and 
 father just can't understand — and you won't do anything 
 to help me — " 
 
 "Willie, you can go to the party," she said gently. "You 
 didn't need those frightful clothes at all." 
 
 "I do!" he cried. "I got to have 'em! I can't go in my 
 day clo'es ! There's a reason you wouldn't understand 
 why I can't. I just can't!" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "you can go to the party." 
 
 "I can't either! Not unless you give me three dollars 
 and twenty-four cents, or unless I can get back to the 
 lumber-yard and earn the rest before — " 
 
 "No!" And the warm color that had rushed over Mrs. 
 Baxter during Jane's sensational recital returned with a 
 vengeance. Her eyes flashed. "If you'd rather I sent a 
 policeman for those baskets, I'll send one. I should prefer
 
 2i8 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 to do It — much ! And to have that rascal arrested. If you 
 don't want me to send a policeman you can go for them 
 yourself, but you must start within ten minutes, because 
 if you don't I'll telephone headquarters. Ten minutes, 
 Willie, and I mean it!" 
 
 He cried out, protesting. She would make him a thing 
 of scorn forever and soil his honor, if she sent a policeman. 
 Mr, Beljus was a fair and honest tradesman, he explained 
 passionately, and had not made the approaches in this 
 matter. Also, the garments in question, though not en- 
 tirely new, nor of the highest mode, were of good material 
 and in splendid condition. Unmistakably they were even- 
 ing clothes, and such a bargain at fourteen dollars that 
 William would guarantee to sell them for twenty after he 
 had worn them this one evening. Mr. Beljus himself had 
 said that he would not even think of letting them go at 
 fourteen to anybody else, and as for the two poor baskets 
 of worn and useless articles offered in exchange, and a bent 
 scarfpin and a worn-out old silver watch that had belonged 
 to great-uncle Ben — why, the ten dollars and forty cents 
 allowed upon them was beyond all ordinary liberality; it 
 was almost charity. There was only one place in town 
 where evening clothes were rented, and the suspicious 
 persons in charge had insisted that William obtain from 
 his father a guarantee to insure the return of the garments 
 in perfect condition. So that was hopeless. And wasn't 
 it better, also, to wear clothes which had known only one 
 previous occupant (as was the case with Mr. Beljus' offer- 
 ing) than to hire what chance hundreds had hired? 
 Finally, there was only one thing to be considered and this 
 was the fact that William had to have those clothes ! 
 
 "Six minutes," said Mrs. Baxter, glancing implacably at 
 her watch. "When it's ten I'll telephone." 
 
 And the end of it was, of course, victory for the woman 
 — victory both moral and physical. Three-quarters of an 
 hour later she was unburdening the contents of the two 
 baskets and putting the things back in place, illuminating 
 these actions with an expression of strong distaste — in spite 
 of broken assurances that Mr. Beljus had not more than 
 touched any of the articles offered to him for valuation.
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 219 
 
 ... At dinner, which was unusually early that evening, 
 Mrs. Baxter did not often glance toward her son; she kept 
 her eyes from that white face and spent most of her tinie 
 in urging upon Mr. Baxter that he should be prompt in 
 dressing for a card-club meeting which he and she were to 
 attend that evening. These admonitions of hers were con- 
 tinued so pressingly that Mr. Baxter, after protesting that 
 there was no use in being a whole hour too early, groan- 
 ingly went to dress without even reading his paper. 
 
 William had retired to his own room, where he lay upon 
 his bed in the darkness. He heard the evening noises of 
 the house faintly through the closed door: voices and the 
 clatter of metal and china from the faraway kitchen, 
 Jane's laugh in the hall, the opening and closing of the 
 doors. Then his father seemed to be in distress about 
 something: William heard him complaining to Mrs. Bax- 
 ter; and though the words were indistinct, the tone was 
 vigorously plaintive. Mrs. Baxter laughed and appeared to 
 make light of his troubles, whatever they were — and pres- 
 ently their footsteps were audible from the stairway; the 
 front door closed emphatically, and they were gone. 
 
 Everything was quiet now. The open window showed 
 as a greenish oblong set in black, and William knew that 
 in a little while — half an hour, perhaps — there would come 
 through the stillness of that window the distant sound of 
 violins. That was a moment he dreaded with a dread that 
 ached. And as he lay on his dreary bed, he thought of 
 brightly lighted rooms where other boys were dressing 
 eagerly, faces and hair shining, hearts beating high — boys 
 who would possess this last evening, and the "last waltz 
 together," the last smile and the last sigh. 
 
 It did not once enter his mind that he could go to the 
 dance in his "best suit," or that possibly the other young 
 people at the party would be too busy with their own 
 affairs to notice particularly what he wore. It was the 
 unquestionable and granite fact, to his mind, that the whole 
 derisive World would know the truth about his earlier 
 appearances in his father's clothes. And that was a form 
 of ruin not to be faced. In the protective darkness and 
 seclusion of William's bedroom, it is possible that smarting
 
 220 "CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN" 
 
 eyes relieved themselves by blinking rather energetically; 
 it is even possible that there was a minute damp spot 
 upon the pillow. Seventeen cannot always manage the 
 little boy yet alive under all the coverings. 
 
 There came a tapping upon the door and a soft voice. 
 
 "Will-ee.?" 
 
 With a sharp exclamation William swung his legs over 
 the edge of the bed and sat up. Of all things he desired 
 not, he desired no conversation with, or on the part of, 
 Jane. But he had forgotten to lock his door — the handle 
 turned, and a dim little figure marched in. 
 
 "Willie, Adelia's goin' to put me to bed." 
 
 "You g'way from here," he said huskily. "I haven't got 
 time to talk to you. I'm busy." 
 
 "Well, you can wait a minute, can't your" she asked 
 reasonably. "I haf to tell you a joke on mamma." 
 
 "I don't want to hear any jokes !" 
 
 "Well, I haf to tell you this one 'cause she told me to! 
 Oh!" Jane clapped her hand over her mouth and jumped 
 up and down, offering a fantastic silhouette against the 
 light of the open door. "Oh, oh, oh!" 
 
 "What's matter?" 
 
 "She said I mustn't, mustn't tell that she told me to tell! 
 My goodness! I forgot that! Mamma took me off alone 
 right after dinner, an' she told me to tell you this joke 
 on her as soon as she an' papa had left the house, but she 
 said, 'Above all things ' she said, 'don't let Willie know / 
 said to tell him.' That's just what she said, an' here that's 
 the very first thing I had to go an' do!" 
 
 "Well, what of Ttr" 
 
 Jane quieted down. The pangs of her remorse were 
 lost in her love of sensationalism, and her voice sank to 
 the thrilling whisper which it was one of her greatest pleas- 
 ures to use. "Did you hear what a fuss papa was makin' 
 when he was dressin' for the card-party?" 
 
 "I don't care if—" 
 
 "He had to go in his reg'lar clo'es !" whispered Jane 
 triumphantly. "An' this is the joke on mamma: you know 
 that tailor that let papa's dress-suit way, way out; well, 
 mamma thinks that tailor must think she's crazy, or
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 221 
 
 somep'm, 'cause she took papa's dress-suit to him last 
 Monday to get it pressed for this card-party, an' she 
 guesses he must of understood her to tell him to do lots 
 besides just pressin' it. Anyway, he went an' altered it, 
 an' he took it way, way in again; an' this afternoon when 
 it came back it was even tighter'n what it was in the first 
 place, an' papa couldn't begin to get into it! Well, an' 
 so it's all pressed an' everything, an' she stopped on the 
 way out, an' whispered to me that sh'd got so upset over 
 the joke on her that she couldn't remember where she put 
 it when she took it out o' papa's room after he gave up 
 tryin' to get inside of it. An' that," cried Jane — "that's 
 the funniest thing of all ! Why, it's layin' right on her bed 
 this very minute!" 
 
 In one bound William leaped through the open door. 
 Two seconds sufficed for his passage through the hall to his 
 mother's bedroom — and there, neatly spread upon the lace 
 coverlet and brighter than coronation robes, fairer than 
 Joseph's sacred coat It lay !
 
 The People's Home Journal 
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT GREGOIRE 
 
 BY 
 
 AGNES ROSS WHITE
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT GREGOIRE ' 
 
 By AGNES ROSS WHITE 
 
 NOT everywhere does the Virgin reach down to help 
 those who pray to her as she does at St. Gregoire, 
 but not everywhere do people pray with such simple faith, 
 such surety, as do the habitants in this little parish up 
 among the Laurentides. 
 
 For there was the never-to-be-forgotten time, when 
 Our Lady came to help Diane Dore, the year the bell was 
 hung in the old church, more than a hundred years ago. 
 
 Diane was the child of her native hills, beautiful, wild 
 and solemn; so beautiful that the country people, not 
 understanding, called her look strange; wild with a quiet, 
 pagan wildness, and solemn as a seer who beholds the 
 heart of the world. When her parents died, every home 
 in the parish was opened to her, for that is the way of 
 the habitants, but everywhere she was an alien. Only 
 gray-haired Pere Dufresne recognized the miracle of her 
 beauty and marveled at it, or listened to her words, even 
 though he wondered at them and was puzzled; and only 
 Pere Dufresne loved the child. So it came that she made 
 his house her home; and there she lived her unchildlike 
 life, roaming the hills by day, and telling the cure strange 
 tales as they sat by the firelight after the darkness came, 
 till the priest wondered if another Joan the Alaid sat at his 
 knee. 
 
 From the solitudes she had brought strange fancies; 
 fantastic forms and faces had she seen in the mist on the 
 river, a throb of divine heart-break had she caught in 
 the moaning before the storm, or a strain of weird, un- 
 earthly music in the song of the hermit thrush, "but 
 
 'Copyright The People's Home Journal.
 
 226 THE BELL OF SAINT GREGOIRE 
 
 never Voices," thought the cure, "she never says she has 
 heard Voices", and he waited, half expectant. 
 
 But Diane grew as a child grows; and lo, there came 
 a day when the priest looked at her, amazed, that she had 
 grown up so soon. Then his trouble became an insistent 
 thing. She was fifteen; there was no place for her in the 
 village, surely none in the great world outside; there was 
 the veil — and yes, he would speak to Monseigneur about 
 that when next the good Bishop should come to St. 
 Gregoire. 
 
 But before the Bishop came, St. Gregoire had been 
 jostled by the world beyond the hills. Men from the out- 
 side came into the valley, drawing lines and measuring 
 and placing markers here and there; the iron road was 
 coming through St. Gregoire, perhaps. 
 
 From an eyrie on the mountain side Diane watched the 
 work of the strangers with curiosity. She could under- 
 stand the work of the beavers and the foxes and the 
 birds, of the wind and the rain, the frost and sunshine, 
 even the work of the unseen things, but these strangers 
 she could not explain. 
 
 Then one day, away up at little Lake in the Sky, she 
 came upon one of them. He was young, very young, and 
 never before had Diane seen eyes the color of the sky, 
 nor hair that shone like sunlight, for the blood of the 
 Indian women of the past was very persistent in St. 
 Gregoire. 
 
 To his words in English Diane shook her head; to his 
 halting French she answered: "I am Diane Dore, and 
 I live down there," pointing to the valley. 
 
 But Diane asked no questions; she had found him in 
 the forest on the mountain, as she had found nearly every 
 thing of which she knew; there was nothing unusual in 
 question. And so it was that youth, strong and virile, 
 met youth in its virgin freshness and they walked hand 
 in hand, unconscious and content. 
 
 But Pere Dufresne was not content. "No, no, my 
 child," said he, "you must not be with the stranger. It 
 is not well for thee, it is not well." 
 
 "But why not, mon pere?" asked Diane in surprise.
 
 AGNES ROSS WHITE 227 
 
 "I like to be with him; I tell him many things; he knows 
 so little of all this," with a sweep of her hand toward 
 the hills, the river and the sky, "and he is glad to know, 
 very glad. Why should I not be with him to tell him?" 
 
 Poor Pere Dufresne stammered in embarrassment. 
 Surely the Evil One was digging pitfalls and laying snares 
 to entrap him, for never before had his work brought him 
 such a problem as this, never before had one been so 
 dear to him as Diane, for she had touched the man-father 
 in the priest, and it wrung his heart to say aught to change 
 the child — "ma petite pucelle," he called her in his thoughts. 
 Why could she not have been like all the rest to him, and 
 why need this stranger have come to St. Gregoire — St. 
 Gregoire so little and almost lost away back of the hills? 
 
 "He is English and perhaps a heretic," he argued, 
 hoping thus to avoid the difficulty. 
 
 "I do not know that," she answered doubtfully. "He 
 signs the cross as I have told him. I will ask him." 
 
 And so Pere Dufresne, tender-hearted old man that 
 he was, left the matter, hoping — as so many a wiser man 
 has done — that le bon Dieu in His omnipotence would 
 order the matter to his liking. 
 
 In good time the engineers finished their work and 
 went on, but the boy remained, for he was not of them. 
 He had come for the fishing, the shooting, for the primitive 
 life he might find; he might go or stay as he chose, and 
 the unreckoning will of youth said, "I have found that 
 which is good in my sight; I shall stop to enjoy." 
 
 Days are to youth what years are to age, and well 
 might Pere Dufresne be dismayed at the result of his 
 indecision. Who shall say when boyhood goes and man- 
 hood comes? Who shall say, that minute love was not, 
 this minute it is? Certain It was that the boy listened 
 to Diane's half-savage, half-religious mysticism, charmed 
 and absorbed. The old druid spirit, that had worshipped 
 under the oak trees of Britain lived again in this son of an 
 ancient soil, and in the reincarnation the bov became a 
 man and loved this woman, unconsciously and naturally 
 as the flower loves the sunlight, or the bird the freedom of 
 the air.
 
 228 THE BELL OF SAINT GREGOIRE 
 
 But when she was not with him, when he sat by his 
 campfire with the darkness about him, he remembered 
 that he was from beyond the hills; he saw his lady- 
 mother and the ivy-grown walls of home, a home which 
 would be prison to Diane, a home in which he knew 
 she could never have a place. Then he saw Diane, saw 
 the beauty of her eyes, heard the sweetness of her voice, 
 above all felt the purity of her spirit; and it was Diane of 
 whom he dreamed. 
 
 These musings by his campfire kept alive the man of 
 convention, and he knew he must go down to the priest 
 in the valley and claim this woman in the way decreed 
 by man. 
 
 Summer passed and the foliage glowed and faded. 
 Indian summer came, like a flower flung back by a band 
 of revelers as they danced madly and merrily away; 
 then the nights became crisp and frosty, and the day 
 arrived when he said to Diane as they sat watching the 
 passing of the wild geese: "I saw the geese yesterday; 
 I saw them the day before; to-day — ^to-morrow, perhaps — 
 soon I must follow. I must leave the hills." 
 
 She turned to him quickly with a look and gesture of 
 startled bewilderment. He leaned forward and laid his 
 hand on hers. 
 
 "Look at me, Diane — straight in my eyes as I talk to 
 you. You can come with me. Think of it. Away to- 
 gether to see more beautiful things, away to the south- 
 ward with the wild geese, till the cold is gone, then to 
 rivers and lakes and mountains again. We shall be to- 
 gether all the days — always; we shall watch the sunrise 
 and sunset together; we shall stand before the priest and 
 he shall send us away man and wife. Do you know why 
 people marry, Diane.'* Because they want each other as 
 I want you, to have against all others — because they love. 
 Do you know what I mean.^ Can you want me like that, 
 Diane?" 
 
 As he bent nearer to her she felt the hand clasping hers 
 tighten, and the blood throbbing in his fingers. For a 
 long time they sat and her gaze did not falter. The com-
 
 AGNES ROSS WHITE 229 
 
 panionship of the weeks had changed, and she felt a new- 
 knowledge and a new joy, indefinable yet overwhelming. 
 Then slowly she answered him. 
 
 "Yes, I want you like that. I know what you mean. 
 But — there is more. I cannot tell what it is; perhaps I 
 know not the words. Can you say it?" 
 
 "No, Diane, sweetheart, only that it is love, and no 
 one can tell what it is. It is like life, we can only live it, 
 dear." 
 
 "Then we will live it together, you and I," she said. 
 
 And she listened to Love's old tale, not with blushes, 
 not with downcast eyes, but with face and eyes lifted to 
 her lover with a glad new light in them. And he said not 
 that the world was well lost for love — the world was for- 
 gotten. 
 
 They went hand in hand down the hillside, straight 
 to the priest's door. The old man wept with remorse, 
 and blamed himself for neglected duty, while Diane stood 
 in silent distress. At last, falling on her knees by his side, 
 she pressed his fingers to her lips and pleaded. 
 
 "Ah, mon pcre, vion perc, you hurt me so. Is it you do 
 not now love your little Diane.'' Look at the others in 
 the parish; you have blessed them and let them go away 
 together, and you did not weep. I love you, vion pere, 
 but I must go, I must go. Let me go like the rest." 
 
 Sadly Pere Dufresne placed his hand on her bowed 
 head and smoothed her heavy, black hair. "It has come, 
 even to my little maid, ma petite pucelle, whom I had 
 thought so far removed from man's love. My daughter, 
 this love of man brings labor and sorrow, brings pain 
 and tears, and you would go even if it must be that you 
 shall bear pain and sorrow and weep your tears alone?" 
 
 He spoke more to himself than to her, but she raised 
 her head and answered quickly as if understanding his 
 meaning, or it may be the new-born woman spoke within 
 her. 
 
 "Yes, father, I see the women labor, and the labor Is 
 hard and the days are long; I see the children many, and 
 the women grow old with each one; and I saw Delize
 
 n -7 
 
 30 THE BELL OF SAINT GREGOIRE 
 
 Paquette crying because there was no one to stand in the 
 church as father to her baby; but, mon pere, I see, too, the 
 men and women coming from the long day's labor to- 
 gether, and they are happy; I see the children bring smiles 
 to their mothers' tired eyes, and again they are happy; 
 and I see Delize kiss her baby, even as my mother kissed 
 me, and she is happier with that kiss than Madame Bisson 
 who has no child. Bless me and let me go, mon pere, 
 for my happiness has gone before and beckons to me, and 
 always I see the man's love leading it." 
 
 "Enough, my daughter, it shall be as you wish, and may 
 Our Lady have you in her holy keeping." 
 
 And so Diane was wed, not before the altar, no, not 
 there, for the stranger was not of the faith, but without 
 the church door, just where the gaze of Our Lady, high up 
 in her niche near the roof, seemed to rest with benign love 
 and pity. 
 
 Then, hand in hand, as Diane and her lover had come 
 down the mountain side, so they went down the valley, 
 away from St. Gregoire to where her happiness seemed 
 beckoning her. They paused away down where the valley 
 turns sharp behind the last of the hills; the church could 
 just be seen, a little white speck in the distance. 
 
 "Oh, if I might know that day by day the good father 
 will feel that I think of him always. There will be no one 
 now to talk to him by the firelight, no one to tell him the 
 words of the hills." Diane's tone was not one of regretful 
 longing, but rather a great wish that the priest might not 
 feel that she had left him alone. 
 
 "If there were something which you might give him, 
 something which would always speak for you," the 
 stranger had answered, feeling that he had indeed taken 
 the sunshine and the song from the old man's life. "Can 
 you think of something, Diane, that will please him 
 much?" 
 
 "There is something," she said, "but I cannot give him 
 that." 
 
 "But tell me; perhaps you may." 
 
 "It is a bell; we have never had one. It takes very
 
 AGNES ROSS WHITE 231 
 
 much money to buy a bell; the people have flax and grain, 
 but, oh, so little money. Pere Dufresne said le bon Dieu 
 might send us one some time if we were not forgetful." 
 
 "A bell it shall be that you shall give him," the stranger 
 promised, but Diane only smiled wistfully and turned 
 away. 
 
 And so they passed beyond the turn in the valley, and 
 the hills shut them away from St. Gregoire. 
 
 Soon the snows of winter fell upon all the hills, and 
 more than ever was St. Gregoire lost to the great world 
 outside. In the long evenings Pere Dufresne sat by his 
 fire alone, conjuring up the face of his little maid in the 
 moving shadows, and dreaming, till he almost heard her 
 voice as he used to hear it — '''Mais oui, mon pere, that is 
 what the bird in the cedars said to me as I came by the 
 swamp at sunset." It was thus that he thought of her, 
 and always with a great foreboding and self-condemna- 
 tion. Day after day dragged slowly by until at last the 
 winter was gone, but neither the spring nor the summer 
 brought assurance to the old priest or eased his loneli- 
 ness. One thing there came to arouse the parish, even 
 as the engineers had with their suggestion of a railroad. 
 In the early summer a letter had come from over the 
 sea saying their bell would be ready in the autumn. 
 From whom it was to come they knew not; le bon Dieu 
 had indeed remembered them. 
 
 Then, as the days grew chill again, that which the 
 priest expected and dreaded happened — Diane came back 
 — Diane and her baby. Her husband had sailed away 
 to Englaod, to his mother who was dying; as for herself, 
 she could not bear the town alone, she must come back 
 to the old familiar river and her hills to wait for him. 
 That was the simple story she had to tell; to her it was suf- 
 ficient, but she read anger and grief on the priest's face. 
 
 "This is the happiness you sought, the thing I let you 
 wander out into the world to find, and I knew, I knew." 
 
 As he bowed his head in sorrow, Diane knelt and 
 pleaded as she had once before. 
 
 "Ah, mon pere, it is not that you should grieve, for I
 
 232 THE BELL OF SAINT GREGOIRE 
 
 found my happiness. I am happy now, a little lonely, 
 perhaps, till he shall come for me, but he will come. I 
 tell you he will come," she repeated in eager defense as 
 she noted the pained look of doubt. "He is gone as I told 
 you, but I chose to stay. Besides, I am not alone; here 
 is my child, father. The days may be long, but he will 
 come. As I came here I heard the people talking of a 
 bell. It is not yet hung, but when it rings for the first 
 time I shall know he will not be far away." 
 
 The prophecy came to her as an inspiration, and her 
 tone of loneliness changed to one of trust and surety. 
 
 A tiny log house on the river bank she took for her 
 home. The cure found that his old housekeeper needed 
 strong, young arms to lift the burden of her work, and 
 so Diane settled into a quiet nook, more silent than of 
 old, and if her longing and weary waiting found words, 
 they were whispered to baby ears by the fireside in the 
 little cabin by the river. 
 
 And the bell? There was something strange about it. 
 Autumn passed and winter came, but no tidings of the 
 bell. In the spring came a letter from England saying 
 that the ship bringing the bell had foundered in the Gulf 
 and her cargo was lost. Another bell would come by the 
 next autumn perhaps. Poor Diane! It seemed an an- 
 swer to her unwitting prophecy. 
 
 The snow disappeared and the birds and flowers came 
 with a rush, as they always come to the Northland. When 
 her work was done, Diane would take her boy in her arms 
 and wander away to the forests on the hillsides. She 
 could seek sympathy nowhere else. The old familiar 
 groves and hollows and peaks made her feel a strange 
 calmness and resignation after stormy nights of despair 
 and dying hope. Lip here it seemed that her husband 
 must be dead, or he would have come; down there by 
 the river the torturing thought of desertion and lost love 
 nearly drove her mad. Lip here under the trees she told 
 over and over again to her baby what his father had 
 said when she walked here with him; what he would say 
 if he ever came back; and if he did not come back they 
 must know he was dead.
 
 AGNES ROSS WHITE 233 
 
 Thus the summer passed and autumn came again. How 
 she dreaded the winter with its long evenings and the 
 snow-bound world, when there would be naught but the 
 whistling wind, the driving snow, the faint murmur of 
 the river under the ice, and her thoughts. 
 
 Then one sabbath Pcre Dufresne told them that the 
 bell would be there in a week. How Diane's heart leaped 
 with a vague, new hope! No one knew it was her bell, 
 and that it was so near seemed proof that he was alive 
 and had not forgotton her. 
 
 At last it came. All the parish crowded around as it 
 was being lifted from the cart. Diane looked on from the 
 outer edge of the circle, pale and disturbed, holding her 
 baby so close that he whimpered with pain. 
 
 Suddenly an exclamation of anger and disappointment 
 burst from the people. A clumsy handler had let his 
 burden slip and the bell had struck with a jarring ring — 
 its last note. An ugly crack from bottom to top had 
 silenced its voice before it could speak for St. Gregoire. 
 
 Diane sank to her knees with a sob. It was all over; 
 her last faint hope was gone. Now she was certain he 
 must be dead. No one noticed her, for all were listening 
 to the cure who was reading aloud an inscription on the 
 broken bell. 
 
 "What.^ Whose gift.' Read it again, father." 
 
 Diane had paid no heed to the cure's words, but the 
 deep silence roused her to find them all regarding her with 
 surprised awe. 
 
 "My daughter," said the cure as he came to her side, 
 "the Blessed Virgin has sent her gift in your name; she 
 has looked on her handmaiden with love and favor." 
 
 She arose bewildered and he led her to the bell, but she 
 turned away calm and tearless. 
 
 "No, no, father. It means he is dead and will not come. 
 Let me go home." 
 
 Silently they stood aside and watched her go down the 
 hill. In her sorrow Diane had touched their hearts. The 
 cure's eyes were dim, and his voice faltered as he blessed 
 them and sent them away.
 
 234 THE BELL OF SAINT GREGOIRE 
 
 And now Pere Dufresne bethought him that the Bishop 
 might help them, and the bell was sent back to Quebec, 
 
 By return messenger came the word that it would be 
 recast, that the parish should have its bell. This Diane did 
 not know, as the cure thought to calm her grief the sooner 
 if she had no false hope. 
 
 After a little she went about her task as before. Her 
 winter evenings were spent now in braiding straw hats. 
 At times, when the straw broke in her weary fingers, she 
 would lay it aside, and kneeling by the rude cradle, 
 would pour out the sorrows of her broken heart in wailing 
 murmurs. 
 
 "Ah, why must I suffer so when I know he is dead? 
 My heart aches for one day with him, even for one mo- 
 ment. Why do I start when the wind shakes the door? 
 Why do I listen for footsteps in the whistling of the gale? 
 Why cannot I feel that he is dead when I know he must 
 be? Why do I wake in the night feeling his kiss on my 
 lips? Why does the sound of his voice still fall on my ear, 
 and the light of his eyes meet mine in the twilight? Oh, 
 Mother of Christ, give me peace and strength, or the 
 silence of death for my child and me." 
 
 In the last days of the winter word came again concern- 
 ing the bell, and a few days later came the bell itself. 
 Great care was taken this time. The people were ready 
 to look upon it as a thing bewitched, and even doubted the 
 wisdom of attempting to hang it; but the cure exorcised 
 their superstition. It was blest, and the day came when 
 it would hang in the steeple before all St. Gregoire. 
 
 Diane had felt only pain when she heard that the bell 
 had come. She cared nothing for ceremonies and she had 
 no curiosity, so through it all she kept steadily at her work, 
 not even glancing toward the church on her way home. 
 
 Fate was kinder now, and at last the bell was in place, 
 but the first ringing was to be for mass on the sabbath; 
 and so it waited. 
 
 The winter had been a terrible one. Snow storm fol- 
 lowed snow storm till the drifts piled higher than ever
 
 AGNES ROSS WHITE 235 
 
 before. People along the river prayed for a gentle spring, 
 with only south wind and sunshine. Heavy rains meant 
 disaster, perhaps destruction to their all. 
 
 Before the sabbath dawned, that which they dreaded 
 came; it rained, a steady downpour for many hours, then 
 a deluge. The ice on the river had had no time to melt, 
 and the floods from the slopes above poured over it with- 
 out breaking it up. Helplessly the people watched the 
 torrent swell and spread. Nearly every one had moved 
 what he could to higher land, each one striving for him- 
 self. Night came on, dark and dreadful. There was no 
 sleep even on the hillsides. The sound of the waters had 
 been deep and threatening, but suddenly in the darkness 
 they burst forth in a roaring crash. Something had hap- 
 pened in the lake above. Thank God, every one had 
 had time to escape danger. Now thoughts turned to fellow 
 creatures and their safety. Yes, all seemed to be safe. 
 But where was Diane and the child? In the cure's house, 
 of course. No? God in heaven! Was she down there 
 by the river? 
 
 "Men to the rescue!" shouted the cure. 
 
 In a moment he had hurried to the bell rope, and for 
 the first time the Bell of St. Gregoire rang out clear and 
 strong, even before the roar of the storm and the battle 
 of the waters. 
 
 At dusk Diane had looked at the river almost touching 
 her threshold; but the high land lay back of her; she 
 would not be cut off without warning. She dressed the 
 child warmly before he went to sleep, placed their outer 
 garments in readiness, piled the logs on the hearth and sat 
 down to wait. 
 
 Suddenly the house shook and the water poured in at 
 every opening. She sprang to the bed, and in an instant 
 they were ready. But, oh, the awful darkness! The 
 house seemed to be moving from its place. The water was 
 rising quickly. She stood dazed. What should she do? 
 The loft! Quickly she mounted the ladder and broke 
 open the window. She leaned far out — nothing could be 
 seen. She could feel the house moving away on the flood. 
 What was that? The bell! She smiled and laid her face 
 close to the child. Softly she whispered:
 
 236 THE BELL OF SAINT GREGOIRE 
 
 "Ah, baby, baby! Mother was right after all. Listen 
 to the bell. I said that when it should ring for the first 
 time he would not be far away, and in a moment we shall 
 be with him. Don't be afraid, dearie. He will be waiting 
 for us, and, at last, after all this long, long time, we shall 
 be together all the days, as he used to tell me, and we shall 
 have you besides. Perhaps he can see us now coming 
 nearer." 
 
 She laughed a happy little laugh, the first since she had 
 come back to St. Gregoire. The child was quiet, soothed 
 by the gentle crooning as she murmured on. 
 
 "Diane! Diane! Shout! Call to me! I am here," 
 came faintly to her ears over the waters out of the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 "Listen, listen, my little one. He is calling to us. 
 Blessed Virgin, I thank thee." Then loud and clear: 
 "Here! Here am I, your Diane." 
 
 Again came the cry, louder and nearer, 
 
 "Call again, Diane! Be brave!" 
 
 Again she called. "We are nearer, nearer," she whis- 
 pered. "Soon it will be light, the great, beautiful Dawn!" 
 
 Something else was whirling along the way with them — 
 it loomed near her window. Again the cry, almost within 
 reach. 
 
 "Courage a little longer, Diane. Now! Hold closely to 
 me !" 
 
 Our Lady had indeed looked with favor on her hand- 
 maiden, for who, think you, had brought the stranger 
 over sea and land, through storm and peril, by snowshoe 
 and sled track, even into the darkness, to answer to the 
 call of the bell in Diane's great need? Who had made 
 him listen to the song of his heart, even though the music 
 of home had been loud in his ears, and brought him 
 dreams such as he had dreamed by his campfire that sum- 
 mer, until he could hear Diane's voice — and his baby's? 
 
 Israel Gagnon knows, and Victor Brassard knows and 
 Grandmere Touchette knows and the little habitant girl 
 at her flax wheel knows. For as the vesper tones ebb and 
 flow around the hills and along the valley I hear her
 
 AGNES ROSS WHITE 237 
 
 murmur Diane's name and a little prayer to Our Lady, 
 for our little maid, too. has a lover; and as I listen to the 
 bell, now "so beeg it feel all de worl', beeger den all de 
 mountain','' and now "so small an' sof I can jus' feel it 
 inside me," I, too, know who brought the stranger back 
 to his wife and child.
 
 Pictorial 
 
 THE EVENING RICE 
 
 BY 
 
 ACHMED ABDULLAH
 
 THE EVENING RICE ' 
 By ACHMED ABDULLAH 
 
 Up there in the gray North a great triple tomb thrusts its frownmg 
 parapet obliquely into space. On its outer walls, to left and right of 
 the entrance, are bas-reliefs in sea-green majolica, representing five- 
 claw, imperial dragons. 
 
 It is the Fu-Ling, the Happy and August Tomb, where lies the T'ai 
 Tzu, the Nurhachi, the Iron-capped Prince, the founder of the Manchu 
 dynasty, who centuries ago swept out of the barren Central Asian 
 wastes at the head of his host of red-skinned, flat-nosed horsemen, and 
 turned placid China into a crimson shambles. 
 
 Last year the hereditary keeper of the sacred tomb, a Ch'i-jen, a 
 Manchu bannerman, sold it to a moon faced Chinese farmer for a lean 
 sack of clipped silver taels. Next year it will house the farmer's squeal- 
 ing, red-bristled pigs. 
 
 And still the Manchu has his sword and the strength of his sword- 
 arm ; still the moon-faced coolie is a coward who shrinks at the swish 
 and crackle of naked steel. 
 
 Yet, next year, the pigs will dirty the tomb's yellow imperial tiles. 
 
 And the pigs, too, are symbolic — and necessary. 
 
 For what is the evening rice without a few slivers of fried pork? 
 
 THE last time Ng Ch'u had seen him had been nearly 
 forty years earlier in the squat little Manchu-Chinese 
 border town of Ninguta, in the hushed shelter of an en- 
 ameled pagoda-roof that mirrored the sun-rays a thou- 
 sandfold, like countless intersecting; rainbows — endless 
 zigzag flashings of electric blue and deep rose and keen, 
 arrogant, glaucous-green, like the shooting of dragon-flies 
 and purple-winged tropical moths. There had been mur- 
 der in the other's, the Manchu's, eyes; murder in the 
 hairy, brown fist that curled about broad, glistening steel. 
 
 But on that day he, the despised Chinese coolie, had 
 had the whip-hand. 
 
 "A Manchu you are!" he had said; and his eyes had 
 glistened triumphantly through meager almond slits. "A 
 
 * Copyright Pictorial Review. '
 
 242 THE EVENING RICE 
 
 Manchu indeed ! A Pao-i bannerman, an aristocrat — 
 sloughing your will and your passions as snakes cast their 
 skin, brooking no master but yourself and the black desert 
 thunder! And I am only a mud-turtle from the land of 
 Han." He had sucked in his breath. "But — " he had 
 continued; had slurred and stopped. 
 
 "But?" 
 
 "But — there is one thing, perhaps two, which the Huang 
 T'ai Hou, the Empress, the Old Buddha, does not forgive 
 — not even in a Manchu, an iron-capped prince!" — and 
 a few more words, sibilant, staccato, and at once Yang 
 Shen-hsiu had sheathed his dagger with a little dry, 
 metallic click and had walked away, while Ng Ch'u had 
 returned to his home. 
 
 There he had kowtowed deeply before an elderly peas- 
 ant woman with bound feet, gnarled hands, and shriveled, 
 berry-brown features. 
 
 "Mother," he had said, "I am going away to-day. I 
 am going away nozv. I — and the Moon-beam!" — pointing 
 into the inner room at a lissom, blue-clad form that was 
 bending over the cooking-pots. 
 
 "Why, son?" 
 
 "There is Yang Shen-hsiu, the Manchu!" 
 
 "But— I thought—" 
 
 "Yes. I know. But a Manchu never forgets. And 
 some day — perhaps to-morrow — his passion and his 
 hatred, since he is a fool, will vanquish his fear. On that 
 day — by Buddha and by Buddha — I shall not be here. 
 Nor shall the Moon-beam !" 
 
 Nearly forty years earlier — and now he saw him again. 
 
 For just the fraction of a second, the unexpected sight 
 of those glittering, hooded eyes — for he was conscious 
 of Yang Shen-hsiu's eyes even before he saw the rest of 
 the face: the thin nose beaking av/ay bold and aquiline, 
 the high cheekbones that seemed to give beneath the pres- 
 sure of the leathery, ruddy-gold skin, the compressed, sar- 
 donic lips brushed by a drooping Mandarin mustache, 
 and the flagging, combative chin — for just the fraction of 
 a second, the unexpected sight of those sinister eyes, rising 
 quickly like some evil dream from the human maelstrom 
 that streaked down Forty-second Street, threw Ng Ch'u
 
 ACHMED ABDULLAH 243 
 
 off his guard. It conquered in him the long habit of out- 
 ward self-control which he had acquired in a lifetime of 
 tight bargaining, of matching his algebraic Mongol cunning 
 against the equal cunning of his countrymen. 
 
 He stopped still. His round, butter-yellow face was 
 marked by a look of almost ludicrous alarm. His tiny, 
 pinkish button of a nose crinkled and sniffled like that of a 
 frightened rabbit. His pudgy, comfortable little hands 
 opened and shut convulsively. His jaw felt swollen, out 
 of joint. His tongue seemed heavy, clogging, like some- 
 thing which did not belong to him and which he must try 
 to spit out. Little blue and crimson wheels gyrated madly 
 in front of his bulging eyes. 
 
 Ng Ch'u was a coward. He knew it. Nor was he 
 ashamed of It. To him a prosy, four-square, sublimely 
 practical Chinese, reckless, unthinking courage seemed in- 
 comprehensible, and he was too honest a man to find 
 fascination or worth in anything he could not understand. 
 
 Still it was one thing to be afraid, by which one lost 
 no face to speak of, and another to appear afraid, by which 
 one often lost a great deal of face and of profit, and so he 
 collected himself with an effort and greeted the Manchu 
 with his usual, faintly ironic ease of manner. 
 
 "Ten thousand years, ten thousand years!" 
 
 "And yet another year!" came the courtly reply; and, 
 after a short pause, "Ah — friend Ng Ch'u !" Showing 
 that recognition had been mutual. 
 
 They looked at each other, smiling, tranquil, touching 
 palm to palm. They were carefully, even meticulously, 
 dressed: the Chinese In neat pin-stripe worsted, bowler 
 hat, glossy cordovan brogues that showed an inch of 
 brown-silk hose, and a sober shepherd's-plaid necktie In 
 which twinkled a diamond horseshoe pin; the Manchu in 
 pontifical Prince Albert and shining high hat with the 
 correct eight reflections. Both, at least sartorlally, were a 
 very epitome of the influence of West over East. 
 
 In that motley New York crowd, nobody could have 
 guessed that here, in neat pin-stripe worsted and pontifical
 
 244 THE EVENING RICE 
 
 Prince Albert, stood tragedy incarnate: tragedy that had 
 started, four decades earUer, in a Manchu-Chinese border 
 town, with a girl's soft song flung from a painted balcony; 
 that had threatened to congeal into darkening blood, and 
 that had faded out in a whispered, sardonic word about 
 the Huang T'ai Hou, the Empress, the Old Buddha, and 
 a coolie's stupendous Odyssey from a mud-chinked 
 Ninguta hut to a gleaming Fifth Avenue shop; tragedy 
 that, by the same token, had started four centuries earlier 
 when red-faced, flat-nosed Tatars, led by iron-capped 
 Manchu chiefs, had poured out of Central Asia, to be niet 
 by submissiveness — the baffling submissiveness of placid, 
 yellow China — the submissiveness of a rubber ball that 
 jumps back into place the moment you remove the pres- 
 sure of your hand — the submissiveness of a race that, 
 being old and wise, prefers the evening meal of rice and 
 fried pork to epic, clanking heroics. 
 
 For a moment Ng Ch'u wondered — and shivered 
 slightly at the thought — if Yang Shen-hsiu's perfectly 
 tailored coat might hold the glimmer of steel. Then he 
 reconsidered. This was New York, and the noon hour, 
 and Forty-second Street, youthful, shrill, but filled with 
 tame, warm conveniences, and safe — sublimely safe. 
 
 "I hope I see you well, honorable Manchu?" he asked 
 casually, lighting an expensive, gold-tipped cigaret with 
 fingers that were quite steady. 
 
 "Thank you," replied Yang Shen-hsiu. "I am in ex- 
 cellent health. And yourself?" 
 
 "Nothing to complain of." 
 
 "And — " purred the Manchu; and, beneath the gentle, 
 gliding accents, the other could sense the hard, unfalter- 
 ing resolve of hatred emerging from the dim, wiped-over 
 crepuscule of forty years Into new, brazen, arrogant free- 
 dom — "the — Moon-beam r" 
 
 "Is the Moon-beam no longer." 
 
 "Her spirit has leaped the dragon gate — has rejoined 
 the spirits of her worthy ancestors?" 
 
 "No, no." Ng Ch'u gave a little, lopsided laugh. "But 
 the Moon-beam — alas! — has become Madame Full Moon. 
 She has grown exceedingly fat. As fat as a peasant's 
 round measure of butter. Ahee! ahoo! Age fattens all —
 
 ACHMED ABDULLAH 245 
 
 age softens all — and everything — " His voice trembled a 
 little, and he repeated, "All and everything!" 
 
 Then, rather anxiously, his head to one side, with a 
 patient and inquiring glance in his eyes, 
 
 "Does it not, Yang Shen-hsiu?" 
 
 The latter scratched his cheek delicately with a long, 
 highly polished finger-nail. 
 
 "Yes," he said unhurriedly. "Age softens all and 
 everything — except belike — " 
 
 "So there are exceptions.^" came the meek query. 
 
 "Yes, Ng Ch'u. Three." A light eddied up in the glit- 
 tering, hooded eyes. "A sword, a stone, and — ah — a 
 Manchu." 
 
 Ng Ch'u dropped his cigaret. He put his fingers to- 
 gether, nervously, tip against tip. 
 
 "You have recently arrived in America?" he asked after 
 a short silence. 
 
 He spoke with a sort of bored, indifferent politeness, 
 merely as if to make conversation. But the other looked 
 up sharply. The ghost of a smile curled his thin lips. 
 
 "My friend," he replied, "I, too, am familiar with the 
 inexplicable laws of these foreign barbarians which put 
 the yellow man even beneath the black in human worth 
 and civic respect. I, too, know that we of the black-haired 
 race are not permitted to enter this free land — unless we 
 be students or great merchants or dignitaries of China or 
 came here years ago — like you. I realize, furthermore, 
 that babbling, leaky tongues can whisper cunning words to 
 the immigration authorities — can spill the tea for many a 
 worthy coolie who makes his living here on the strength 
 of a forged passport. But — " smoothly, calmly, as Ng 
 Ch'u tried to interrupt, "it so happened that the Old 
 Buddha looked upon me with favor before she resigned 
 her earthly dignities and ascended the dragon. I, the very 
 undeserving one, have been showered with exquisite 
 honors. Very recently I was sent to America in an official 
 capacity. Thus — as to the Chinese exclusion law, also as 
 to babbling, leaky tongues that whisper here and there — 
 do not trouble, Ng Ch'u. Your tongue might catch cold — 
 and would not that cause your honorable teeth to shrivel?"
 
 246 THE EVENING RICE 
 
 He paused, stared at the other, then — and a tremor ran 
 over his hawkish features, as a ripple is seen upon a stag- 
 nant pool even before the wind of storm strikes it — went 
 on in a voice that was low and passionless, yet pregnant 
 with stony, enormous resolve, 
 
 "Coolie! I have never forgotten the Moon-beam. I 
 have never forgotten that once the thought of her played 
 charming cadences on the lute of my youthful soul. I 
 have never forgotten that once her image was the painted 
 pleasure-boat that floated gently on the waters of my 
 dream-ruffled sleep. I — ah — I have never forgotten that 
 once the Aloon-beam was a yellow, silken rose, and that a 
 coolie brushed the bloom from her petals with his ob- 
 jectionable lips. No — I have never forgotten." 
 
 "And — " asked Ng Ch'u, a little diffident, but quite mat- 
 ter-of-fact, like a bazar trader who is not yet sure of the 
 size of his customer's purse and must therefore bargain 
 circumspectly — "is there no way to — make you forget?" 
 
 "Assuredly there is a way," the Manchu laughed. 
 
 "Oh—?" 
 
 "What sayeth the Li-Ki — ? 'Do not try to fathom what 
 has not yet arrived! Do not climb the tree if you'- wish 
 to catch fish!'" 
 
 And Yang Shen-hsiu went on his way, while Ng Ch'u 
 looked after him with a rather comical expression of de- 
 vout concentration of his round face, clasping and un- 
 clasping his short, pudgy fingers, pursing his lips, and 
 emitting a sort of melancholy whistle. 
 
 He was a coward, and very much afraid. He was only 
 a coolie, tho the receiving teller of the Hudson National 
 Bank purred civilly over his deposit-slips. 
 
 And the other? A Manchu. An aristocrat. A sharp 
 hatchet of a man who cleaved his way through life. 
 Why, even Yang Shen-hsiu's back, beneath the prim and 
 decorous folds of the Prince Albert, gave an impression 
 of steely, ruthless efficiency — the efficiency of a hawk's 
 claw and a snake's fang. 
 
 "Assuredly," Ng Ch'u said to himself, as he turned east 
 down Forty-second Street, "if I were a fool, I would 
 now write to China and complete my funeral arrange- 
 ments. I would order longevity boards of seasoned wood
 
 ACHMED ABDULLAH 247 
 
 and cause the priests to pick out a charming retreat for 
 my earthly remains. Too, if I were a fool, I might quote 
 the Book of Ceremonies and Outer Observances to the 
 tiger about to gore me. Ah — but I am not a fool — I 
 am only a coward — I beg your pardon!" as his head sunk 
 on his chest, he bumped into an indignant dowager who 
 came from a department store, her plump arms crowded 
 with bargains. "I beg your pardon — " 
 
 "Goodness! Can't you see where you're going — ?" 
 
 A bundle dropped. Ng Ch'u bent to pick it up. So did 
 the woman. Ng Ch'u straightened up again and, in the 
 process, butted her chin with a round face that was still 
 earnestly apologetic. 
 
 Another bundle dropped. People stopped, snickered, 
 nudged each other. The woman suppressed unwomanly 
 words. Ng Ch'u then decided to go away from there. 
 
 "Haya! haya!" he continued in his thoughts as he went 
 on his way. "Blessed be the Excellent Lord Gautama 
 who made me a coward! For — is there a keener foresight, 
 a better protection, than fear?" 
 
 And, head erect, he walked along, toward his up-town 
 shop that faced Fifth Avenue, beneath an enormous sign 
 bearing his name in braggart, baroque, gilt letters, with a 
 profusion of China's and Japan's choicest wares — dim, 
 precious things — bronzes mellowed with the patina of the 
 swinging centuries and embroideries and white and green 
 and amber jade; kakemonos in sepia and gold and pigeon- 
 gray, on which the brush of an artist long since dead had 
 retraced the marvels of some capital of the Ashikaga 
 dynasty; ancient koto harps with plectrums of carved 
 ivory; satsuma bowls enameled with ho-ho birds; but 
 mostly the porcelains of China — porcelains of all periods 
 — Wen-tchang statuettes in aubergine and lambent yellow 
 Kang-he ginger-jars painted with blue and white hawthorn 
 sprays. Keen-lung egg-shell plates with backs of glow- 
 ing ruby, Yung-ching peach-blow whose ruddy-brown 
 shimmered with flecks of silver and green and pink like 
 the first touch of Spring that is coaxing the colors from 
 the shy sepal of the peach-blossom. 
 
 He loved porcelains. They represented to him more 
 than money, more than success. He had attached himself
 
 248 THE EVENING RICE 
 
 to their study as an old Florentine attached himself to 
 the study of theology, caring nothing for religion, but with 
 a sort of icy-cold, impersonal, scientific passion. Some- 
 how — for there was his fabulous Odyssey, from a mud- 
 chinked Ninguta hut to a gleaming Fifth Avenue shop — 
 these porcelains were to him the apex of his life, the full, 
 richly flavored sweetness of his achievement; and he often 
 gently teased the Moon-beam, who had become Madame 
 Full Moon, because, in their neat Pell Street flat, she 
 preferred to eat her evening rice from heavy, white Ameri- 
 can stoneware with a border of improbable forget-me-nots. 
 
 "Good morning," he smiled as he crossed the threshold 
 of his shop. 
 
 "Good morning, sir," came the answering chorus from 
 the half dozen Chinese clerks, while his chief salesman, 
 Wen Pao, stepped forward and told him that, an hour 
 earlier, his good customer, Mrs. Peter Van Dissel, had 
 come in and bargained about that pale-blue Suen-tih Ming 
 bowl with the red fish molded as handles. 
 
 "Seven thousand I asked," said Wen Pao. "Five thou- 
 sand she offered — then five thousand five hundred — then 
 six thousand. She will return to-morrow. Then she and 
 I will talk business." He smiled. "The eye of desire 
 fattens the price," he added. 
 
 "Ah— excellent!" replied Ng Ch'u. "Trade indeed re- 
 volves like a wheel. She can have the bowl for six thou- 
 sand five hundred dollars. It is a noble piece, worthy of a 
 coral-button Mandarin's collection." 
 
 He turned to look at the sheaf of letters that awaited 
 his perusal on a teak-wood table at the back of the store. 
 
 Then, suddenly, he again addressed the clerk. 
 
 "Wen Pao," he said. "I have reconsidered. The bowl 
 is not for sale." 
 
 "Oh — ?" the other looked astonished. 
 
 "No," repeated Ng Ch'u. "It is not for sale. Put it 
 in the small safe in my private office. One of these days, 
 when a certain necessary thing shall have been pleasantly 
 accomplished, I shall use the bowl myself, to eat there- 
 from my evening rice. There is no porcelain in the world," 
 he went on rather academically, "like ancient Ming
 
 ACHMED ABDULLAH 249 
 
 marked on the reverse side with the honorific seal of peace, 
 longevity, and harmonious prosperity. It rings sweetly — • 
 like a lute made of glass — under the chop-sticks' delicate 
 touch." 
 
 "Ho!" whispered Nag En HIn, the American-born 
 son of Nag Hop Fat, the Pell Street soothsayer, who had 
 recently graduated from high school. "In the estimation 
 of some people the strings of their cotton drawers are 
 equivalent to a IManchu's silken breeches of state," 
 
 Ng Ch'u had overheard. 
 
 "They are equivalent, little, little paper tiger without 
 teeth," he purred — "in durability — " 
 
 He turned and bowed low before a customer who had 
 entered the shop; and, for the next three hours, there was 
 In his coward's heart hardly a thought of his old enemy. 
 Only dimly the figure of Yang Shen-hsiu jutted into the 
 outer rim of his consciousness, like a trifling annoyance, 
 which, presently, when the time was ripe, he would cause 
 to pass out of his consciousness altogether. 
 
 Nor, except Indirectly, did he speak of him to the 
 Moon-beam that night, after he had returned to his 
 Pell Street flat that, close to the corner of Mott, faced 
 the gaudy, crimson-bedaubed joss temple — he rather liked 
 its proximity. Not that he believed much in the ancient 
 divinities — the Tsaou Kwo-klu who sits on a log, the Han 
 Seang-tse who rides upon a fan, the Chang-Ho-laou who 
 stands on a frog, the Ho Seen-koo astride a willow-branch, 
 or any of the other many Idols, Buddhist or Taolst. For 
 he was a Chinese, thus frankly, sneeringly Irreligious. But 
 he had rare, thaumaturgical moments when his bland- 
 philosophical soul craved a few ounces of hygienic stimu- 
 lant in the form of incense-powder sending up curling, 
 aromatic smoke, a dully booming gong, a priest's mut- 
 tered incantations before the gilt shrine, or a meaningless 
 prayer or two written on scarlet paper and then chewed 
 and swallowed. 
 
 It was so to-night. 
 
 "Moon-beam," he said to his little fat wife, who smiled 
 at his entry as she had smiled at him every day these 
 forty years, ever since she had married him, the earth-
 
 250 THE EVENING RICE 
 
 bound coolie, in preference to a Manchu who had courted 
 her riotously, swaggeringly, extravagantly, willing to leap 
 all barriers of caste, "I think that after the evening rice 
 I shall go to the temple and burn a couple of Hunshuh 
 incense-sticks before the three gods of happiness — the 
 Fo, the Lo, and the Cho." He smiled amusedly at the 
 thought. "Perhaps the gods are powerless to help me," 
 he added with patronizing tolerance, "perhaps they are 
 not. Still — " again he smiled and waved a pudgy hand. 
 
 The Aloon-beam continued setting the table for dinner. 
 
 "You are in trouble, Great One?" she asked, quite casu- 
 ally, over her shoulder. 
 
 "Oh — the jackal howls in the distance," he answered, 
 metaphorically, easing his plump body into a comfortable 
 American rocking-chair. "Yes — " He lit a cigaret. "The 
 jackal howls. Loudly and arrogantly. And yet — will 
 my old buffalo die therefore?" 
 
 She did not reply. Nor was she worried. 
 
 For she knew Ng Ch'u. For forty years she had lived 
 in intimate daily alliance with him, physically and psychi- 
 cally. She knew that he was a one-idead man who 
 always surrendered completely to the eventual aim and 
 object of his slow, patient, persistent, slightly nagging de- 
 cision; who never took the second step before he was 
 sure of the first; who possessed, at the core of his meek, 
 submissive soul, a tremendous, almost pagan capacity to 
 resolve his mind in his desire, and his desire in the actual, 
 practical deed. Yes — she knew him. And never since 
 that day in the little Manchu-Chinese border town when 
 she had become his bride, according to the sacred rites, 
 with all the traditional ceremonies complete from kiiei- 
 chii to laoh-shin-jang, had she doubted either his kindli- 
 ness or his wisdom; never, tho often she walked abroad, 
 in Pell Street, to swap the shifting, mazed gossip of China- 
 town, had she envied the other women — whites and half- 
 castes and American-born Chinese — their shrill, scolding, 
 flaunting, naked freedom; always had she been satisfied 
 to regulate her life according to the excellent Confucius' 
 three rules of wifely behaviour: not to have her marital 
 relations known beyond the threshold of her apartment, 
 either for good or for evil; to refrain from talkativeness
 
 ACHiMED ABDULLAH 251 
 
 and, outside of household matters where she reigned su- 
 preme, to take no step and to arrive at no conclusion 
 on her own initiative. 
 
 Ng Ch'u was in trouble. He was the Great One. 
 Presently he would conquer the trouble. 
 
 What, then, was there to worry about? 
 
 And so, dinner over, she busied her fat, clever little 
 hands with strips of blue-and-blue embroidery, while he 
 prepared for himself the first pipe of the evening — "the 
 pipe of august beginning," as he called it. 
 
 "Ah!" he sighed contentedly, as he kneaded the opium 
 cube with agile fingers, stuck the needle into the lamp, 
 the flame of which, veiled by butterflies and moths of 
 green enamel, sparkled like an emerald, dropped the red- 
 hot little pellet into a plain bamboo pipe without tassels 
 or ornaments, and, both shoulders well back, inhaled the 
 soothing fumes at one long whiff — "this black bamboo 
 pipe was white once — white as my youth — and the kindly 
 drug has colored it black with a thousand and ten thou- 
 sand smokes. It is the best pipe in the world. No pipe 
 of precious wood or ivory or tortoise-shell or jade or 
 carved silver can ever come near that bamboo." 
 
 He stopped; prepared a second pipe. The fizzing of 
 the amber opium drops as they evaporated over the lamp 
 accentuated the silence. 
 
 Presently he spoke again. 
 
 "Moon-beam !" 
 
 "Yes, Great One?" 
 
 She leaned forward, across the table. Her wrinkled, 
 honey-colored old face, framed by great, smooth wings 
 of jet-black hair, loomed up in the ring of light from the 
 swinging kerosene lamp. 
 
 "An ancient pipe," he repeated, "blackened with a 
 thousand and ten thousand smokes. Ahee — " he slurred; 
 then went on, "such as — " 
 
 Again he halted. Then he continued, just a little 
 diffidently, a little self-consciously, as, Mongol to the 
 core, he considered the voicing of intimate sentiments 
 between husband and wife slightly indelicate — "such as 
 our love, Moon-beam — burned deep and strong and black
 
 252 THE EVENING RICE 
 
 by a thousand and ten thousand days of mutual knowl- 
 edge—" 
 
 She looked at him. She rose. She put her arms about 
 him. 
 
 They were rather ludicrous, those two. Yellow, fat, 
 crinkled, old, decidedly ugly. Standing there, holding each 
 other close, in the center of the plain little room. With 
 the garish lights of Pell Street winking through the well- 
 washed window-curtains, the symphony of Pell Street 
 skirling in with a belching, tawdry chorus; a street organ 
 trailing a brassy, syncopated jazz; the hectic splutter and 
 hiss of a popcorn-man's cart; some thick, passionate words 
 flung up from a shadow-blotched postern, then dropping 
 into the gutter: "Gee, kid, I'm sure nuts about you!" 
 "G'wan, yer big slob, tell it t'the marines — " 
 
 Yes. Ludicrous, that scene. 
 
 And ludicrous, perhaps, the Moon-beam's words, in 
 guttural, staccato Chinese, 
 
 "Great One! Truly, truly, all the real world is enclosed 
 for me in your heart!" 
 
 He looked at her from beneath heavy, opium-reddened 
 eyelids. 
 
 "Moon-beam," he said, "once you could have been a 
 Manchu's bride." 
 
 She gave a quaint, giggling, girlish, high-pitched little 
 laugh. 
 
 "Once," she replied, "the ass went seeking for horns — 
 and lost its ears." She patted his cheeks. "I am a coolie's 
 fat old woman. Great One! An old coolie's fat, useless old 
 woman — " 
 
 "Little Moon-beam," he whispered, "little, little Moon- 
 beam — " 
 
 It was the voice of forty years ago, stammering, pas- 
 sionate, tender. He held her very close. 
 
 Then, unhurriedly, he released her. Unhurriedly, he 
 left the room, walked down the stairs and over to the 
 joss temple. 
 
 There — his tongue in his cheek, his mind smiling at his 
 soul — he went through a certain intricate ritual, with
 
 ACHMED ABDULLAH 253 
 
 shreds of scarlet paper, and incense sticks, and pieces 
 of peach-wood especially dreaded by ghosts. 
 
 Yu Ch'ang, the priest, watched him, and — since even 
 holy men must eat and drink — suggested that, perhaps, 
 the other might like sacerdotal intercession with the 
 Shang Ti, the Supreme Ruler of Heaven. 
 
 Ng Ch'u laughed. 
 
 "I have always avoided middlemen," he said. "That's 
 how I made my fortune. Shall I then offend the deity 
 by talking through a priest's greedy lips?" 
 
 And he left the joss temple, and walked out into the 
 street. 
 
 It was late. Rain, that had started in fluttering, flick- 
 ering rags, had driven both dwellers and sightseers to shel- 
 ter. Black, silent, the night looked down. Across the road, 
 from his flat, the lights sprang out warm and snug and 
 friendly. But he remembered that there was some urgent 
 business matter he had to talk over with Ching Shan, the 
 retired merchant who was his silent partner, and that at 
 this hour he would be most likely to find him sipping a 
 cup of hot wine in the back room of Nag Hong Fah's 
 restaurant, which, for yellow men exclusively, was known 
 euphoniously as the Honorable Pavilion of Tranquil 
 Longevity. 
 
 So he turned toward Mott Street. But he kept to the 
 middle of the street, and he stepped slowly, warily, heels 
 well down, arms carefully balanced, head jerked slightly 
 forward, his whole body poised for instant shift or flight, 
 all his senses primed to give quick warning of anything un- 
 usual or minatory. 
 
 For again, now that he was alone, fear of Yang Shen- 
 hsiu had rushed upon him full-armed; and here — with the 
 sodden, pitchy blanket of night painting the shadows with 
 deeper shadows, and the rain-whipped streets deserted by 
 everybody — was the very place where murder might hap- 
 pen, had happened in the past, in Tong war and private 
 feud — the corner saloons with their lurking side entrances, 
 where a man might slip in and out like a rabbit through 
 the tunnels of its warren; the inky, prurient, slimy halls 
 and areaways; the sudden, mysterious alleys cutting edge- 
 wise into mazes of buildings; the steep cellars that yawned
 
 254 THE EVENING RICE 
 
 like saturnine, toothless maws; the squat, moldy, turgid 
 tenements, with the reckless invitations of their fire 
 escapes. 
 
 Ng Ch'u shivered. Should he turn back, make a run 
 for his home.^ 
 
 And — what then.'' 
 
 To-morrow was another day. To-morrow the sun 
 would shine golden and clear. True. But to-morrow 
 the Manchu would still be the Nlanchu; and Ng Ch'u 
 was sure of two things: that Yang Shen-hsiu would plot 
 his speedy death, and that, even supposing he broke the 
 unwritten law of Pell Street, it would be quite useless to 
 go to the police of the red-haired devils and ask them for 
 protection. 
 
 For could he, the merchant, accuse the other, the great 
 Chinese dignitary sent to America on a diplomatic mis- 
 sion.^ And of what.'' What could he say.'' 
 
 Could he make these foreigners believe in this tale of 
 China, of forty years ago? Could he tell them that he 
 and the other had been in love with the same girl, that 
 she had preferred the coolie to the aristocrat, and that 
 the latter had sworn revenge? Could he tell them that 
 those had been the days directly after China's war of 
 eighteen hundred and sixty against France and England, 
 when the imperial court had been compelled to leave 
 Pekin and flee to Jehol, when the Summer Palace had 
 been taken and sacked by the barbarians, when a shame- 
 ful treaty had been forced on the Middle Kingdom, and 
 when the Kuang T'ai Hou, the Empress, the Old Buddha, 
 had issued an edict that, until a "more propitious time" 
 the lives of foreigners should be sacred in the land of Han? 
 Could he tell them how he had found out that the iVIanchu, 
 in a fit of rage, had murdered, and quietly buried, a British 
 missionary; how thus, by threatening exposure to the 
 Pekin authorities, he had held the whip-hand; how, dis- 
 cretion being the better part of valor, he and the JVIoon- 
 beam had emigrated to America; and how now, to-day, 
 forty years later, he had met the Manchu here, in New 
 York — still the same JManchu — hawkish, steely, ruth- 
 less — ? 
 
 Ng Ch'u shook his head.
 
 ACHMED ABDULLAH 255 
 
 He could imagine what Bill Devoy, detective of Second 
 Branch and Pell Street specialist, would say, 
 
 "Cut it out! Ye've been hittin' the old pipe too hard. 
 What? Manchu? Dowager Empress? Moon-beam? 
 Missionary? Revenge? Say — ye've blown in too many 
 dimes on them — now — seven-reelers ! Keep away from 
 the movies, Chinkie — see?" 
 
 Ng Ch'u shivered. He jumped sidewise rapidly as he 
 heard a rustling noise. Then he smiled apologetically — 
 it had just been a dim stir of torn bits of paper whirled 
 about by a vagabond wind — and turned, at a sudden 
 right angle, toward Nag Hong Fah's Great Chop Suey 
 Restaurant \Vhere it slashed the purple, trailing night with 
 a square of yellow light. 
 
 A minute later, his heart beating like a trip-hammer, 
 he was up the stairs. Two minutes later, outwardly com- 
 posed, he bowed, his hands clasped over his chest, to the 
 company of merchants who were gathered in the Hon- 
 orable Pavilion of Tranquil Longevity, some quietly smok- 
 ing or sipping tea, others gossiping, still others playing 
 at hsiang ch'i chess and ta ma. 
 
 The soft, gliding hum of voices, the sizzling of the opium 
 lamps, the sucking of boiling-hot tea drunk by compressed 
 lips, the clicks of the copper and ivory counters — it was 
 all tremendously peaceful and reassuring; and Ng Ch'u 
 sighed contentedly as he dropped into a chair by the side 
 of Ching Shan, his silent partner, and began talking to 
 him in an undertone about a shipment of Sheba pottery 
 which could be picked up at a bargain in San Francisco. 
 
 Presently, business over, he asked a question. 
 
 "Brother very old and very wise," he said, "what are 
 the protections of the day and the night against an evil 
 man?" 
 
 Ching Shan was known throughout Pell Street for his 
 stout wisdom — a reputation which he upheld by quoting 
 esoterically and didactically from some hoary tome of 
 learning, whenever asked a question, and then reinforcing 
 his opinion by a yet lengthier quotation from another 
 book. 
 
 "Ng Ch'u," he replied, "it has been reported in the Shu
 
 2s6 THE EVENING RICE 
 
 King that the sage Wu once spoke as follows: 'I have 
 heard that the good man, doing good, finds the day in- 
 sufficient, and the night, and that the evil man, doing 
 evil, also finds the day insufficient, and the night.' " He 
 paused, looked around him, made sure that not only Ng 
 Ch'u but also the rest of the company were listening to 
 him attentively, and continued: "Yet, as to the evil man, 
 and the good, has it not furthermore been said that the 
 correct doctrine of the good man is to be true to the prin- 
 ciples of his nature and the benevolent exercise of these 
 principles when dealing with others?" 
 
 "Even when dealing with evil men?" asked Ng Ch'u. 
 
 "Decidedly, little brother." 
 
 "Ah — " smiled Ng Ch'u, "and the principle of my na- 
 ture has always been to see that I have pork with my eve- 
 ning rice — to bargain close and tight — to know the worth 
 of money — " 
 
 "Money," said Nag Hong Fah, the restaurant proprie- 
 tor, "which is the greatest truth in the world — " 
 
 "Money," chimed in Yung Long, the wealthy wholesale 
 grocer, "which is mastery and power and sway and shining 
 achievement — " 
 
 "Money," said Ching Shan rather severely, since he had 
 retired from active business affairs and was not worried 
 by financial troubles, "which is good only when used by 
 a purified desire and a righteous aim — " 
 
 "What aim more righteous," rejoined Ng Ch'u, "than 
 peace and happiness and the evening rice — " 
 
 And then, quite suddenly, a hush fell over the Honor- 
 able Pavilion of Tranquil Longevity. Tea cups were held 
 tremblingly in mid-air. Pipes dropped. Voices were 
 stilled. 
 
 For there, framed in the doorway, stood three figures, 
 lean, tall, threatening; faces masked by black necker- 
 chiefs; pistols held steadily in yellow hands. 
 
 "Oh— Buddha!" screamed Nag Hong Fah. "The 
 hatchetmen — the hatchetmen — " 
 
 "Silence, obese grandfather of a skillet!" said the tallest 
 of the three. "Silence — or — " His voice was terse and 
 metallic; his pistol described a significant half-circle and
 
 ACHMED ABDULLAH 257 
 
 drew a bead on the restaurant proprietor's stout chest. He 
 took a step nearer into the room, while his two colleagues 
 kept the company covered. "My friends," he said, "I 
 have not come here to harm anybody — except — " 
 
 His eyes searched the smoke-laden room, and, as if 
 drawn by a magnet, Ng Ch'u rose and waddled up to him. 
 
 "Except to kill me?" he suggested meekly. 
 
 "Rightly guessed, older brother," smiled the other. "I 
 regret — but what is life — eh: — and what is death .^ A 
 slashing of throats ! A cutting of necks ! A jolly ripping 
 of jugular veins!" He laughed behind his mask and drew 
 Ng Ch'u toward him with a strong, clawlike hand. 
 
 The latter trembled like a leaf. 
 
 "Honorable killer," he asked, "there is, I take it, no 
 personal rancor against me in your heart?" 
 
 "Not a breath — not an atom — not a sliver ! It is a 
 mere matter of business!" 
 
 "You have been sent by somebody else to kill me — 
 perhaps by — ?" 
 
 "Let us name no names. I have indeed been sent by — 
 somebody." 
 
 Ng Ch'u looked over his shoulder at Ching Shan who 
 sat there, very quiet, very disinterested. 
 
 "Ching Shan," he said, "did you not say that the correct 
 doctrine of the good man is to be true to his principles 
 and the benevolent exercise of these principles?" 
 
 "Indeed !" wonderingly. 
 
 "Ah — " gently breathed Ng Ch'u, and again he ad- 
 dressed the hatchetman. "Honorable killer," he said, "the 
 nameless party — who sent you here — how much did he 
 promise you for causing my spirit to join the spirits of my 
 ancestors?" 
 
 "But—" 
 
 "Tell me. How much?" 
 
 "Five hundred dollars!" 
 
 Ng Ch'u smiled. 
 
 "Five hundred dollars — eh? — for killing me?" he re- 
 peated. 
 
 "Yes, yes !" exclaimed the astonished hatchetman. 
 
 " Five hundred dollars — eh? — for killing me?" he re- 
 broke into gurgling laughter. "Correct doctrine to be true
 
 258 THE EVENING RICE 
 
 to one's own principles ! Principles of barter and trade — 
 my principles — the coolie's principles — Ahee! — ahoo! — 
 ahai! Here, hatchetman!" His voice was now quite 
 steady. Steady was the hand with which he drew a thick 
 roll of bills from his pocket. "Here are five hundred 
 dollars — and yet another hundred! Go! Go and kill 
 him — him who sent you !" 
 
 And, late that night, back in his neat little flat, Ng Ch'u 
 turned casually to his wife. 
 
 "Moon-beam," he said, "the little trouble has been 
 satisfactorily settled." He paused, smiled. "To-morrow," 
 he added, "I shall eat my evening rice from a pale-blue 
 Suen-tih Ming bowl with red fish molded as handles." 
 
 "Yes, Great One," came the Moon-beam's calm, in- 
 curious reply.
 
 Short Stories 
 
 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND 
 
 BY 
 
 GORDON YOUNG
 
 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND ' 
 By GORDON YOUNG 
 
 FOR reasons that might be called confidential, since 
 they were known only to Billy Rand himself and to 
 the police, he took the tip of a friend wise in geography 
 and made for a speck on the map called Ponape — a bit 
 of an island that sticks out inconspicuously in the South 
 Seas. 
 
 He landed on a beach where there were some natives 
 that he mistook for "niggers" and a lot of Germans. 
 
 Said Billy Rand to a German trader: 
 
 "I'm travelin' for my health and lookin' for a quiet 
 spot. I need rest. This here Langar is too thrivin' a 
 metropolis. It reminds me of New York." 
 
 He looked out of the doorway to where a half dozen 
 little trading schooners were anchored, and at the cor- 
 rugated iron warehouse; but most particularly he looked 
 at the two wireless masts. Those were what reminded 
 him of New York. 
 
 "Ja," said the trader, and tipped the empty beer bottle 
 significantly. 
 
 Billy took the hint. More beer came. Then the trader 
 warmed up slightly and talked. 
 
 Billy didn't know exactly what was being said. No 
 fortune teller bad ever warned him that he ought to study 
 German. 
 
 The trader pointed here and there, and Billy twisted 
 his head about to see. Then he began to realize that the 
 German was talking of directions. Which way did Billy 
 want to travel.^ 
 
 Billy took a chance and poked his finger In the same 
 direction that his nose happened to be. 
 
 ■ Copyright by Short Stories
 
 262 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND 
 
 The trader agreed that it was a desirable choice and 
 put out his hand, palm up. The sign language had never 
 seemed so eloquent to Billy before. 
 
 That was how Billy came to be landed on the beach 
 some two hundred miles from Langar. The bay was 
 pretty and the trader had given him to understand that 
 a missionary lived there. 
 
 But alone on the beach Billy couldn't see anything but 
 niggers. They swarmed about him, "grinned, looked him 
 over curiously, fingered his clothes, felt of him, and chat- 
 tered. He wished heartily that he was back in New York 
 explaining to the judge just how it happened. The trader 
 was already standing out to sea. 
 
 The natives half carried, half dragged the squatty little 
 man with the dapper manner, alias Billy Rand, up the 
 beach and through the bushes until they came to a cleared 
 space where there were grass houses and women cooking. 
 
 "Just in time for dinner!" he said to himself, and nearly 
 fainted. 
 
 Then a man came to the door of one of the grass 
 houses. He was a comparatively young man, fine looking 
 — Billy thought — and not at all like the beachcombers, 
 missionaries and Germans with which Billy had already 
 become acquainted. And Billy could not imagine that 
 any one other than those people — beachcombers, mission- 
 aries and Germans — would hide themselves away in such 
 outlandish places unless for "confidential" reasons. 
 
 "Who are you?" the man asked. It seemed to Billy 
 that there was something pryingly suspicious in the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 Rapidly he hastened to assure this stranger: 
 
 "It's all right. I came along for quiet and rest too. I 
 know just how you feel when a stranger comes along your 
 trail. Now I've—" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," said the other, looking 
 puzzled. Billy noticed that he had brown eyes that looked 
 almost sad. 
 
 "I'm in the same fix as you," Billy explained vaguely. 
 
 "A missionary?" the man asked. 
 
 "Me a what !" 
 
 And Billy followed it up with a few remarks that
 
 GORDON YOUNG 263 
 
 showed he was far from having been trained as a mis- 
 sionary. 
 
 The man looked relieved, though he did say quietly: 
 
 "You see, I'm a missionary. From what you said I 
 judged that you, too — well, I want neither a rival nor an 
 assistant — but," he added quickly, "anybody else is wel- 
 come." 
 
 Billy cast a speculative eye over the crowd of natives 
 ringed about him. 
 
 "Say," he confessed frankly, "I was awfully glad to see 
 you. These fellows had me scared stiff." 
 
 The missionary laughed. "They can't imagine any one 
 being afraid of them." 
 
 "Ain't they got no lookin' glasses?" Billy demanded. 
 
 The missionary laughed again and invited him into his 
 house. 
 
 Billy at first had a nightmarish sensation as he stepped 
 in; lizards, birds and things, some dried, some stuffed, 
 some pickled in bottles, some stuck on cards — bugs and 
 butterflies and flying squirrels and even some bright-scaled 
 fish. 
 
 "Have a little drink?" asked the missionary. "And here 
 is a pipe and some tobacco — trade tobacco. Wretched 
 stuff". Just make yourself at home. And tell me, what's 
 going on in the world? I've been here four years." 
 
 Billy reflected that this man might be a missionary, but 
 he was a good judge of whiskey, though he took only a 
 little for himself and after filling Billy's glass put the 
 bottle away. 
 
 Later another drink for Billy alone was forthcoming; 
 and he, already wanting to stay on and on with the mis- 
 sionary and not wanting him to think that he, Billy, was 
 a murderer or something, up and told just what he would 
 have told the judge if he had not been able to keep just 
 about two jumps ahead of the detectives that were on his 
 trail. 
 
 Billy naively explained that he wasn't going to confess 
 to anybody that he had carried the money from a certain 
 firm of paying contractors to a certain man that could — 
 and did — control the awarding of paving contracts. 
 
 "An' was it police or a woman with you:" Billy inquired
 
 264 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND 
 
 pointedly, feeling that an exchange of confidence was due. 
 
 The missionary gave him a quick glance, then smiled 
 and said that he was really a naturalist, but was officially 
 a missionary because the Germans, who owned the Caro- 
 linas, were more agreeable to missionaries than to scien- 
 tists — of other countries. 
 
 "A woman," Billy said to himself, noticing how hand- 
 some and young the missionary was. His name was 
 Roscoe Tomlin. 
 
 In the next few weeks they got well acquainted. Billy 
 helped, as the natives did, to catch bugs and things and 
 pickle them. He picked up a few words of the dialect 
 and soon had the pickaninnies taking a great fancy to him. 
 
 Then, just as Billy was getting settled to the new life 
 and beginning to feel secure, a little steam yacht nosed 
 cautiously into the mouth of the bay. 
 
 The natives made a dash for the beach, tumbled into 
 canoes and went splashing out to give greetings and get 
 presents. 
 
 Tomlin was off in the bush chasing bugs and things. 
 
 Billy, not being anxious to receive visitors himself, went 
 near the beach and reclined behind a convenient rock. 
 
 Presently he saw a boat dropped from the davits. 
 People got into It. One of them was a woman. They 
 landed on the beach and, in about two minutes, Billy saun- 
 tered out to make sure that she was as pretty as she 
 looked. The men who had rowed ashore stayed in the 
 boat, but she got out with a little man who had a Van- 
 dyke beard, a cap and doublebreasted serge coat. 
 
 "No detective," said Billy reassuringly to himself, 
 "would attempt that disguise." 
 
 "Hello," said the little fellow seeing that Billy was a 
 white man. 
 
 Billy didn't like his looks. Just why, he could not have 
 told. But he didn't like 'em. He wasn't frightened though — 
 besides, she was getting prettier and prettier at every step. 
 
 Her hair was red and her eyes were purple with fire In 
 them; her lips were red as a flame-tree's flower, or maybe 
 more red. She was slender without being slim and moved 
 as easily as a pandanus leaf swinging In a little breeze. 
 Billy was very susceptible to beauty. He would have 
 thrown himself face down right there on the sand for her
 
 GORDON YOUNG 265 
 
 to walk on at the least suggestion that such an attitude 
 would be pleasing to her. She was young without being 
 girlish — nor was there anything old womanish about her. 
 No. Billy, who was a bit hazy on historical events, was 
 sure that she looked exactly like those women who bowl 
 kings off their thrones, get men assassinated — or what- 
 ever else they want. Not that she looked wicked. No. 
 But — well, Billy was a long way from home and she wore 
 her clothes as they are worn on the Boardwalk; she 
 carried herself as women do on Fifth Avenue. And then 
 she was pretty. 
 
 "Is there a man here by the name of Roscoe Tomlin?" 
 the little man asked, turning hard blue eyes on Billy as 
 though he were a bum or Vv^astrel. 
 
 "Who's he?" said Billy, looking innocent. 
 - "Who are you?" the woman asked. She spoke pleas- 
 antly, encouragingly, as though Billy interested her. He 
 and the ladies always did get along, anyway. 
 
 "I'm Billy Rand," he said. "The missionary's assistant." 
 
 "And who is the missionary?" She asked it quickly, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Mr. Roscoe Tomlin," said Billy, bowing low. 
 
 "You — you — you," the little man stuttered angrily, 
 "why didn't you tell me that when I asked you?" 
 
 "Because," Bill answered, looking right at him, "I 
 didn't know the lady was interested !" 
 
 "I'll fix you !" the man shouted, and came toward Billy 
 as though about to do something he shouldn't. 
 
 He was about Billy's size — and Billy never ran in front 
 of ladles, not pretty ones at any rate. 
 
 But hostilities were suppressed peremptorily. She 
 snapped out in a surprised tone: 
 
 "Captain Farewell!" 
 
 The Captain stopped. Anybody would have stopped. 
 
 "That's all right," Billy assured her. "Us missionaries 
 is used to such fellers. Bad lot o' men come to these 
 islands — crooks and things !" 
 
 The Captain appeared to be on the verge of blowing 
 up; but she — she did not seem to notice. She smiled as 
 she asked: 
 
 "Is Mr. — I mean is the Rev. Mr. Tomlin as — as pug- 
 nacious as you?"
 
 266 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND 
 
 "Him?" asked Billy. "Why, he trained me! He eats 
 'em alive." 
 
 "Cannibal, eh?" said the Captain. "I told you how 
 white men degenerated among the natives," he remarked 
 to her. Then of Billy he asked, "Is this Rev. Mr. Tomlin 
 married or — " 
 
 He stopped right there. Billy didn't quite know what 
 the Captain was driving at, but sensed enough to make 
 him w^ant to fight. 
 
 "Has Mr. Tomlin a wife?" she asked. 
 "Has he a native wife?" the Captain emphasized. 
 "Lady," said Billy, getting hot inside, and when he got 
 hot inside he was likely to be blunt in his remarks, "sup- 
 posin' some stranger come to a friend of yours and asked 
 are you married to a nigger!" 
 
 She flushed and caught her breath, but someway it 
 seemed that she was very much pleased, though she said: 
 "You are right. I apologize. But will you please take us 
 to Mr. Tomlin. I am a friend — a former friend of his." 
 So Billy led them up to the house, and the natives 
 came along chattering and grinning and wanting to touch 
 the woman's clothes. Billy warned them off repeatedly 
 with a strange mixture of native words and New York slang. 
 The Captain, speaking like a man does who has some- 
 thing on his mind, asked: 
 
 "And how long have you been here, Rev. Mr. Rand?" 
 "Me? Oh, let's see. Two — no not quite two years. 
 Be two years soon. A feller sort o' loses track of time 
 in a place like this, you know." 
 
 "So I would judge!" said the Captain with a strange 
 intonation that caused Billy some vague uneasiness. 
 
 It stood this way with Billy: The District Attorney 
 back in New York was after the Chief. Certain contrac- 
 tors lost money on a job and that made them peevish, 
 so they swore that they had handed out a bribe to get 
 the contract awarded to them. The Chief stood pat and 
 said: "Prove it!" Billy had carried the money. If Billy 
 confessed, the District Attorney had the proof. But Billy 
 jumped. If he should be caught and still refuse to come 
 through with a confession, it was highly probable that 
 the District Attorney would pry loose some little episodes
 
 GORDON YOUNG 267 
 
 in Billy's past and hand him something. He would not 
 snitch on the Chief and as he did not like the accommo- 
 dations at Sing Sing, Billy had been ducking and dodging 
 all over the Pacific, and the detectives — though they had 
 never laid eyes on him — had been stubborn and alert as 
 ferrets in a rabbit warren. It wasn't that Billy had a 
 criminal record — far from it. But he had been in practical 
 politics as an aid to the Chief. This was a stubborn 
 political fight involving some pretty big pickings, and he 
 had the misfortune to be a crucial witness. So Billy grew 
 very thoughtful at the way Captain Farwell spoke. 
 
 He led the guests into the house and had them sit 
 down. They looked at the bugs and pickled lizards and 
 stuffed fish, but the woman did not shiver. 
 
 "This has always been Roscoe's habit," she said. 
 
 Billy sent some of the native youngsters for green cocoa- 
 nuts and poured a drink of cool milk for the guests. The 
 woman was eager and busy with questions, wanting to 
 know everything knowable about Tomlin; and the Cap- 
 tain watched Billy steadily and continued remarks that 
 made him nervous. 
 
 Billy reflected that the Captain was not a big man in 
 any way — something like himself in build, only a trifle 
 thinner — and, well, a fight wouldn't help much to keep 
 him out of New York, buc it would be gratifying. 
 
 While they were talking, Tomlin came. 
 
 The natives had told him about the witch-boat — any 
 boat, in their minds, was driven by the devil if it did not 
 have sails — and about the white woman and man being in 
 the house. 
 
 He was naturally interested. Tourists were often nosing 
 around in yachts, but he had never seen any before. He 
 came over the doorway — the doorways were built high to 
 keep the pigs out — and said with general friendliness: 
 
 "I hope Billy is making you comfortable." 
 
 "Yes, Roscoe. Quite comfortable," she said, turning 
 her face toward him. 
 
 "You ! — Lorraine — here !" 
 
 "Why, of course. How are you Roscoe? Didn't you 
 get my letter? This is Captain Farwell. Mother is 
 aboard the Petrel, but she isn't well."
 
 268 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND 
 
 Tomlin looked at the Captain and nodded, still in a 
 daze. 
 
 From the way he looked back at Lorraine, Billy did 
 not know whether Tomlin had a peeve and wasn't trying 
 to show it, or didn't have one and wanted to pretend. 
 Lorraine seemed wiser. She smiled at him in a way that, 
 Billy thought, ought to have made a statue come from 
 its pedestal and be human. 
 
 Billy recognized that four was a multitude and said: 
 
 "Captain, you just come with me, and I'll show you 
 a cocoanut grove or a sunset or something." 
 
 Lorraine frankly rewarded Billy with a smile and a 
 glance. 
 
 The Captain hemmed and hawed, but she said as po- 
 litely as though she meant it: "Certainly Captain, we'll 
 excuse you. I remember you said you wanted to see a 
 real native village. Mr. Rand, I'm sure, will be an ex- 
 cellent guide." 
 
 "Yes," said Tomlin, feeling no doubt that he ought to 
 say something, "Billy has been here only a few weeks, but 
 he knows the natives almost as well as I." 
 
 Billy at once felt himself crumbling from the inside. 
 He had counted much on an alibi that would give him a 
 two year residence on the island. 
 
 Lorraine seemed to realize that something was wrong. 
 She caught Billy's eye, and in about the tenth part of a 
 second, then and there with nothing more than a sparkle 
 of light from under her long lashes, made an offensive 
 and defensive alliance with him. 
 
 When they were outside the Captain said: 
 
 "How one must lose track of time here! Remarkable, 
 isn't it! I feel as though I'd been here several days." 
 
 "The cocoanuts are down this way," said Billy, starting 
 off. 
 
 "By the way, Rand, I don't suppose there is any way 
 of getting out of this place, is there?" the Captain asked. 
 
 "How do you mean, get out?" 
 
 It was a question uppermost in Billy's mind. 
 
 "I mean any of these islands — off like this. Just before 
 we left Langar I heard of a couple of detectives from New 
 York. They have tracked their man half way around
 
 GORDON YOUNG 269 
 
 the world, and discovered that about two months ago — 
 maybe a little less — he left Langar with a German trader. 
 The trader is out now on a trip and they're waiting for 
 him to come back and tell them where he dropped this 
 man. 
 
 "Neither of these detectives, so I heard — the steward 
 talked with them — has ever seen the man. But they have 
 a good description of him, a very good description. Short 
 inclined to be chubby — though possibly he's thinned out 
 some since he became a fugitive — blue eyes, dark brown 
 hair. Somewhat resourceful, they say. Passed himself 
 as a waiter and got passage on a government transport to 
 Guam. Pretended to be a discharged marine at Guam 
 and shipped with a pearl pirate for Yap. At Yap he 
 became a planter and doubled back to Langar. They 
 don't know what he told the trader, but they know this 
 trader never makes anything but little islands out of touch 
 with the world. They figure that they have their prize this 
 time. Haven't seen anybody of his description, have 
 you?" 
 
 Billy came very nearly to saying yes; but what would 
 be the use? In normal spirits he would have told the 
 Captain that the description fitted himself — the Captain — 
 pretty closely. But Billy was in no mood for humor. 
 
 "I am telling you all this so that in case you ever run 
 across the fellow you can send word to Langar. Quite a 
 reward for him, I understand. The detectives are waiting 
 there. They heard the Petrel was cruising about, and 
 asked the steward to notify everybody on board. They 
 are very impatient. I am sure if they got wind of where 
 the fellow was they would hire a schooner and go for him." 
 
 "Can't arrest him without the consent of German au- 
 thorities, can they?" Billy inquired. 
 
 "Not properly, of course. But they can smuggle him 
 out. Once they get their hands on him they will not stop 
 to ask questions until they get to New York. This fellow 
 is so resourceful and tricky that they won't give him half 
 a chance to make trouble for them." 
 
 Billy did not answer. He was beginning to feel a kind 
 of companionable sympathy for the lizards that he and 
 Tomlin caught and smothered in chloroform before "pick-
 
 270 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND 
 
 lin' 'em." No matter where he went he felt that he 
 never appreciably increased the distance between himself 
 and 240 Centre Street, New York — Police Headquarters. 
 
 But Billy wasn't the only one who was having troubles. 
 Lorraine and Tomlin came walking toward the beach, 
 and a blind man could tell that neither of them was 
 happy. The Captain, not being blind, appeared perky 
 and pleased. 
 
 "Aren't you coming to see mother?" she asked wist- 
 fully as she got into the boat. Perhaps she was too proud 
 to ask him to come on her own account. 
 
 "To-morrow, Lorraine. To-morrow," he said in an 
 empty voice that showed he scarcely knew what he was 
 saying. 
 
 "To-morrow!" he said, not without a touch of anger. 
 Then to Billy, "Mr. Rand, will you come and have dinner 
 with me — now!" 
 
 "I sure am delighted!" said Billy, and without looking 
 toward the reproachful eyes of Tomlin or the glaring 
 eyes of the Captain, he climbed into the boat, and gave 
 all of his attention to Lorraine's. 
 
 Billy thought the Petrel was about the finest thing im- 
 aginable, all white and shiny, and he thought the dinner 
 was too much for mere words to describe — with just him- 
 self and Lorraine at the table. The mother was not well, 
 but she looked much worse when Lorraine said that 
 Tomlin wouldn't come — until to-morrow. 
 
 At dinner Billy got the whole story. Of course Lor- 
 raine didn't intend to tell it, but she did — at least enough 
 of it for him to understand that some years before she 
 had loved Tomlin and he had loved her, and that they 
 were promised, each to the other. But of course there 
 had loved Tomlin and he had loved her, and that they 
 was rich and he was poor and had "pride" — also a passion 
 for bugs and things. There isn't much money to be 
 made out of that sort of study, and she objected to being 
 expected to live on what he made from it — when she was 
 rich as an Indian princess. Her father offered to help 
 Tomlin along in business, but Tomlin insisted that his 
 career was in studying bugs, and that made the father 
 peevish and he said that Tomlin didn't need help. Nat-
 
 GORDON YOUNG 271 
 
 urally Tomlin then grew more peevish and said that the 
 father and his money could go to the — well, wherever it 
 is that rich men go on Judgment Day when they fail to 
 get through the eye of the needle. And, of course, that 
 made Lorraine peevish, and she said that Tomlin didn't 
 love her. But he said that he did and always would, 
 but that he had "pride." So the engagement was shat- 
 tered, and Lorraine married a man rich as she was. But 
 Tomlin had her heart and she couldn't forget him. Be- 
 sides, she felt that maybe after all she was to blame. 
 When her husband died from overwork of the stomach, 
 she inquired and found that Tomlin had turned missionary 
 to the Caroline Islands. She talked with her mother, and 
 the mother, having known all along how Lorraine felt, 
 said to do it, so Lorraine sent Tomlin a letter (the mail 
 is delivered to stray missionaries once every three or four 
 years), took the Petrel, engaged Captain Farwell, and 
 set out to locate Tomlin, being aided thereby through the 
 Board by Foreign Missions which had him down on its 
 payroll for $35 every three months. But as converting 
 heathens isn't a very paying business, there were times 
 when he did not get that. 
 
 It was a long trip. And Captain Farwell, being a 
 single man and feeling himself as attractive as any mis- 
 sionary, continually told her of how white men degen- 
 erated in the tropics and — well, the inference was that no 
 woman could ask for a better husband than a sailorman 
 of just his height and age. He might as well have sug- 
 gested himself as the consort for the Empress Dowager 
 of China. But the Captain had ideas and believed himself 
 a very resourceful gentleman. 
 
 "And Roscoe," she said bitterly, "still has that awful 
 'pride' of his!" 
 
 "He loves you, don't he?" Billy demanded. 
 
 She looked a little startled, but admitted that Tomlin 
 had said he did and had never loved any one else; and 
 her eyes seemed to ask Billy what he thought of a man 
 who would love a girl and not show it. 
 
 Billy was a man of some attainment in the use of his 
 wits. He had lived by them for many years. He assured 
 Lorraine that all Tomlin needed was a little friendly
 
 272 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND 
 
 advice and to "leave it to me!" She was a bit alarmed 
 at Billy's proprietary manner in taking over her love af- 
 fair, but they were a long way from home and the conven- 
 tions of New York. 
 
 And when Billy started to leave she said: "And by the 
 way, Mr. Rand, if for any reason you care to leave on the 
 Petrel, whether or not Roscoe comes, you will be welcome. 
 And we are not going back by way of Langar!" 
 
 "Them detectives '11 be awfully disappointed if you 
 don't," Billy said frankly, wondering just how much 
 Tomlin had told her, and what the steward had told 
 her — or Captain Farwell? 
 
 Billy got into the boat to be taken ashore, but the sailors 
 said that they were waiting for the Captain, too. Presently 
 Captain Farwell came and as the boat shoved off" in the 
 darkness, there was a crackling and snapping on board 
 the Petrel. Billy had noticed the wireless. He was not 
 much of a sailor and besides it had seemed natural for 
 ships to have tall poles and wires and ropes. 
 
 "Mr. Rand," said the Captain, when he came, "I'm 
 sending to Langar a description of the man we met on the 
 island this afternoon." 
 
 Of course, he said it that way so the sailors wouldn't 
 understand. 
 
 "And I believe," he went on, "that I can persuade the 
 owner of the Petrel that it would be wiser to go back by 
 way of Langar." 
 
 So the Captain had been listening. 
 
 Billy settled down on a thwart and tried to think. 
 
 "It will take the detectives about two days to get here. 
 Much may happen in two days." 
 
 Billy hoped so. 
 
 The Captain left Billy to ruminate until the boat hit 
 the beach. Then he got out and said that he would walk 
 a bit with Billy. 
 
 "You know," the Captain began, "if Tomlin should not 
 leave on the Petrel I don't believe that we would go back 
 by way of Langar." 
 
 Billy said nothing. He didn't quite understand. 
 
 "And in that case, if you were on board the detectives 
 would never meet you." 
 
 "Go on," said Billy. "I'm interested."
 
 GORDON YOUNG 273 
 
 *'But if Tomlin remained — and was able to talk, under- 
 stand — he would tell that you had gone on the Petrel and 
 you wouldn't be much better off. Besides, the Petrel 
 would be into trouble for having tried to do you a favor. 
 They would get hold of the Petrel some way." 
 
 "That's right," said Billy. "Now tell it all." 
 
 "I'll be frank with you. You are a bad crook, so I 
 don't suppose one crime more or less means much to you, 
 does it:" 
 
 "Naw, I'm bad!" said Billy grinning to himself in the 
 darkness. 
 
 "Listen then. You kill Tomlin and I'll see that you get 
 away. Let him live this night out and I'll put you in 
 irons and carry you to Langar myself." 
 
 "Ooo-oo," said Billy. "I'm in a pickle." 
 
 "You are," said the Captain, speaking firm. 
 
 "With Tomlin out of the way, you think this girl can 
 be consoled by being Mrs. Farwell. Am I some guesser?" 
 
 "You discuss your own business. Not mine." 
 
 "Sure. You've got what they call the upper hand." 
 
 "I have." The Captain was a man of decision; very 
 firm, too. 
 
 "How's the best way to go about it to keep Tomlin 
 quiet r" 
 
 "Knife him." 
 
 "All thought out!" said Billy, admiringly. 
 
 "Yes. Here's a knife. Don't leave it lying around. If 
 you do I shall swear you stole it from me." 
 
 "I'll bring it back to you." 
 
 "You'll do it then.^"" 
 
 "I'll come to the Petrel in the mornin' and say a nigger 
 done it." 
 
 "That's right. Don't fail me. It'll go hard with you." 
 
 "I believe you," said Billy, as the Captain turned away 
 and walked back toward the beach. 
 
 Billy, grinning thoughtfully, went up to the house. 
 Through the doorway he could see Tomlin with his elbows 
 on the table, his hands in his hair, sitting amid his 
 troubles. The lantern hanging from a beam made him 
 look like a great grotesque image carved from teak. 
 
 Billy climbed over the doorway. 
 
 "Billy — " Tomlin said anxiously, ready to ask questions.
 
 274 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND 
 
 Billy did not answer, but started gathering up his few- 
 belongings, and making a great show of that. 
 
 "Billy, what are you doing?" 
 
 No answer, but much rummaging. 
 
 "Billy, have you gone crazv?" 
 
 "Nope." 
 
 "What are you doing?" 
 
 "I'm movin'." 
 
 "Moving? What's the matter?" 
 
 "I got pride," said Billy. 
 
 "Pride? What on earth is the matter with you?" 
 
 Then Billy told him. That is Billy explained how he 
 had landed on the beach and been living on Tomlin's 
 charity, and he simply couldn't stand it any more. His 
 pride wouldn't let him stand it. He was going back in 
 the bush and hunt berries and bugs of his own. 
 
 "But Billy — are you crazy? I've done nothing for you. 
 I've liked you — I want you to stay." 
 
 "Nope. I got pride!" 
 
 "You idiot!" Tomlin cried, jumping up, his strained 
 nerves at the breaking point. 
 
 "Who's an idiot?" 
 
 "You are. All this means nothing to me. I'm glad to 
 share it with you. Anything — everything. I like you — 
 and you — you — " 
 
 " — then why don't you marry her?" Billy cut in. 
 
 Tomlin's face went blank as the palm of his hand. 
 
 "What does all that mean to her? She just wants to 
 share it with you. And you got pride. Aw, you just want 
 her to coax and beg." 
 
 "Look here — what are you talking about?" Tomlin 
 demanded. 
 
 "See this knife," said Billy, flourishing the long, cold 
 blade. "Well — " and Billy told him everything. 
 
 A few hours later Tomlin was talking like a happy 
 child and trying to shave while Billy sat at the table 
 painfully trying to write a note. 
 
 Tomlin knocked over a shelf of pickled lizards. 
 
 "Look out!" Billy exclaimed. 
 
 "To hell with 'em!" said Tomlin. 
 
 "A missionary to — "
 
 GORDON YOUNG 275 
 
 "I've thought out my letter of resignation," said Tomlin. 
 
 Billy finished his note and put it in his pocket, saying: 
 "I'll rout out some niggers and you come about fifteen 
 minutes after me. Meantime I got to kill a chicken." 
 
 He slipped out and feeling under the low eaves grabbed 
 a sleepy fowl. Captain Farwell's knife was soon a very 
 grewsome object. 
 
 Just before dawn Billy paddled out to the Petrel. He 
 inquired for Lorraine's cabin and banging on the door 
 slipped her his note with a word or two of explanation, 
 then returned to the deck. 
 
 "Mr. Tomlin was murdered by natives last night," he 
 said to a sailor on watch. "The lady wants me to tell 
 the Captain." 
 
 Billy was shown to the Captain's cabin and the sailor 
 went to spread the news forward. 
 
 "Who's there?" said the Captain. 
 
 "Me," said Billy. "The niggers killed Tomlin last night I" 
 
 "Come in," said the Captain, excited. Billy came in. 
 
 "Shut the door." 
 
 It was shut. 
 
 "Lock it." 
 
 Billy fumbled with the lock. 
 
 The Captain was in bed, sitting up, nervous. 
 
 "He is dead?" 
 
 "See this?" said Billy, pulling out the knife. 
 
 "Why didn't you wipe it off?" 
 
 "All right," said Billy as he grabbed the end of the sheet 
 and wiped the blade. 
 
 "You fool — the stains — here — " 
 
 "Where else should they be? Us murderers has to stick 
 together." 
 
 "Are you trying to implicate me? But I've got you — 
 I'll swear — you're going to murder me !" 
 
 With that the Captain sprang out of bed and began 
 yelling "Murder ! Help !" 
 
 The door opened and Lorraine stood there, just as 
 Billy had requested. Her hair was tumbled down and 
 she wore a kimono of white silk with blue birds. Her 
 face did not look pleasant, and her eyes were cold and 
 straight, but she said quite calmly:
 
 276 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND 
 
 "Captain Farwell, I have been listening with the door 
 ajar ever since you told Mr. Rand to lock it!" 
 
 With that she turned and walked off. 
 
 The Captain dropped his jaw, and then himself. He 
 flopped like a sack of flour into a chair and sat there 
 staring at Billy. 
 
 "You see, Cap," said Billy, friendly-like, "I'm wanted 
 back in New York as a witness in a bribery case. Not 
 for murder. And seein' as you don't want it, I think I'll 
 keep this knife as a little souvenir." 
 
 The Captain said nothing, so Billy kept the knife and 
 went out, shutting the door. 
 
 Down the passageway he came upon Tomlin with his 
 arms around Lorraine, and she was weeping happily. 
 
 Billy overheard " — as soon as we can find a minister." 
 
 "But you are one!" she insisted. "And Mr. Rand — 
 isn't he—" 
 
 Tomlin exploded into laughter. 
 
 But Billy intervened. 
 
 " 'Scuse me for interferin' with the reunion, but If you 
 are lookin' for a weddin' ceremony, allow me to offer my 
 services." 
 
 Tomlin looked surprised for it was obvious that Billy 
 was in earnest. 
 
 Billy hastened' to explain that when he had come over 
 to Guam on the transport the captain had married an 
 officer and a nurse, so It appeared that captains could 
 marry people — though a missionary's assistant couldn't! 
 
 "That's right!'; said Tomlin. _ 
 
 Lorraine was inclined to object. 
 
 "Then we must wait, my dear." 
 
 "We have waited so long!" she said, thereby agreeing 
 to the Captain's performing the ceremony. 
 
 The Captain was still in pajamas and on his chair and 
 showed all the visible symptoms of nervous prostration. 
 
 "Captain," said Billy, cheerfully, "we'd like to have a 
 knot spliced this mornin' and seein' as how you are a 
 sailor — " 
 
 "Will you be good enough to perform the wedding 
 service?" Tomlin asked, sternly. After all It was his, not 
 Billy's wedding.
 
 GORDON YOUNG 277 
 
 The Captain choked and was badly scared, but at last 
 managed to say that he was "agreeable," although he 
 didn't appear to be. 
 
 Billy grabbed a pair of sailors for witnesses, the Cap- 
 tain fished out a Bible — and Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe Tomlin 
 marched out blushing and happy to break the news to 
 mother; whereupon the old lady climbed right out of bed, 
 cured. 
 
 That afternoon the Captain had a little talk with Mr. 
 and Mrs. Tomlin and said that he would like permission to 
 go ashore and stay there, as relations on board had be- 
 come somewhat strained. He knew that a boat would be 
 along in two or three days (the detectives had answered 
 that they were coming). It was v»ry irregular — a captain 
 leaving his ship that way — but Tomlin said that all 
 things considered, he thought it would be well. 
 
 So the Captain said good-bye to the steward and whis- 
 pered something that caused the steward to look hard at 
 Billy; then he, the Captain, left, bag and baggage. 
 
 That day was spent in getting Tomlin's bugs and lizards 
 on board and in saying good-bye to the natives. 
 
 The next morning with the First Officer on the bridge, 
 the Petrel steamed out and left the Captain sitting on the 
 beach — very glad to have got away without charges being 
 laid up against him. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Tomlin cornered Billy and asked what 
 on earth they could do for him. 
 
 "Yesum," said Billy. "Just drop that steward over- 
 board." 
 
 Mrs. Tomlin promised that at the first port they 
 reached the steward would be fired and given passagi2 
 money home. 
 
 As the day passed Billy walked the deck and exchanged 
 jokes with the First Officer, who was the new Captain — 
 and glad of it, because he had never liked Farwell any- 
 how. Then a little trading schooner came over the line, 
 bow on. 
 
 Billy knew right away by intuition that she carried 
 the detectives. 
 
 When within hailing distance the schooner heaved to 
 and the Petrel slowed down.
 
 278 THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND 
 
 A fellow from the bow called out to thank the Captain 
 for having tipped him off as to the crook wanted in New 
 York, and asked if he was still In the nigger village. 
 
 The new Captain didn't quite understand; but Billy 
 grabbed the megaphone and yelled: "Yes — raised a beard 
 — stole papers and clothes from the ship — may try to pass 
 himself off as a Captain or something — clever crook, you 
 know — let 'im explain nothin' or you won't get him to 
 New York. Good luck !" 
 
 A shout of thanks came over the water as the Petrel 
 started churning ahead. 
 
 Billy looked after the little schooner, and taking a deep 
 breath, said gratefully to himself, "The Lord helps them 
 as helps 'emselves ! Can you see the D. A. when he gets 
 hold of old Cap. Farwell expectin' to see little Billy!"
 
 The Woman's Hoyne Companion 
 
 ACCORDING TO RUSKIN 
 
 BY 
 
 HARRIET WELLES
 
 ACCORDING TO RUSKIN ' 
 By HARRIET WELLES 
 
 DURING the first few days after the Armistice was 
 signed I seemed, for some strange reason, to wish to 
 sit idly in my room in the London hotel where I was tem- 
 porarily domiciled. 
 
 Ever since I had left my home in America, the days in 
 war-time England had been so full, so tensely crowded, 
 that each seemed crammed with events — events, occurring 
 somehow in an eternal twilight that will always recur to 
 me with the memory of the unbearable, shadowy premoni- 
 tion of an approaching night; the sight of troops marching 
 across the city under faint stars, dim against the afterglow; 
 laden lorries lumbering, convoy wagons creaking, through 
 the dusk; constantly returning ambulances, with their end- 
 less gleanings, seeming to leave a perceptible shadow long 
 after they had passed. Even the pot of parrot tulip bulbs, 
 purchased to brighten my window sill, finally blossomed, 
 and contributed to my illusion of twilight by producing 
 wan, colorless flowers. 
 
 And then the Armistice was signed, and I awakened 
 from my doze to find it bright morning with dazzling 
 sunshine! Small wonder that most of us drew a long 
 breath and, blinking uncertainly, hesitated. . . . 
 
 But, after a few days, old ties reasserted themselves. I 
 had been too busy, too harassed, before, to look up old 
 friends; now, I sat down and wrote the one for whom, 
 during a year in the Orient where her husband and mine 
 each held an official position, I had grown to have a very 
 deep admiration and afi'ection. "It will be pleasant to see 
 a real English family in their own home, during the first 
 days of peace," I planned, remembering my friend, her 
 pleasant husband, and their three sons and one pretty 
 daughter. 
 
 * Copyright The Woman's Home Companion.
 
 282 ACCORDING TO RUSKIN 
 
 Before her answering letter, urging me to make them a 
 long visit, came, my plans were suddenly changed, my 
 sailing date hastened. I was able to arrange for only one 
 afternoon with her in the cathedral town where she lived, 
 near London. 
 
 The only books on sale at the railroad station book 
 stall were war literature, for which, now that the night- 
 mare was so recently over, I had a deep repugnance, so I 
 dug out from a pile of miscellaneous books a cheap paper- 
 covered volume of Ruskin's essays, and settled myself to 
 improve my mind, while the toy train moved leisurely 
 on its punctual way. 
 
 My friend waved to me from a wicker pony cart as I 
 alighted from the train at her station. She bridged the 
 years which stretched between our last meeting, half a 
 world away, and the present, by the friendliness of her 
 greeting, the sincere warmth of her welcome. "There 
 wasn't anyone to hold this fractious beast, or I wouldn't 
 be sitting here," she apologized as she kissed me. 
 
 "He looks peaceful enough," I commented, taking the 
 seat beside my hostess. 
 
 "She isn't! Since our horses were commandeered, and 
 we were allowed only eight gallons of petrol a month for 
 the motor, we've had to depend on this pony. She's put 
 on a lot of side since she realized that she was a war- 
 worker," volunteered my friend as the pony shied heraldi- 
 cally at a baby carriage. "She's seen that perambulator — 
 or others like it — every day for the last fifteen years, and 
 never noticed until now." 
 
 The pony, suddenly bored by her own antics, slowed 
 down to a jog trot; we rounded a grove of trees, and came 
 upon a typical English village dominated by a gray cathe- 
 dral. "How quaint — how peaceful!" I exclaimed with 
 unfeigned enthusiasm. 
 
 "Yes, it is a dear old place," she agreed, and hesitated: 
 "I suppose that, in a way, it's peaceful, too, if you can 
 overlook the sorrow or suffering in every house. Our 
 older men will have to stay in harness and bear the bur- 
 dens much longer than heretofore; the middle generation 
 is wiped out. We must wait for the lads who are children 
 now. There isn't one young man left, in this village, who
 
 HARRIET WELLES 283 
 
 isn't lame or blind," she said, and indicated with her whip 
 a cottage doorway. On the step a blond boy leaned idly 
 against a post. Something in his lack of cognizance of us 
 made me look more closely. "Blind, deaf from 'shell- 
 shock,' and his right arm gone," my friend explained. 
 
 I mentally searched for a pleasanter subject. "You 
 haven't told me of your family — your husband, Daphne, 
 the boys.'' I was so excited at seeing you that I waited to 
 ask," I said. 
 
 We were passing the green cloister of the cathedral. 
 Above us towered the gray pile with its buttresses, gar- 
 goyles and columns; from an unseen belfry a deep-toned 
 bell sounded the hour, a silvery chime supplemented the 
 old canticle: "He . . . watching over Israel . . . slum- 
 bers not . . . nor sleeps." 
 
 My friend listened intently. "Sometimes, when bad 
 news arrived, or the severely wounded came home, I've 
 wondered. I've questioned," she said. I knew that she 
 referred to the message of the bells. 
 
 "You needn't question any more. Now, you know!" 
 I comforted. 
 
 "Yes," she agreed, "now I know — it had to be. All 
 English mothers are sure of that." 
 
 There was in her tone quiet and sincere earnestness 
 that any comment seemed superfluous and Impertinent, 
 so In silence we drove on down the long road and passed 
 through a stone gateway and up a curving avenue to the 
 most perfect Georgian house that I have ever seen. She 
 smiled at my enthusiastic admiration. 
 
 "I used to get so homesick for it, in China," she volun- 
 teered; "my great-great-grandfather built it on the ruins 
 of an older place of ours which had burned." 
 
 An old stableman hobbled up to take the reins. We 
 went In past an elderly parlor maid who had opened the 
 door, and I instantly succumbed to the perfection of the 
 sunshiny hall, with Its floor of black and white marble, 
 and the square, paneled rooms opening off on either side 
 of it. 
 
 "We've had tea In the garden every afternoon, it has 
 been such a beautiful^, open autumn. But perhaps you'd
 
 284 ACCORDING TO RUSKIN 
 
 prefer having it in the house?" suggested my friend. 
 
 "I'd much rather have it in the garden," I agreed, re- 
 luctantly detaching my attention from the Adam mantel- 
 piece and turning to examine the carved corners of the 
 old wall panels. The rooms were veritable museums of 
 rare and beautiful furnishings; they showed a finished 
 perfection of detail, from the wax candles in the crystal 
 chandeliers to the faded needle-point upholstering on the 
 Chippendale chair seats. 
 
 "Just think of the generations of discriminating people 
 whose taste is represented in your home! Didn't any 
 of them ever make mistakes and buy black walnut hor- 
 rors?". I cried, and added, "What a magnificent heritage 
 to hand down, unspoiled, to your children!" 
 
 She did not answer. I turned and found her storing 
 down at the sturdy carving on a superb oak bench. "My 
 great-great-great-great-grandfather's favorite seat," she 
 explained, rousing herself. "He sailed with Drake . . . 
 and was a firm believer in the unalterable greatness 
 of England, and England's future. . . as I am a believer 
 in it!" She paused. "But sometimes I wonder . . . what 
 will become of our household gods. . . ." 
 
 "Become of them?"' I cried. She interrupted me. 
 
 "Must you really go back to London this afternoon?" 
 she asked, and at my reluctant affirmative continued, "I've 
 ordered tea early for that reason. Shall we go out into 
 the garden? . . . Ah, Daphne!" 
 
 I turned to greet the daughter of the house as she came 
 down the stairs, and drew a deep breath of pleasure. 
 She had been a pretty girl, but now she was even lovelier, 
 and while the contrast between her soft dress and lace 
 hat and her mother's severely plain attire was striking, I 
 felt thankful that, in war-weary England, Beauty was 
 encouraged. 
 
 "Daphne — and grown up!" I greeted her. 
 
 She smiled. "Were you at my wedding?" she asked. 
 
 "Why, no! I didn't even know that you had been 
 married," I commented. Her mother interposed: "We 
 hadn't time to look up addresses or have invitations en- 
 graved. George's leave was so short." 
 
 Daphne was not listening; now, she interrupted, "Tea
 
 HARRIET WELLES 285 
 
 — so soon? In the garden?" And without waiting for 
 an answer glanced at the shabby volume still clasped in 
 my hand. "Book? Any pictures?" she asked. I smiled. 
 "You haven't grown up at all!" I told her, and added, 
 "Ruskin's essays — without illustrations!" 
 
 The parlor maid appeared in the doorway. "Tea is 
 served," she announced. We followed her to the garden 
 entrance. "Everything here is so quiet!" I said as wfe 
 went through the gate. "Oh!" I cried, "this is a perfect 
 as the house!" and gazed entranced at the long vistas of 
 box-lined paths, the grouped battalions of clipped yews, 
 and the massed planting of cosmos, chrysanthemums, and 
 flaming dahlias. 
 
 My friend smiled. "You should see it in August when 
 the white lilies make a mist of blossoms along the walls, 
 and forget-me-nots are reflected in the pool," she said. 
 
 "And the poppies!" cried Daphne. 
 
 Almost sharply her mother denied: "Not poppies. 
 Daphne. Never again poppies ! I've given orders for 
 the poppies to be weeded out as fast as they come up." 
 
 She gave careful attention to the making of the tea. 
 "Not such good tea as we had in the Orient," she apolo- 
 gized. 
 
 We spoke of our winer in Hong-Kong and the visiting 
 dignitaries. "Wonder what has become of the Austrian 
 duchess who wore the silver dress and huge diamonds at 
 the dinner at Government House?" or, "Did you ever hear 
 again of Mrs. Carson, who ran away with that young 
 German? I was told that they are living in Tasmania," 
 or, "How did the Llewellyn marriage turn out? You re- 
 member we didn't think it would be a success?" And 
 recalled the terrible typhoon which had come up so sud- 
 denly that hundreds of unprepared, helpless sampans and 
 junks were swept into the port of lost ships. "I'll never 
 forget the abject terror of some of those Chinese sailors 
 who, as the junks swept by, were chanting their appeal 
 to the sea-god." I said. 
 
 She agreed soberly, remembering the tragic day. "I 
 like to think of that incongruous Scotch regiment with 
 the bagpipes, marching gayly along the walks bordered
 
 286 ACCORDING TO RUSKIN 
 
 with tall blossoming poinsettias that flamed against the 
 brown banks," she supplemented. We relived a summer 
 in the mountains of Japan, and laughed over the mem- 
 ories of various mishaps when we had tried, unavailingly, 
 to "hustle the East." "I've never been able to look a 
 hard-boiled egg in the eye since we patronized those 
 Chuzenji tea houses," I said; "if all the embryo chickens 
 I devoured were suddenly to appear — " 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" agreed my friend. We laughed to- 
 gether. 
 
 Daphne had wandered off. I could see her white figure, 
 misty against the rosy mauve of the cosmos; I wondered 
 if she had lost interested memory of the Japanese holidays 
 she had so much enjoyed. She had not spoken of them 
 or recalled our former friendship and now, oblivious of me, 
 I could hear her happily humming an old song. I felt 
 chilled, grieved, and mystified; Daphne had been very 
 much attached to me during the old days; I had looked 
 eagerly forward to seeing her again, and now she treated 
 me as though I were the most casual acquaintance, I 
 thought; then took myself sharply in hand. "You're 
 stupid!" I accused mentally. Aloud, I said, "How happy 
 Daphne seems ! I suppose that you expect her husband 
 back any time, now.'"' 
 
 My friend set the teapot down; for a second, as she did 
 not answer but sat gazing across the sunshiny garden. I 
 thought that she had not heard. Then she turned and 
 faced me. "No — " she commenced. 
 
 Daphne had come up behind me. "Tea?" she asked, and 
 took the cup that her mother had prepared for me, then, 
 sitting down, she asked, "Were you at my wedding?" 
 
 "No," I answered; "tell me about it." 
 
 "Flowers ! We had flowers, and there were flags. I 
 had a white dress — " she began, then stopped blankly. 
 
 Her mother took up the account. "We made it as pretty 
 as we could," she said. "Of course, last year, no one had 
 much heart for celebrating except at a wedding! Daphne's 
 two cousins were the bridesmaids; they carried big loose 
 bunches of moss-roses from this garden — som^ehow garden 
 flowers seemed more suitable for weddings during those
 
 HARRIET WELLES 287 
 
 days when home, and all that homes stand for, were the 
 real issue of the war." 
 
 She paused, then went on: "My husband came down 
 from his training camp and gave Daphne away. I'd been 
 working two days a week, for over three years, among the 
 widows and mothers of sailors, at Deptford. Poor be- 
 reaved souls ! Daphne's wedding was the first thing that 
 had awakened interest in some of them. They'd grown 
 used to me; then fond of me; then part of my family; 
 and they wanted to see my daughter's wedding. They 
 filled nearly half of the church — silent women, in their 
 decent black, rightful heirs to the glory of the old flags 
 draped against the pillars and the bronze commemorative 
 tablets set in the walls." 
 
 She seemed for a moment to have forgotten me, then, 
 remembering, went on, "It hadn't occurred to me until, 
 as I sat in the old church waiting for Daphne's wedding, 
 that never, since England has had a navy, has there been 
 a time when a son of our family has not served in it." 
 
 "A fine tradition," I praised, "a glorious promise for the 
 future years!" 
 
 There was silence. Across it the bell in the cathedral 
 tower called the hour; the chimes spoke. 
 
 My friend waited until the last echo died away, then 
 faced me. "You never saw Hugh, my second son.'' He 
 had already entered the navy when we went to Hong- 
 Kong." Her voice was carefully emotionless and clear. 
 "Our place on the navy lists is vacant. Hugh went down 
 in the 'Invincible' during the Jutland battle," she said, 
 then added, "Our boys commence their naval training 
 very early. Hugh was such a. wee lad when he said 
 good-by . . . and now — " Her voice lowered to a whis- 
 per — "Sometimes, in my dreams, I see the horror and con- 
 fusion of that sinking ship . . . the greedy rush of the 
 gray waters — " She regained her composure. "Curious 
 things, dreams.^" she inquired conversationally. 
 
 I gasped. "My dear! Why didn't you tell me — instead 
 of letting me blunder on.^ Are Jeffrey and Wallace too old 
 to begin a naval career? But of course they are," I floun- 
 dered on.
 
 288 ACCORDING TO RUSKIN 
 
 Daphne had wandered back to us. "I'll have some 
 more tea," she said. 
 
 "Three cups, Daphne!" I chided, glad of the interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 "You really shouldn't drink so much strong tea, 
 Daphne," her mother admonished absently. 
 
 To my amazement Daphne struck the table violently 
 with her clenched fist. "Tea !" shie demanded. Her 
 mother, without comment, poured it out. "How Daphne 
 has changed — and her mother, too! She used to be so 
 severe with her children about any lack of courtesy," I 
 thought. 
 
 My friend broke the silence. "Do you remember Mrs. 
 Gordon, whose husband was on the 'Tamar' at Hong- 
 Kong.?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "Commander Gordon was with the ships that went 
 down off your South American coast," she said. "For 
 some time we thought that he was lost; but later the news 
 came. He had been rescued. Mrs. Gordon was so splen- 
 did through it all ! Her happiness has been the one warm- 
 ing thing. . . . Do you know, I don't believe that some 
 of our women will really realize the bitterness of their loss 
 until they see other women's husbands and sons coming 
 home." 
 
 "I'm so glad for Mrs. Gordon," I said, remembering 
 the tall commander and his gentle, pretty wife. 
 
 My friend made no comment. A little silence fell. 
 Across the peaceful old garden some rooks, homeward 
 bound, called from the oaks; the bitter tonic scent of 
 chrysanthemums and box lingered in the still air. It 
 was so quiet that we could hear the organ and choir 
 commencing vespers at the cathedral. War, its agonies, 
 tortures, and despair were mere unmeaning words — trans- 
 parent nightmares of speech, illusive as dreams against 
 the background of this noble, serene, and tangible English 
 landscape, which breathed of centuries of peace. 
 
 I sighed with thankfulness for my friend; in spite of her 
 sailor son's death, her world seemed full of the promise 
 of happiness in the advancing years. Then I glanced at
 
 HARRIET WELLES 289 
 
 my watch and saw that my visit was nearly over. "Do 
 you think that your war-working pony will consent to an- 
 other trip to the depot — or shall I walk?" I asked. 
 
 She smiled. "You won't have to walk," she promised. 
 I gathered up my gloves and purse, while she stood idly 
 turning the pages of the volume of Ruskin's essays. A 
 paragraph caught her interest. She glanced at it, then, 
 with attention, read aloud: 
 
 "I shall therefore divide the war of which I would speak 
 to you under three heads. War for exercise or play; war 
 for dominion; and, war for defense." 
 
 "H'm'm," I commented grimly, "Ruskin's dead; if he 
 were alive I doubt if he would have found anything very 
 playful about this war." 
 
 She made no comment, but read on: 
 
 "Now, remember, whatever virtue or goodliness there 
 may be in this game of war, rightly played, there is none 
 when you thus play it with a multitude of human pawns. 
 ... If you, the gentlemen of this or any other kingdom, 
 choose to make your pastime of contest, do so, and wel- 
 come; but set not up these unhappy peasant-pieces upon 
 the checker of forest and field. If the wager is to be of 
 death, lay it on your own heads, not theirs. A goodly 
 struggle in the Olympic dust, though it be the dust of the 
 grave, the gods will look upon and be with you in; but 
 they will not be with you if you sit on the sides of the 
 amphitheatre, whose steps are the mountains of earth, 
 whose arena its valleys, to urge your peasant millions into 
 gladiatorial war." 
 
 "I suppose he means compulsory military training," I 
 said. 
 
 She did not answer. "Human beings are very pitiful, 
 I think," she said, "striving, hurrying, grasping — and for 
 such paltry rewards." She turned to me. "How many 
 times, during your life, have you been completely, un- 
 questioningly happy?" she demanded. 
 
 "Well — " I parried uneasily. 
 
 "You can't remember once," accused my friend, "no
 
 290 ACCORDING TO RUSKIN 
 
 one can! If, for a few minutes, out of doors in the sun- 
 shine you are happy, how soon the old worries, the old 
 fears, the old griefs, come flooding back. What's it all 
 about?" 
 
 I answered soberly, "Surely there is a cure — a way 
 out of such a condition," I said. 
 
 "How American — how practical !" she commented dryly, 
 and added: "Don't forget to let me know when you dis- 
 cover it." 
 
 I felt queerly uneasy, worried and unhappy. "You 
 won't get anywhere by slumping," I scolded. 
 
 "I wasn't getting anywhere, before," she retorted; then 
 questioned: "Wonder if those women feel that the second- 
 hand furniture, pictures, and half-worn underclothes their 
 husbands looted, at their behest, are worth what they 
 have cost?" 
 
 I was startled. "What women?" I asked. 
 
 She flipped open my dog-eared book. "Do you just 
 buy Ruskin? Why don't you read him?" she asked, and 
 hunted for a place. "Now listen!" she said, going on in 
 her quiet, clear voice. 
 
 "I, for one, would fain join in the cadence of hammer 
 strokes that should beat swords into plowshares; and that 
 this cannot be, is not the fault of us men. It is your fault. 
 Wholly yours. Only by your command, or by your per- 
 mission, can any contest take place among us. And the 
 real, final reason for all the poverty, misery, and rage of 
 battle, throughout Europe, is simply that you women 
 . . . are too selfish and too thoughtless to take pains for 
 any creature out of your own immediate circles. . . . 
 Now I tell you this, that if the usual course of war, in- 
 stead of unroofing peasants' houses, and ravaging peasants' 
 fields, merely broke the china upon your own drawing- 
 room tables, no war in civilized countries would last a 
 week. . . ." 
 
 "I don't consider Germany a civilized country," I vol- 
 unteered. "Did Ruskin really write that?" I asked, and 
 reached for the book. "I hope it's translated into their 
 language," I supplemented.
 
 HARRIET WELLES 291 
 
 "They wouldn't read it; they don't need any advice 
 about guarding the looted bric-a-brac on their tables," 
 she said. 
 
 "Be thankful that our returning men can hold their 
 heads proudly erect," I exulted. 
 
 " 'Our returning men','' she repeated. 
 
 We were walking toward the house. "When do you 
 expect Jeffrey and Wallace home? Is Daphne's husband 
 back.'" I asked. 
 
 She held the little volume in both hands and looked 
 evenly at me: "Jeffrey was killed at Alons during the first 
 month of the war. Wallace was refused several times 
 on account of his eyes. 'What would you do If your 
 glasses were broken:' they asked him the last time he 
 applied. He went out and bought six pairs, and they 
 accepted him. He never needed a second pair," said 
 my friend in her quiet, emotionless voice. 
 
 I laid my hand on her arm. "jMy dear — " I cried, and 
 could go no further. She turned her head away. 
 
 From behind us came Daphne's voice singing an old 
 song of laughter and love and a garden of roses. She 
 joined us and looked puzzledly at her mother. "What is 
 it?" she questioned. 
 
 "We've been speaking of your brothers," I whispered. 
 
 She started at me. "Brothers?" she asked. 
 
 I glanced at her with astonishment. "Jeflfrey and 
 Wallace, who were with you at Hong-Kong," I said. 
 
 "Jeffrey — Wallace — Hong-Kong," she repeated parrot- 
 like after me, in vague and troubled bewilderment, then 
 brightened: ''Were you at my wedding? We had flowers 
 and flags !" 
 
 I could only stare at her. 
 
 Her mother motioned me into the wide hall. "Daphne 
 and her husband were spending his leave, and their honey- 
 moon, in London; they were just coming out of a theatre 
 when a German air raid started. George was killed . . . 
 and Daphne struck on the head ... by some falling 
 masonry. For days we thought we couldn't pull her 
 through — then the up-turn came." 
 
 "Oh!" I exclaimed. ''Oh!"
 
 292 ACCORDING TO RUSKIN 
 
 "She doesn't remember. 'Never will remember,' the 
 doctors say," repeated my friend, and laid a comforting 
 hand on my arm. "Of course you couldn't know," she 
 said; very earnestly she added: "You see how completely 
 life has finished with me? Well, let me tell you some- 
 thing: If the Huns, and their ideas, had been allowed 
 to dominate the world, it wouldn't have been a tolerable 
 place for any right-thinking, self-respecting, decent man 
 to live in. And since the only way to remove that menace 
 was through the sacrifice of thousands of boys like our 
 sons ... I, who stand bereft, to-day, tell you that I am 
 glad that things are as they are." 
 
 I could not speak. 
 
 At the doorway she bade me an affectionate good-by. 
 "My husband will be very sorry to have missed you. 
 Don't forget that you'll always find us here, with a wel- 
 come for you," she said. With a wave of her hand she 
 indicated the wide landscape sloping away into far blue 
 hills. "At least we have saved this, untouched," she added 
 bleakly. 
 
 "I'll be back," I promised, and turned away to hide the 
 blurring tears. 
 
 Saved, untouched; clean hands; a clear conscience; 
 the right to look any man, or woman, in the eyes. A 
 green country with violet-shadowed valleys dreaming in 
 the sunshine; the fairylike chime of cuckoo's notes calling 
 — calling — calling; woods, and tree tops outlined against 
 the wide sky; lazy cows knee deep in the reeds bordering 
 a silvery brook; homeward-faring pigeons on gleaming 
 wings; the drowsy note of distant church bells; the hum 
 of bees; pearly mists of rain; the ripple of wind over 
 wheat; the blackbirds' flutelike call; wide-eyed daisies; 
 darting swallows, and the scent of meadow-sweet: 
 England. 
 
 And yet — and yet (oh, broken hopes and dreams) the 
 lonely days that stretch ahead ! The quiet years.
 
 Young's Magazine 
 
 THE CRYSTAL FLASK 
 
 BY 
 
 PAUL ROSENWEY
 
 THE CRYSTAL FLASK ^ 
 By PAUL ROSENWEY 
 
 YOUNG GWILLAM, fresh and brown from his two 
 years in the wilds, and with two inches added to his 
 chest measure, hurried to the club and searched for Drys- 
 dale. He found his Petronius sitting just as he had left 
 him, in the accustomed well-cushioned chair, in the accus- 
 tomed corner, on his face the accustomed quiet, faintly 
 amused smile. Gwillam drew up a chair opposite; the 
 necessary ceremonies were performed, and then they 
 plunged into one of those long garrulous gossips, which 
 they both liked so well. 
 
 "I saw Craig, to-day," said young Gwillam, after a time. 
 He paused. 
 
 "Yes," said Drysdale, non-committally. 
 
 "He looked badly," added Gwillam suggestively. Drys- 
 dale made no answer. 
 
 Gwillam leaned forward. "Tell me what has hap- 
 pened," he urged. "I liked Craig; he was always a good 
 sort of fellow. And he is young too — not much older than 
 myself; but to-day he looked like an old man — thin, gray, 
 stooped — a wreck." 
 
 "He has discovered the virtues of his uncle's wedding 
 gift," said Drysdale. 
 
 "His uncle's wedding gift:" echoed Gwillam wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Did you never hear of itr" asked Drysdale. "It was 
 quite a subject of conversation at one time. Everyone 
 knew of it and laughed. It was a very strange gift and it 
 was given by a very strange old gentleman. He is dead 
 now, but I can imagine him, if he has any knowledge of 
 what has taken place, grinning with the keenest dehght. 
 It is just the sort of thing he would have enjoyed. 
 
 ^Copyright, by Courtland H. Young
 
 296 THE CRYSTAL FLASK 
 
 "It really began," said Drysdale, "at Craig's weuumg 
 breakfast. You see, old Forsythe — Craig's uncle — was 
 delighted at Craig's marriage. He — Forsythe — was old 
 even then; he had a great deal more money than anyone 
 needs; and he used to worry dreadfully about what would 
 become of it when he was gone. To be sure he could leave 
 it all to Craig, as he intended to do; but life is short, 
 Craig would die, and then who would get the money? 
 He often wished that Craig had a family of youngsters, 
 upon whom he might settle it, so that for fifty or sixty 
 years at least it would be safe. And when Craig became 
 engaged to marry the old gentleman immediately made 
 a new will and from that time on displayed a joy so open 
 and unrestrained that it was scarcely decent. At the wed- 
 ding breakfast his glee was almost childish; he became 
 quite garrulous, and it needed constant effort to restrain 
 him from telling stories, which, however humorous they 
 might prove to be, were, even in their beginnings, quite 
 evidently improper. Still, though with some difficulty, 
 he was kept within bounds until he insisted on making 
 a speech. As he rose from his seat, a glass of wine held 
 unsteadily in his trembling old hand, a wicked smile on 
 his thin old lips, a feeling of uneasiness pervaded the 
 company, and it was very generally felt that whatever he 
 might say, it could be very well dispensed with. But no 
 one remonstrated. When one has a relative who is at 
 once very wealthy and very old, it is astonishing how 
 lenient one becomes to his little failings. 
 
 " 'My dear Robert — my dear Amy,' began old For- 
 sythe, glancing first at Craig and then at his wife; 'I have 
 already given you your wedding gift as you know.' This 
 was quite true; the old reprobate had given them an ex- 
 tremely substantial check, to which he found it impossible 
 not to make allusion. 'But that was more or less formal — 
 the gift dictated by convention. And I wanted to give you 
 something intimate — something, triifing perhaps, but per- 
 sonal — something so appropriate that it should become 
 part of your lives. For a long time I racked my poor 
 old brains in vain; and then, only yesterday, I had an 
 inspiration — quite an inspiration!' he added fondly. 
 
 "Craig and his wife exchanged glances of relief. The
 
 PAUL ROSENWEY 297 
 
 speech would probably pass oflF without disaster after all. 
 
 " 'You may remember,' resumed the old gentleman, 
 'that when I was younger I traveled extensively, but it 
 has probably escaped your minds that I spent much time 
 in Arabia. Nevertheless that is so. I traveled, not with 
 any thought of exploring or attaining scientific results, but 
 for my own pleasure only. In spite of that, or perhaps 
 because of it, I avoided the main routes of travel, and 
 always, so far as was possible, sought remote and primitive 
 regions. It was in such a place that late one afternoon 
 I came upon a romantic little glade, hidden between two 
 ridges of the mountains I was traversing. All around, 
 the country was bleak and barren, but here the grass was 
 of the greenest and the foliage of the freshest; and it 
 needed only a slight investigation to discover/that this 
 desirable state of affairs was due to the waters of a little 
 spring which rose from the ground at one end of the 
 glade. The water was remarkably clear and transparent, 
 and over the spring itself was a small structure of stone, 
 which, though half ruined by the passage of time, still 
 bore a very evident resemblance to a miniature temple. 
 My interest was strongly aroused; I scented a story, and 
 I had my guide make inquiry of the villagers. I was 
 right; there was a story and one which interested me 
 greatly. For at that time I was still young and, though 
 it is I who say it, not without attraction for the ladies; 
 and I still entertained hopes that some day I would know 
 those joys and delights that have come to my lucky young 
 nephew. So I got from my baggage an old crystal flask, 
 which I had picked up in Bassorah, and filled it from the 
 spring; my guide produced an aromatic gum which he 
 was in the habit of burning for the enjoyment of its odor, 
 and we hermetically sealed the flask, which from that day 
 to this I have always preserved most carefully. The day 
 is long past, however, when it can be of use to me, whereas 
 the time has only just begun, my dear Robert and my dear 
 Amy, when it can be of use to you. So it is this flask, 
 my dears, which I have chosen as my real gift to you.' 
 
 "He fumbled beneath the flowers and ferns which 
 covered the table before him, and from its hiding-place 
 produced something which he held high in his hand that
 
 298 THE CRYSTAL FLASK 
 
 all might see. It was a flask of crystal, long, slender and 
 delicately fashioned, and filled to the very stopper with a 
 liquid which, though colorless and transparent, seemed in 
 the blazing light to sparkle and give forth faint iridescent 
 gleam.s. It was a beautiful thing, and Craig's wife gave 
 a little exclamation of delight as the old gentleman bowed 
 courteously and handed it to her. 
 
 " 'But Uncle Robert,' she reminded him, as she took it, 
 'the story? You said there was a story.' 
 
 " 'Oh, yes, my dear,' replied Uncle Robert, 'you shall 
 have the story, which is most important. For you must 
 know that the spring is a magic spring, and the water 
 in the flask is magic too, with most magical properties. 
 The spring had its origin in the tears of an unfortunate 
 young maiden named Zubaydah, who, on the very spot 
 where it now flows, found the body of her lover Ghanim, 
 cruelly slain. She fell on his breast, lamenting wildly, 
 and when they tore him away from her embracing arms, 
 she w-ould not stir, but remained there, refusing drink 
 and food alike, and weeping, weeping constantly, until 
 in the end she too died. Their story is most pathetic and 
 some day you shall hear it; but now it is of no further 
 importance, save for the fact that when they bore her 
 tenderly away, a spring was flowing from the ground 
 she had so plentifully watered with her tears. And the 
 water of that spring had this remarkable quality: that 
 when a flask of it is jointly possessed by true lovers, so 
 long as neither commits a crime against their mutual 
 love, the water remains as you saw it, clear, sparkling, 
 translucent; but should either of the lovers prove false 
 to the other, the water becomes dark, thick, muddy — an 
 ugly symbol of the wrong that has been done. 
 
 " 'Always, even when I was quite young,' concluded 
 old Forsythe, 'there was in my nature a strong material- 
 istic strain — a strain of cynicism some said; but to me it 
 seemed rather a strain of common sense, which enabled 
 me to see things as they were, quite uninfluenced by the 
 emotional disturbances which impaired the calm judgments 
 of my fellows. So, though at this time I expected to marry 
 and, of course, expected that my wife would be in love 
 with me when we married, yet I was quite aware that
 
 PAUL ROSENWEY 299 
 
 there could be no guarantee that she would remain so. 
 The value of a flask of this water to a person so able 
 as myself to gaze without blinking upon the realities 
 of life, was very evident. I should present it to my wife 
 on our wedding day and tell her its story; and though 
 I knew it could avail no more than anything else on this 
 earth to keep me her love, yet I hoped that it might 
 serve to guard me against those unpleasant little eccen- 
 tricities of conduct which sometimes follow the death of 
 conjugal alTection. It was with this hope that I always 
 preserved it, and it is with a similar hope on your be- 
 half, my dear Robert, that I have presented you and Amy 
 with the flask.' 
 
 "The old gentleman sat down in the midst of a stunned 
 silence. It was, of course, an atrocious thing that he had 
 done. On their very wedding day to suggest that the 
 love of the bridal pair might not last forever! Craig's 
 face was pale and his lips were tightly compressed; on 
 Amy's cheeks burned two angry red spots. But, as I 
 have said before, when one has a relative who is very old 
 and also very wealthy, it is astonishing how lenient one 
 becomes toward his lapses from what one believes to be 
 the coircct standards of taste and conduct. Neither Craig 
 nor his wife spoke; the silence lasted yet another moment, 
 then some one made a remark, v/hich, however pointless, 
 at least had the merit of provoking a general conversation, 
 in the course of which old Forsythe and his crudeness 
 were ignored by general consent. 
 
 "A little later Craig found his wife upstairs, just as she 
 had donned her traveling dress. Uncle Robert, of course, 
 was not there; and Craig permitted himself to become 
 quite angry. The flask stood sparkling in the sunlight, 
 on a little table where Amy had placed it on coming into 
 the room. Craig would have smashed it to pieces, but 
 Amy stayed his hand. 
 
 " 'Oh, no,' she said, 'your uncle may ask for it when 
 he comes to see us, and we could not afford to offend him 
 by telling him we had destroyed it.' 
 
 "The fact that it was she who saved the flask from 
 destruction, afterwards seemed to Craig a rare bit of 
 irony; but at the time he saw only an early proof of the
 
 300 THE CRYSTAL FLASK 
 
 wise, semi-maternal interest every good wife takes in her 
 husband's affairs, and he found it so inexpressibly touching 
 that, instead of smashing the flask, he kissed his wife. 
 
 "Nevertheless, they did not exhibit old Forsythe's wed- 
 ding gift conspicuously in their drawing-room, though it 
 was there that they found it greeting them upon returning 
 from their trip. What to do with it was quite a problem 
 until Mrs. Craig found a vacant space behind a row of 
 books in the library, and there it was promptly bestowed. 
 You see, as a hiding-place, this spot had two great virtues: 
 it hid, which is a requisite of all hiding-places, and it 
 allowed the flask to be quickly produced in case of Uncle 
 Robert's visits, which was a requisite of this particular 
 hiding-place. 
 
 "After about two years had passed, however, they 
 found that they had lost all sensitiveness upon the subject, 
 and they even, at times, with a decided feeling of being an 
 old married couple, treated the episode humorously for 
 the benefit of their friends. 'Dear Uncle Robert and his 
 quaint idea of an appropriate wedding gift!' They were 
 able to adopt this attitude the more easily, perhaps, be- 
 cause there seemed so little probability that the event, to 
 guard against which Uncle Robert had given them the 
 flask, would ever occur. They were a model couple — 
 Darby and Joan in all respects save that of age, and 
 neither had ever shown the slightest inclination to stray 
 beyond the strictest limits imposed by the matrimonial 
 tether. This in spite of the fact that for two years they 
 had not been separated for twenty-four hours at a time. 
 Or should I say because of it."* One can never tell. At 
 any rate, when Uncle Robert died, about this time, he had 
 been entirely forgiven, and they grieved for him quite sin- 
 cerely. 
 
 "Now it happened that the bulk of the estate which the 
 old gentleman had left to Craig and any possible children, 
 was stock in a rubber concession in two of the smaller 
 South American states; and it also happened that just after 
 Forsythe's death, acute trouble began to develop between 
 the two countries. After several weeks of great anxiety, 
 Craig felt that he had no choice, but must go and defend 
 his interests in person. Accordingly, he immediately
 
 PAUL ROSENWEY 301 
 
 began his preparations for the trip. Mrs. Craig desired 
 earnestly to go with him, but of this he would not hear. 
 
 " 'I shall not be gone over two months at the most,' he 
 said, 'and that is not really such a long time. Besides, 
 there will be danger for you if it comes to hostilities; 
 and there is always fever.' 
 
 "In the end Mrs. Craig was persuaded to stay at home, 
 and Craig went alone. On the night before he sailed he 
 had an inspiration. He was in the library, disposing of 
 some odds and ends of his affairs, when the inspiration 
 came to him. He went to the bookshelves, pushed aside 
 some books and took out the crystal flask. For a mo- 
 ment he held it in the light of the reading lamp, admiring 
 the lustre of the delicate glass and the clear transparency 
 of the liquid it contained. A smile curved his lips, and 
 he held the neck of the flask over the flame of the lamp 
 until the sealing gum was softened, then removed the 
 stopper, poured out part of the contents and refilled the 
 flask with ink. When he had replaced the stopper, he 
 again held the flask to the light, but now the liquid it con- 
 tained was a dirty, muddy gray — the color he wished. He 
 smiled again in satisfaction, and returned the flask to its 
 old place on the bookshelf, 
 
 "You see, he had conceived the idea of an excellent joke 
 upon his wife. She would in all probability discover the 
 flask at some time during his absence; she would realize 
 immediately what he had done; and he could imagine her 
 laughing with him across the thousand miles that sep- 
 arated them. And what a finish it would make to their 
 story ! Perhaps, too, she Would play up to the situation 
 by pretending to take her discovery seriously. The 
 affair was full of humorous possibilities, and he amused 
 himself greatly in anticipating them. 
 
 "But the absence which was to have extended over not 
 more than two months, as a matter of fact, lasted for a 
 little more than a year. During all this time it was never 
 certain that Craig would not be able to return almost im- 
 mediately; there was therefore no reason for his wife to 
 join him, and she remained at home — alone. 
 
 "Upon what must have happened I can only touch 
 lightly, because I cannot understand it. Mrs. Craig was
 
 302 THE CRYSTAL FLASK 
 
 alone, it is true, but her husband loved her; and when he 
 left, she had undoubtedly cared for him. Of course, with 
 the sudden increase in Craig's income, she was thrown 
 with a set she had never met before; she and Craig had 
 not been poor, but this change meant wealth, really great 
 wealth, and perhaps It turned her head. Perhaps, being 
 as strangely illogical and as strongly resentful of fancied 
 slights as women always are in matters which concern 
 their affections, she had convinced herself that Craig need 
 never have stayed from her so long, if his inclination and 
 his duty had not traveled along the same road, and in 
 her anger sought for revenge. Perhaps . . . but I do not 
 know. One can never tell. 
 
 "When at last Craig returned home, however, she 
 greeted him with manifestations of greatest pleasure; and 
 Craig himself, when I met him on the street two days 
 after his arrival, seemed radiantly happy. He had reason 
 to be; he had wealth, occupation, strength and the love 
 of the woman whom he loved. He probably thought 
 himself, and he certainly seemed to me, one of the favored 
 ones of the world. 
 
 "It was in all probability on the evening of this day 
 that he first thought of the flask, and then it dawned on 
 him quite suddenly that his wife had not spoken of it. 
 His joke, of course, had failed, because if she had seen 
 the flask during his absence, he would long since have 
 heard something of it. Still, he would get it out and make 
 what he could of the change that had come over it. 
 
 " 'Amy,' he said, 'we have forgotten to look at the 
 flask.' He watched her closely, but her face did not 
 change. She did not even show the slight surprise that 
 might have been expected at his sudden introduction of the 
 subject. 
 
 " 'So we have,' she answered. She smiled slightly. 'If 
 you think an inspection necessary, will you get itr' She 
 was so ready that it seemed almost as if she had been 
 waiting for his suggestion; but he did not notice this — 
 at the time. 
 
 "He walked across the room, already smiling as he 
 thought of the surprise in store for her. Still smiling he 
 reached down into the vacant space behind the books until
 
 PAUL ROSENWEY 303 
 
 he found the flask, then turned and held it to the 
 light. . . . 
 
 ''That was a year ago. 
 
 "The next day Craig went to Canada. He did not 
 return until his wife had sailed for Europe. She is still 
 there, and Craig is — as you saw him." 
 
 Drysdale stopped. 
 
 ''But what was the matter? What was wrong?" ex- 
 claimed young Gwillam. "What — " 
 
 Drysdale interrupted him. 
 
 "You see," he said, "when he looked at the flask that 
 night, it had once more been filled with a perfectly clear 
 and transparent liquid."
 
 WHY THE EDITORS BUY
 
 ADVENTURE 
 
 AS Adventure readers include the cultured and critical 
 as well as those of simple tastes, we seek the kind of 
 workmanship that will stand the difficult test of meeting the 
 approval of both groups. But in selecting our fiction it always 
 seems to us that only that part of the story is effective that 
 reaches the reader's mind and the highest literary attainment 
 is likely to go hand in hand with simplicity and clearness. 
 
 We regard it as vitally important that the illusion should be 
 kept up. We want the reader to leave his own world and to 
 live entirely in the world of the story. For this reason we dislike 
 too pronounced mannerisms of style, too unusual names for 
 characters, misstatements in local color, improbability in plot 
 details. We also wish that the author would avoid the obtru- 
 sion of his own personality into the story, too much surface 
 cleverness, the specific call upon the reader to philosophize 
 (thus making him think, rather than keeping him in the recep- 
 tive mood), a too cynical or sophisticated attitude on the 
 author's part. In general the two points — clearness and keep- 
 ing the illusion — are probably those which we emphasize most 
 particularly. We have in addition certain types of story that 
 we try to avoid: — those that involve international or political 
 questions; we dislike stories of opium smuggling; stories in 
 which all of the main characters are "natives"; stories which 
 feature intermarriage. Generally speaking, we do not care 
 much for a villain in the role of central character; nor for much 
 high society atmosphere; millionaire circles; prisons; slums; lost 
 wills; psychopathic cases; gangsters. Of course exceptions to 
 all of the above sometimes force themselves upon us by sheer 
 merit. 
 
 We do not insist upon the accepted idea of the "happy ending" 
 but we prefer stories that uplift rather than depress. We con- 
 sider only the net effect of the story on the reader for the man 
 or woman who is reading a magazine, is doing so, primarily with 
 the idea of enjoying or relaxing, not to be made uncomfortable 
 or unhappy. However, a story to sell to Adventure need not 
 be artificially shaped. We are looking for stories that will 
 please our readers and the range of selection is wide indeed. 
 
 Arthur S. Hoffman. 
 
 Adventure. 
 
 The Ridgeway Company, Publishers, 
 Spring and Macdougal Streets, 
 New York City.
 
 308 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE 
 
 IN bu)ing a story for The American Magazine I have four 
 leading questions in mind: 
 
 1. Is it interesting? 
 
 2. Is it true? 
 
 3. Does it add to our store of knowledge of human 
 nature? 
 
 4. Is there a lift to it? 
 
 Not all four requirements are always met in the stories I take 
 but they are the main guide-posts. Let me take these questions 
 in their order and be more detailed and explicit concerning each 
 one. 
 
 If a story isn't interesting, or has a very limited field of inter- 
 est, no matter how well written it is, I cannot use it in The 
 American Magazine. And the interest must not be sporadic, 
 it must be cumulative in its effect. A story should grip the 
 reader's attention at the beginning and hold it steadily all the 
 way through. Good progressive writing is far more effective 
 than that which contains a number of thrills linked together by 
 long, arid paragraphs. 
 
 In asking myself — is it true? — I do not intend to convey the 
 meaning that I am looking for stories of real happenings. As a 
 matter of fact, I am of the opinion that fiction doesn't dare be 
 as wild and exciting as real life. As Byron wisely said, "Truth is 
 always strange — stranger than fiction." Consequently I look for 
 stories that ring true, the characters in which have their counter- 
 parts in everyday life or are so vividly created by the writer that 
 they are accepted by the reader as natural, even if unusual, 
 human beings. In the making of a plot I want sanity enthroned, 
 the believable things of life depicted; not cock and bull fakes, 
 which although they may create momentary excitement will cause 
 the re«der to lay the story down and say, "It's all right, but it's 
 highly colored and far-fetched." I would infinitely rather have 
 less excitement, fewer dramatic pyrotechnics and have the reader 
 slap his knee and exclaim, "Can you beat that for the real 
 thing!" I want him to coToborate and testify to the convincing- 
 ness and obvious truth of che story out of his own experiences 
 and observations or through the instinctive acceptance of it by 
 his imagination. 
 
 I hope, however, from the foregoing words writers will not 
 run away with the idea that so long as the characters are life- 
 like a story will get across. The ideal story for this magazine
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 309 
 
 is one that has a convincing plot as well as convincing charac- 
 ters. But I would rather sacrifice plot to characterization any 
 day of the week. If a story comes into the office slender of plot 
 but brimful of human wisdom and accurate character work, I 
 buy it. As a matter of fact, some of the most successful stories 
 I have published have been of this type. I do not, however, buy 
 a story that is strong on plot if the characters are overdrawn or 
 unnatural and it has an atmosphere of unreality. 
 
 This brings me to my third question: "Does it add to our store 
 of knowledge of human nature?" If the people in a story are 
 natural, if they meet problems with sense of humor, if their 
 actions are interestingly sane and normal, and the story presents 
 news of human nature wisely and accurately, the reader can 
 scarcely avoid learning something to his advantage. His sym- 
 pathy and imagination are going to be aroused and quickened 
 only by stories that are probable in both character and plot, be- 
 cause they alone will give him a true slant on human nature and 
 add to his understanding of it. 
 
 In commenting on the last question, I feel I cannot too 
 strongly emphasize the need of the quality which I define as 
 "lift." A story may be surpassingly true, the characterization 
 good, the plot well thought out, but if it does not stir the emo- 
 tion, if it doesn't make the reader feel better, I am not keen 
 for it. I want cheerful stories that leave a sense of satisfaction 
 in their wake — stories that are full of warmth, charm, friendli- 
 ness, and right living. Highly colored, far-fetched or gloomy 
 fiction ma}' interest for a moment, but it will not yield genuine 
 and lasting pleasure. I avoid unpleasantly tragic and morbid 
 stories, no matter how well written, because they usually leave 
 a distinct effect of depression. The reader has to recover from 
 them; climb painfully back to a normal belief in human kind. 
 I must have stories that touch the heart as well as appeal to 
 the intellect. They must satisfy the reader and leave him with 
 the feeling of time well spent. 
 
 In dividing my answer to your question into definite heads 
 I see that these overlap each other and that consequently my 
 explanations do the same in a measure. But at least they are 
 not contradictory, and I hope the cumulative effect makes my 
 practice clear. You realize much must be left out of an attempt 
 to set down briefly an editorial policy relating to so wide and 
 varied a literary field as that of fiction. 
 
 John M. Siddall. 
 The American Magazitie. 
 The Crovvell Publishing Co., 
 381 Fourth Avenue, 
 New York City.
 
 310 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 THE AMERICAN BOY 
 
 THE American Boy aims to interest and help boys between 
 the ages of twelve and twenty, recognizing the fact that to 
 be helpful to the boy it is necessary first to secure his interest 
 and command his attention. Stories and articles should be of 
 such literary quality as will inculcate the best literary standards 
 in the boy reader, as well as interest him and have an effective 
 message. The atmosphere must be wholesome, alive, vigorous, 
 and inspiring, and stories should be a force for good, not re- 
 pelling the boy reader by too obvious moralizing, but implying 
 the moral by the characters and the action. The magazine en- 
 deavors to put before its boys, through the medium of stories, 
 boy heroes who can set them fine examples; in business stories, 
 it endeavors to inculcate the principles of good business; in ath- 
 letic stories, it sets forth high athletic ideals. 
 
 The American Boy is always particularly careful in the pres- 
 entation of facts. Stories and articles should always teach 
 truth. Fiction stories, of course, need not be true stories — 
 stories of actual facts — but they should give accurate pictures 
 of the phases of life they are representing; they should not 
 misrepresent the facts of geography, natural science, history, bus- 
 iness, or human relationships. Writers who get into the Ameri- 
 can Boy are those who have a story to tell — a point to make — 
 that is worth while; a story of daring which provides a hero 
 (always demanded by boys); a story of adventure that satisfies 
 the boy's natural longing to roam; a story of an exciting game 
 which, enthralling the boy, makes clear to him what is right and 
 what is wrong; a story of service that will aid the boy to adjust 
 himself to social life; a story of business that will give the boy 
 a true impression of the workaday world he is to enter. Ma- 
 terial with a strong feminine element is not used in the Ameri- 
 can Boy; nor is "little kid" material. The average age of 
 American Boy readers is sixteen; and boys of that age are in- 
 terested in the doings, not of boys younger than themselves, 
 but of boys their own age, or older, and of men. 
 
 Something to be borne in mind by those who essay to write 
 for a boys' magazine is the distinct difference between stories of 
 boys and stories for boys. The story of boys is particularly 
 popular just now in adult magazines. It tells of a boy from the 
 adult viewpoint. To the adult, what the boy does is often dis- 
 tinctly humorous. To the boy it is serious business, and he 
 would be properly offended should one poke fun at him in his
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 311 
 
 own magazine. The story for boys must be handled from the 
 boy viewpoint, not from the adult viewpoint. This does not 
 mean that the story should be "written down" — quite the re- 
 verse. Once having grasped the boy viewpoint and secured 
 the proper angle, the writer should use the same style and dic- 
 tion as in handling the story of similar sort for the ordinary 
 adult publication. 
 
 The story for boys need not necessarily be a story of boys. 
 True, a boy is more likely to be interested in a story with a boy 
 hero than in a story of an adult hero. The magazine wishes to 
 place before its readers fictional characters whom the boy may 
 emulate. It is such characters which arouse his enthusiasm. 
 
 Walter P. McGuire. 
 The American Boy. 
 Detroit, Michi<:an. 
 
 ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY 
 
 WHY are manuscripts rejected? "Why is a mouse when it 
 spins?" Perhaps the reply to the ancient wheeze, "Be- 
 cause the higher the fewer," is as satisfactory an answer to the 
 first question as any. There are so many reasons, in fact; so 
 many varied and diverse considerations that enter into the ac- 
 ceptance or rejection of a manuscript that a direct and con- 
 cise answer is impossible. Wholly aside from the merit of the 
 story there is the question of the editorial, business, political, 
 and religious policy of the magazine; the quantity and character 
 of the material on hand; the length of the story which exigen- 
 cies of make-up may make impossible for that particular maga- 
 zine, at that particular time, and a dozen other considerations, 
 varying with each publication and of which the author is quite 
 unconscious. 
 
 Generally speaking however 90 per cent of manuscripts are 
 rejected because they fail to grip the interest in the first few 
 pages. It might be remembered that the editor in his official 
 capacity is not an analyst or critic. He is first and foremost a 
 buyer; and moreover a buyer of comparatively small quantities 
 picked from an enormous mass of material in a limited time. 
 It would be a total impossibility for him to read and weigh in 
 its entirety every manuscript that comes before him. Also it is 
 unnecessary. One doesn't have to eat the whole of the egg to
 
 312 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 discover it is passe. He is a buyer and he knows, or is sup- 
 posed to, the tastes and desires of his principal — that is to say 
 the particular fraction of the general public to which his 
 particular periodical caters — he knows what they want and it 
 is from that point of view that he reads. It is his job and his 
 joy to supply his readers not only with what they want but with 
 the best of what they want, and, if authors would only believe 
 it, there is more rejoicing in the editorial heaven over one new 
 writer of promise than over the ninety and nine who have 
 already arrived. 
 
 An editor is not an incompetent ass because he rejects for 
 his adventure magazine a story that later is snapped up by the 
 Century or Atlantic, although authors are apt to chortle glee- 
 fully over such a contretemps ; nor is there any truth in the 
 oft repeated rumors — propagated by the failures — of a cabal to 
 suppress budding genius, and a clique of editors to guard the 
 Olympian heights from all but those bearing the stamp of 
 approval of their masters. As a matter of fact if an author 
 after real and conscientious effort fails to sell it is either be- 
 cause his stuff does not measure up to standard or because 
 he is persistently peddling to the wrong market. You can't sell 
 the finest line of fancy flower pots to a fish dealer. 
 
 It is this latter point that should be stressed especially. Far 
 too many really able authors fail to understand the value of a 
 thorough knowledge of the market. Most of them haven't 
 even a general knowledge of it; do not think of it at all. To 
 them a magazine is a magazine. Their attitude is "You pub- 
 lish stories, Why not mine?" and they send a beautifully writ- 
 ten and wholly plotless character sketch to a publication using 
 only rapid fire adventure stuff and a charming little New 
 England pastoral to one of the magazines devoted wholly to sex 
 topics, and then wonder why they come back. 
 
 Perhaps speaking broadly it is this ignorance of market that 
 accounts for at least a large percentage of the rejections that 
 afflict authors (aside from the vast army of amateurs, novices 
 and hopeless incompetents) whose work is really good. 
 
 Elliot Baiestier. 
 
 Argosy-Allstory Weekly. 
 The Frank A. Munsey Co., 
 280 Broadway, 
 New York City.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 313 
 
 THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY 
 
 IT really would not serve your purpose if I were to write you 
 about my principles of accepting stories. They are too capri- 
 cious, and would only tend to lower the feelings of respect which 
 you are inculcating in your readers. 
 
 Quite seriously, my selection is made according to the whim 
 of one individual. 
 
 Ellery Sedgwick. 
 
 The Atlantic Monthly. 
 8 Arlington Street, 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE 
 
 WHEN you ask me what kind of stories we want for The 
 Century, I am puzzled about answering, for the truth 
 is we like almost all kinds, provided they are done with dis- 
 tinction. I think I may speak for the editorial staf? when I 
 say that distinction is the mark at which we are aiming. 
 
 The Century is a family magazine, edited for the mature 
 members of the family. Every one who reads the magazine 
 knows that we welcome new writers. Indeed, it is a day of 
 rejoicing when the mail yields a story of real promise by an un- 
 known writer. 
 
 We do not want war stories, for the public is tired of war- 
 fiction; nor "machine-made" stories, the cheap clap-trap that 
 has nothing to recommend it but facility. 
 
 For myself, 1 have a confession to make. It is this: "I do not 
 know much about art, but I know what I like!" I am aware 
 that the knowing will look askance upon this avowal of the 
 Philistine, but it is a good creed and wears well. And I believe 
 that the editor who pleases himself in the selection of manu- 
 scripts stands a better chance of pleasing others than he who 
 guesses at the tastes of a fickle general public whom he fancies 
 as remote from himself in their likings as a race of Martians. 
 
 Simplicity and Sincerity are the true gods in art as in life; 
 of that 1 am sure.
 
 314 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 You ask me to mention several short stories published in The 
 Century within four or five years that we like particularly and 
 to tell you why. I think first of "The Friends," by Stacy 
 Aumonler, printed In October, 1915. This story is an unplotted, 
 realistic study of two drunkards, friends whose only bond was 
 drink. It is perhaps the most powerful prohibition tract ever 
 published and not a word of prohibition in It! An analysis of 
 Aumonier's work — any bit of it — will reveal a sureness of touch 
 which is a refreshment to the soul. Some of his stories are 
 finer than others, of course, but like Phyllis Bottorne and Anne 
 Douglas Sedgwick, there Is always distinction about his work. 
 
 Some of the critics were good enough to call "The Friends" 
 the best story published in any magazine that year. To me, 
 besides my admiration for It as an artistic creation, It stands for 
 two things: one, an example of an Interesting phenomenon, — 
 Mr. Aumonler was a man In middle life, I am told, when he 
 began writing, and evidently found a beautiful and finished 
 technique In his pocket! — the other, a warning never to judge a 
 story by what it is not. It would be fatally easy to write "no 
 plot" across such a manuscript and lose It forever. 
 
 "A Source of Irritation," also by Stacy Aumonler, published 
 in Tlie Century for January, 1918, is a delicious bit of humor 
 to my way of thinking. It is pleasant to know that Aumonier's 
 many-sided mind has humor and gaiety, too, in its composition. 
 
 "The Wedding Jest" and "Porcelain Cups" by James Branch 
 Cabell, printed in September, 1919, and November, 1919 seem 
 to me very lovely. In the stodge of every-day literary expres- 
 sion, such delicacy and grace are rare Indeed. These stories 
 are remarkable for that almost obsolete quality, "style." 
 
 "The Fat of the Land," by Anzia Yeszierska, a study of the 
 Russian Jew in America and the reaction of the older generation 
 to the loud prosperities of the younger. Is excellent work, full 
 of the intangible quality of race and keen In Its psychology. It 
 was published in The Century for August, 1919. 
 
 One wishes to mention, too, the black magic of "The Black 
 Key," by Joseph Hergesheimer, the rich embroideries of H. G. 
 Dwight and Achmcd Abdullah, the bold portraiture of Harvey 
 O'Higgins, the subtly fine work of Marjory Morten. Also that 
 exquisite study of innocence, "Red and White," by Roland Pert- 
 wee; and Myla Jo Closser's dog-story, "At the Gate." 
 
 It is impossible for any magazine to sustain regularly the level 
 of Its best fiction, for the simple reason that such stories do not 
 happen frequently — would there were more of them! Those 
 I have mentioned are among the best, in my judgment, that The 
 Century has published for several years, and it is towards work 
 of such character that we are aiming.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 315 
 
 I take it, dear Miss Wick, tbat you have asked me to charac- 
 terize some of our most cherished stories in order to show by 
 concrete examples the kind of fiction The Century wants; and 
 I believe that you are right in thinking this plan the best way of 
 saying it. 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 Anne Stoddard. 
 
 The Century Magazine. 
 353 Fourth Avenue, 
 New York City. 
 
 COLLIER'S, THE NATIONAL WEEKLY 
 
 WHEN a writer wants to please an editor, the surest way 
 is to forget all about him. The editor is not reading the 
 story for his own entertainment. He reads with only one idea 
 in mind: "Will this story appeal to all kinds of people? Is it 
 a good story?" 
 
 An editor of a magazine of general circulation seldom seeks 
 one particular kind of story. He wants the best stories writ- 
 ten. The quickest way to his favor is to write them. 
 
 There are no set rules for accomplishing this. Only a few 
 landmarks are on the road. Know your subject. Have some- 
 thing to tell. Be sure that something happens in the story. 
 
 If nothing happens, if there is no action, you have perhaps 
 written a very good essay or a very convincing argument — but 
 yovi will not be able to sell it as a short story. 
 
 Remember that you are writing a short story, not a con- 
 densed novel. A short story, once started, has only one object — 
 to end as quickly as possible. 
 
 There are only two people who can infallibly detect padding 
 in a stor}^. One is yourself. The other is the reader. 
 
 It pays, always, to be clean. A questionable story will attract 
 many people — but it will repel more. 
 
 Few writers succeed in being convincing when they wander 
 into fields they don't know. Every man collects a mass of in- 
 formation concerning the road over which he has traveled, 
 and the people he met on the way. Use this information. It will 
 furnish all the short stories you can ever write. 
 
 Just as people strive for "happy endings" in their own affairs,
 
 3i6 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 so they like them in stories which they read for entertainment. 
 
 .The enduring themes for short stories are the enduring 
 themes in life itself; the old copybook virtues, like self-sacrifice, 
 courage, generosity, resourcefulness and faith. 
 
 The writer succeeds in proportion as he makes his reader 
 eager for another story by him. Editors have ways to judge 
 this reaction. Forget the editor, and what you think he wants. 
 Write directly to the man or woman who is going to buy the 
 magazine and read your story. 
 
 Harford Powell., Jr. 
 
 Collier's, The National Weekly. 
 416 West 13 th Street, 
 New York City. 
 
 AINSLEE'S MAGAZINE 
 
 AINSLEE'S publishes yearly a total of approximately a * 
 hundred and twenty short stories (from 5,000 to 8,000 
 words in length), twelve novelettes (from 20,000 to 30,000) 
 and, in monthly installments, about four serials (from 50,000 
 to 70,000). And, to cull this relatively small amount of fiction, 
 innumerable manuscripts are painstakingly gone over. At a 
 rough estimate, erring on the side of too few rather than too 
 many, ten thousand manuscripts are submitted yearly from 
 various sources for consideration by Ainslce's Magazine. Of 
 these, eight thousand, I should say, are absolutely unsuited to 
 publication anywhere, while the remaining number are perhaps 
 creditable enough, but have been sent by their authors or the 
 authors' agents to the wrong magazine — which brings mc to the 
 registering of a simple, but curiously disregarded, bit of ad- 
 vice to those whose goal is writing for magazine publication. 
 Study the magazine to which you contemplate submitting ma- 
 terial. After all, each issue of a magazine, whatsoever its 
 character, represents the nearest approach to their ideal for the 
 publication, which the editors have been able, at the time to 
 achieve, and should therefore constitute a fairly good working 
 pattern for those whose stuff is to be "aimed at" that magazine. 
 A rejection slip from a given publication is just as apt to mean 
 that the story, albeit distinctive, does not fit the special needs of 
 the magazine as to indicate total unfittedness for publication 
 anywhere. 
 
 Ainslce's Magazine aims to be a high-class, clean, distinctive 
 fiction magazine. It has no room for, nor time for, the frankly 
 salacious, or "sexy." It is looking always for the proverbial
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 317 
 
 good story, well told. That story may move around any clean, 
 healthy, up-to-date theme, but it should have in it, preferably, 
 woman and love interest. The people of the story should be 
 human, not wooden. They should talk like you and I talk, not 
 like Maria Edgeworth's people "conversed." And the tale 
 itself must be colorful. If a story is to have any holding qual- 
 ity whatever, it must transfer its readers to the scene of the 
 action. And to do this, the thing must have in it real atmos- 
 phere. Plot basis, then, along with good characterization, at- 
 mosphere, and love and woman interest are essentials for the 
 typical Ainslce's story. 
 
 We like to think that stories in Ainslee's Magazine, though 
 varied in character, are uniformly good. We hesitate, there- 
 fore, to talk of "better and best." But, by way of illustration 
 of the points we have sought to make, we call attention to 
 Marie Van Vorst's "The Week-End Guest" in the December 
 issue of Jinslee's^-a good story on all counts, and well suited 
 to Ainslee's. 
 
 Helen L. Lieder. 
 Ainslee's Magazine. 
 Street & Smith Corpokation, 
 Seventh Avenue and Fifteenth Street, 
 New York City. 
 
 COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE 
 
 THE first essential for editing a popular magazine for 
 Americans is that the editor be a sane, normal, every-day 
 American. No mystical genius is required. 
 
 He is merchandising a commodity to the American public. 
 If his taste is the taste of the average American, and he puts 
 within the covers of a magazine stories which he has enjoyed 
 reading, other Americans of similar taste in reading will buy 
 his magazine in quantities sufficient to make it a success. 
 
 At least, that is the theory I have followed. 1 know quite 
 well that I am no genius, yet I have seen magazines grow under 
 my direction. And I have no rule for buying a story except that 
 it must be sufficiently interesting and sufficiently well told to 
 interest me. 
 
 All sorts of stories interest me. Some time ago, for the satis- 
 faction of a friend of mine, I named the ten short stories which 
 I had liked best of all those I had published. It was interesting 
 even to me to see how they varied. The ten stories were: 
 Back Pay by Fannie Hurst; Hassayampa Jim by Peter B.
 
 3i8 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 Kyne; Kazan by James Oliver Curwood; The Story I Can't 
 Write by Rupert Hughes; The Last Adventure by Frank 
 R. Adams; Boston Blackie's Mary by Jack Boyle; The 
 Juggler' by Arthur Springer; The Snide by Harris Merton 
 Lyon; The Ghost's Story by Basil King; The Dummy 
 Chucker by Arthur Somers Roche. That's about as catholic 
 a list as I can imagine. 
 
 "Back Pay," "The Snide" and "The Last Adventure" might 
 be classified as "sex" stories, although I dislike that term. "The 
 Story I Can't Write" was a trick story; "Boston Blackie's 
 Mary" was a prison story; "Hassayampa Jim" was a Western 
 story; "The Dummy Chucker" was an O'Henry-ish bit of 
 writing; "Kazan" was a dog story; "The Ghost's Story" was a 
 story of the supernatural (it was the story from which Mr. 
 King later built his photoplay "Earthbound") ; "The Juggler" 
 was a character study with an extraordinary twist in the ending. 
 
 No two of these stories in any way resembled each other. 
 I suppose that's because I believe in variety, not because of any 
 rule that variety makes a good magazine, but because my taste 
 in reading varies. I am likely this evening to read Cellini for 
 relaxation; tomorrow evening to read Mark Twain, the fol- 
 lowing evening to read De Maupassant. I like each one of 
 them while I am reading him, but I don't want too much of 
 any one of them. 
 
 That probably is true of the average reader of American 
 magazines. He has his favorite authors but he doesn't want 
 too much of any of them. I think Peter B. Kyne, James Oliver 
 Curwood, Fannie Hurst, Ben Ames Williams, and Frank R. 
 Adams are doing the best work of any magazine writers of 
 to-day, but I feel quite sure that a magazine filled with their 
 work and only their work, month after month, would become a 
 bore. 
 
 Each one of these writers is a friend of mine; yet, I am quite 
 sure, neither they nor I would enjoy talking together every 
 evening for a year. I find that I am the average American in 
 virtually everything; that I like what he likes without stopping 
 to find out why; and I believe, too, that there is no reading too 
 good for the American public — that there is nothing real and 
 worth while that is "over his head." 
 
 Ray Long. 
 Cosmopohtan. 
 Good Housekeeping. 
 Harper's Bazar. 
 
 Hearst's Magazine. ' 
 
 119 West 40tli Street, 
 New York City.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 319 
 
 THE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 
 
 THE Country Gentleman addresses a class of readers whosv^ 
 interests are keyed to country life and the industry of agri- 
 culture. This field is big enough to include more than half of 
 the nation's population. Our editorial problem is not one of 
 tying in narrowly to scientific discussions of only the growing 
 phases of farming but ranges throughout the innumerable busi- 
 ness and social problems of the American country-side. It is 
 our aim to discuss everything that should help to broaden 
 the farmer's vision of his own problems and also of all inter- 
 related problems that help to make him a vital factor as a citi- 
 zen of the United States. 
 
 In presenting fiction, we aim, so far as possible, to confine the 
 themes to country life and the open spaces of the world out- 
 doors. We eschew jazzily up-to-date urbanized fiction, sex 
 novels, the eternal triangle and the purely psychologic story. 
 Naturally we will always give a preference to fiction related to 
 farming by first-class writers who are thoroughly familiar with 
 farming. 
 
 It is our feeling that the American farmer is interested in 
 everything that has any contact with country life. Hunting 
 and fishing and outdoor adventure are his life-long sports. He 
 has a deep and genuine affection for animals that serve him. He 
 manifests a very live interest in stories that deal with his mar- 
 keting problems, and his ever-pressing problem of financing his 
 business. He has an alert interest in his schools, his newspapers, 
 in local, state and national government. He enjoys character 
 studies and has a vastly sharper sense of humor than he is com- 
 monly credited with. Likewise he is a shrewd critic and quickly 
 resents the sort of attempted slurs that are so frequently made 
 upon rural folk by those who are wholly ignorant of farming. 
 
 We feel justified in being guided by several successful experi- 
 ments we have made with our fiction. We persuaded I\Ir. 
 Freeman Tilden, who is a farmer himself and thoroughly fa- 
 miliar with all phases of agriculture, to create a character in 
 Old Man Crabtrcc who might be defined as "a Wallingford 
 baiter." Mr. Crabtree is a shrewd retired country banker. His 
 experience had taught him all the tricks of "high finance" and 
 he was always on the lookout for the specialists in shoddy and 
 sham when they came to town. In the climax the skinners 
 were invariably neatly flayed by Old Man Crabtree. These 
 stories of Mr. Tilden were real and drew in a continuous flow 
 of favorable comment.
 
 320 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 Zane Grey has always been able to strike a responsive chord 
 with the lovers of outdoor life, of whom the American farmer 
 is undoubtedly in the majority. They like his descriptions of the 
 frontier as it was in the 70's and they seem to be keen for his 
 vigorous characters, notwithstanding how strenuous. 
 
 We like good dog stories of the sort Albert Payson Terhune 
 has been writing for us. And we like small town stories when 
 they are as good as those Tom P. Morgan is writing; but then, 
 Tom Morgan lived these stories for fifty years before he began 
 to write them. 
 
 The great majority of our contributors have specialized in 
 some agricultural pursuit. Many of them are living on their 
 farms and conducting them as successful business enterprises. 
 We number among our most valued contributors the heads of 
 leading agricultural colleges, federal and state government ex- 
 perts, graduates of agricultural colleges who are now devoting 
 all their time to writing, county agricultural agents, engineers 
 who are specializing in agricultural mechanics and so on. Among 
 them are such well-known men as Eugene Davenport, Dean of 
 the Illinois College of Agriculture, Herbert Quick, until re- 
 cently a member of the Federal Farm Loan Board, Frank A. 
 Waugh, Professor of Horticulture, Massachusetts College of 
 Agriculture, E. V. Wilcox and J. Sidney Cates, for many years 
 employed as farm management experts by the United States De- 
 partment of Agriculture, and P. S. Lovejoy, Professor of For- 
 estry, University of Michigan. 
 
 Such writers as I have described above supply the bulk of the 
 contents of The Country Gentleman and consequently to pre- 
 serve a balanced ration, as a livestock feeder would say, we 
 try our utmost to obtain the sort of fiction that will round out 
 the ensemble. 
 
 Barton W. Currie. 
 
 The Country Gentleman. 
 Curtis Publishing Co., 
 Independence Square, 
 Philadelphia, Pa.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 321 
 
 THE DELINEATOR 
 
 WE Delineator editors think that we know a good story 
 when we sec it; vide the magazine. Yet no issue of the 
 magazine, and perhaps no six issues, contain all the tjpes of 
 good stories that we like. 
 
 The average intelligent American woman or girl, in the home 
 or in business, is the person we have chiefly in mind when choos- 
 ing stories. The above-thc-average woman, of course, is not 
 forgotten. 
 
 Nor do we exclude any special type of story. We prefer 
 stories that will interest everyone — men, women and high- 
 brows — but we want stories for women first. Other things 
 being equal, the hero should be a woman. We think we have 
 no prejudices and we certainly have no rules. 
 
 James E. Tower. 
 
 The Delineator. 
 
 The Butterick. Publishing Co., 
 Spring and Macdougal Streets, 
 New York City. 
 
 THE DESIGNER 
 
 BOTH Arthur Tomalin, the editor, and Emily R. Burt, 
 his assist ant, felt hesitant to express their ideas 
 on what constituted a good and therefore a desirable story for 
 The Designer. They both made much of the fact that a story to 
 appeal to women readers should mirror life as it is, and as it 
 daily afifects the great body of both men and women who are 
 seeking to weather its problems and complexities. Sympathy 
 and understanding are perhaps the two qualities upon which 
 they put greatest stress. 
 
 The Designer. 
 
 The Butterick Publishing Co. 
 
 12 Vandam Street, 
 
 New York City.
 
 322 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 THE DIAL 
 
 I DO NOT believe it is possible to formulate any laws in 
 accordance with which one can judge the merit of fiction 
 any more than it is possible to formulate such laws for the 
 judgment of any other aesthetic object. In deciding whether or 
 not we accept for publication in The Dial a story submitted to 
 us we are guided almost wholly by the intensity of the impres- 
 sion made upon us by that story. Of course the means by 
 which the author attains this intensity are very varied and of 
 course each manner of attack presupposes its own technique. 
 However, it would be inappropriate for me in this letter to 
 endeavour to sketch out my personal opinion of what would be 
 the technique of any particular type of story. 
 
 But of course all stories, whatever their character, depend in 
 part for their intensity upon the delicacy of the writer's per- 
 ception of verbal values as well as upon the delicacy of his per- 
 ception of character and environment. And of course prose 
 rhythms are quite as important as those in verse. 
 
 Perhaps I might add that my personal feeling is that dialogue 
 is much over-done in American fiction of to-day and that the 
 best writers depend upon it merely to relieve pure narrative. 
 
 I regard fiction as quite as pure an art as poetry or as music 
 and therefore give no preference to one story because it deline-i 
 ates real life rather than Ultima Thule. 
 
 I am sorry I am not able to go into the subject more thor- 
 oughly and more satisfactorily. 
 
 ScoFiELD Thayer. 
 
 The Dial. 
 
 152 West 13th Street, 
 
 New York City. 
 
 DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE 
 
 DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE is a weekly publica- 
 tion. It is therefore a large market, and is constantly 
 in need of short stories of 2,500 to 6,000 or 7,000 words, 
 novelettes of 12,000 or 15,000, and novels of 25,000 words. 
 Serials should run from 36,000 to 100,000 words in length, and 
 break up approximately in about 12,000 word installments.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 323 
 
 It most not be deduced that only detective stories are needed 
 for this publication. When one speaks of a detective story we 
 think of a narrative which begins viath the murder of somebody, 
 the police being called in, and then the efforts of the police or 
 the efforts of some wise investigator of crime to solve the mys- 
 tery of who killed the deceased. Of course, this story with 
 variations — if it is well done — is always acceptable. While we 
 are dealing with it we might say that, in general, such stories 
 are divided into two types, one in which the method is the pre- 
 dominati.'ig theme, and the other in which the motive is played 
 up prominently. The first type of story suggests the puzzle. 
 There is always a type of mind which revels in puzzles. A 
 person mysteriously disappears from a room, and after wading 
 through 60,000 or 70,000 words, mostly questions and answers, 
 we learn that the method of removing the body was through, we 
 will say, the fireplace, which was on hinges. Of course, this 
 is the easiest type of detective story to write, and, as is quite 
 obvious, it is written backwards. We mean by that, an author 
 first evolves an ingenious method of killing some one, or of 
 removing some one, and then builds about this a story, leaving 
 the disclosure of the method of killing or removal to the end 
 of the story. We think a far better way to do this story, and a 
 way that interests more people, is to have the motive the pre- 
 dominating feature. The method by which, we will say, a A'oung 
 woman disappears, either through her own efforts or through 
 the efforts of others, is interesting enough in its way, but that 
 which interests the public generally, and her friends in particu- 
 lar, is not how she disappeared, so much as why she disappeared. 
 
 Now to take up the other types of stories that Detective 
 Story Magazine is interested in: We are glad to consider any 
 story into which crime enters. When one stops to consider a 
 moment, one must realize how important a feature crime is in 
 the life of every person. In using the word crime, we mean 
 deception in any fdrm. All persons constantly resort to some 
 tj'pes of deception. Thus the crime story, so called, lends itself 
 to an infinite variety of situations from the Atlantic to the 
 Pacific. For instance, in almost every family there is the urge 
 for money, in many for the bare necessities of life, while in 
 others simply for more luxury. Thus hundreds of thousands of 
 persons are being sorely tempted every day to deceive. The 
 stories of their temptations cannot h.elp, if well told, but be 
 interesting. Above all things in a detective story or a crime 
 story, the narrative must get on, move along. While character 
 work is much desired, it is demanded that this type of story 
 have suspense and b" written in such a way that one is urged on
 
 324 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 from page to page to see what is going to happen next. While 
 this can be accomplished without dramatic situations and un- 
 expected happenings occurring every so often, it is usually found 
 necessary to resort to these methods for keeping up interest. 
 Authors must not fall into the common mistake, however, of 
 feeling that when we say a story should get on we simply mean 
 that there should be action, physical movement in it. Running 
 up and down stairs alone does not make for excitement, but very 
 often does make for confusion. Also, saying that people are 
 excited or nervous or in fear does not interest the reader very 
 much. The author must show by the actions of his characters 
 that they are excited or frightened. A crime story, then, is one 
 which gets on, has plenty of strong situations, and in which the 
 motive, conflict, is the dominating feature. It is, perhaps, 
 needless to add that in a crime story the author must be fair 
 to his readers — that is, he must not explain the mystery by in- 
 troducing a reason for the commission of the crime of which 
 the reader has not been made aware. 
 
 F. E. Blackwell. 
 
 Detective Story Magazine. 
 Street and Smith, 
 79 Seventh Avenue, 
 New York City. 
 
 EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 THAT word "Everybody's" is the watchword of Everybody's 
 fiction. And what it means is simply that in choosing 
 stories the editors of Everybody's bear in mind an audience of 
 "regular folks," with a large variety of tastes and with tastes 
 for different things at different times. We are not thinking 
 specifically of business men. Nor specifically of professional 
 men. Nor of women merely as club members. Nor of women 
 merely as housewives. We are thinking of the splendid average 
 of folks, with normal human interests and normal human emo- 
 tions. And we take stories with a view to offering in each num- 
 ber a well-balanced ration of these interests and emotions, 
 stories of love, adventure, business, sentiment, children, humor, 
 sport; of city and country; of rich and poor. 
 
 The only types of stories that are barred are those that lack 
 wide contact with the average human experience — that depict 
 fantastic or morbid or unreal motives or isolated emotional re- 
 actions. This does not necessarily bar an occasional use of
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 325 
 
 morbid experience, soundly based — such as "The Wrists on the 
 Door," by Horace Fish, a horror story, strange and fantastic 
 in atmosphere, with a big truth at the bottom of it. 
 
 It is our guess that the largest group of people reads 
 for sheer entertainment, and with two motives — unconscious, 
 perhaps; either to gain a heightened sense of their own situa- 
 tions, their own personalities through reading stories of their 
 own sort of life; or to be transported by reading as by magic 
 from their own environment into another world. And we have 
 a notion that, as the worry and perplexity of life increase, the 
 eagerness to gain escape through reading increases too. That 
 is why Everybody's has stressed stories of adventurous action — 
 such as Charles Saxby's "In Camera," Clarence B. Kelland's 
 "Cheese in the Trap," David Churchill's "Igor's Trail," Edison 
 Marshall's "The Elephant Remembers." That is the reason 
 for an intensification of the search for humor — for Dorothy 
 De Jagers' cheerful New York stories and for Samuel Hopkins 
 Adams' "Cab Sir?" reprinted in this volume as a story on which 
 Everybody's readers expressed themselves with cordial approval. 
 
 At the same time — paradoxical as it may seem — Everybody's 
 has not barred war stories. Wc do not believe it is possible to 
 ask real writers to shut the doors on the most tremendous ex- 
 perience of their lives — and still do their best work. We hold 
 a high standard for war stories, but the story itself is the test 
 and such a piece of work as James Hopper's "The Scoop of 
 Charles Hamilton Potts" goes over as easily as a love idyl. 
 
 As for length, there is no rigid requirement. Short stories 
 are preferred, in order to make possible the maximum of variety 
 in each number, but ten thousand words won't kill a story of our 
 sort that is worth — ten thousand words. 
 
 Cleanness is a requisite — cleanness without priggishness or 
 sentimental dishonesty ; open-eyed wholesomcness that strength- 
 ens one's faith in human nature. 
 
 Virginia Roderick. 
 
 Everybody's Magazine. 
 Spring and Macdougal Streets, 
 New York City.
 
 326 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 FARM AND FIRESIDE 
 
 'E want good fiction for Farm and Fireside, and we will 
 pay good money for it. The only kind we don't want is 
 the extreme stuff — sexy-pink-tea and blood-and-thunder. We 
 don't demand a farm setting. Aside from that, we have no 
 specifications. Just one request: 
 
 If you are not interested in selling your best stories to a publi- 
 cation that is made for men and women who farm, please do not 
 waste your postage and our time. 
 
 As to length — 3,000 to 5,000 words for short stories, and up 
 to 10,000 for two-part, and 15,000 for three-part serials. 
 
 We pay on acceptance, price to fit quality; no limit. 
 
 Address Editor, Far 711 and Fireside, 381 Fourth Avenue, New 
 York City. 
 
 George Martin. 
 
 Faryn and Fireside. 
 
 The Crowell Publishing Co., 
 
 381 Fourth Avenue, 
 New York City. 
 
 THE FORUM 
 
 THE FORUM is not publishing fiction. My own personal 
 view, however, is that a serious magazine should print 
 some fiction, and in the course of time The Forum will. 
 
 If I should be the one selecting the fiction by that time, I 
 would look for intelligence and imagination. 
 
 George Henry Payne. 
 
 The Forum. 
 
 118 East 28th Street, 
 
 New York City.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 327 
 
 HARPER'S MAGAZINE 
 
 HARPER'S MAGAZINE is constantly seeking the work 
 of new writers, and it probabh' publishes more stories by 
 hitherto unknown writers than any other fiction periodical of 
 reputable standing. 
 
 Harper's Magazine has no editorial prejudices, and does not 
 ask its contributors to make their work conform to any fixed 
 or arbitrary specifications. There is no such thing as a "Harper 
 type" of story. Any story is acceptable which in dignity of con- 
 ception and quality of workmanship has real value, provided it 
 is also interesting. 
 
 Stories of a youthful turn, with a glimmer of humor, are 
 particularly desired. Three thousand to seven thousand words 
 is the preferred length. 
 
 Lee Foster Hartman. 
 
 Harper's Magazine. 
 Franklin Square, 
 New York City. 
 
 JUDGE 
 
 JUDGE'S need is for honest-to-goodness humor, the short 
 story (under a thousand words) that forces a healthy 
 chuckle, the poem that tickles the fancy and stirs the risibles 
 (whatever they are) and the good old-fashioned joke with a 
 modern setting and a sophisticated idea. Clean fun, smart fun, 
 spontaneous fun expressed in any literary form will be accept- 
 able and paid for generously. 
 
 Judge's circulation is booming; that is happening only because 
 this magazine is human, modern, entertaining, American and 
 very often genuinely humorous. 
 
 Perriton Maxwell. 
 
 Judge. 
 
 225 Fif:h Avenue, 
 New York City.
 
 328 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 LESLIE'S 
 
 AT present a great number of Americans, both men and 
 women, arc seriously interested in business conditions and 
 its problems. For this reason when we decided to limit our 
 publishing to one type of story — we publish but one story a 
 week, and that of limited length — we decided for the time being 
 to publish only business stories. We prefer those of construc- 
 tive turn or of such dramatic intensity that interest is com- 
 pelled. We do not want love stories in a business setting. We 
 do occasionally accept the humorous story, as often a writer 
 in this guise can present a more fundamental truth or give a 
 better picture of actual conditions than could be projected in 
 any other way. 
 
 In asking for business stories we do not feel that we are lim- 
 iting the writer. American business is so broad in scope, so 
 diversified in character, so tied up with the every day life of 
 all of us, it has so many facets of interest, so many angles of 
 approach that any one who writes can surely produce a busi- 
 ness story if he or she will. A good business story is bound 
 to be an interesting story, and interest to my mind is after all 
 the aim and end of all fiction writing. 
 
 Perriton Maxwell. 
 
 Leslie's. 
 
 225 Fifth Avenue, 
 
 New York City. 
 
 LIFE 
 
 LIFE'S principal need is humor. After humor comes senti- 
 ment, and after sentiment, satire. Life will consider origi- 
 nal jokes, short (very short) dialogues, epigrams, epigram- 
 matical comments, light verse and manuscripts up to 500 words 
 on subjects of topical or news interest containing these three 
 elements singly or in combination. Before submitting, it is 
 best to make a comprehensive study of what is printed in the 
 magazine and to model the contribution on similar lines. By 
 reason of the seeming simplicity of its contents. Life is con- 
 stantly receiving contributions which make no pretense at lit- 
 erary preparation and are therefore unavailable. 
 
 Henry William Hanemann. 
 Life. 
 
 17 West 31st Street, 
 New York City.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 329 
 
 LIVE STORIES 
 
 LIVE STORIES is not afraid of ideas. Outside of humor, 
 it insists upon something more than just a good story. 
 Humor, of course, is more than humor only when handled by 
 a master. There are not many masters of humor in America; 
 in fact, neither American writers nor readers have a real sense 
 of humor. They have, mostly, a keen sense of the ridiculous 
 and a really brilliant appreciation of Vv'it. Doubtless the diffi- 
 culty every editor experiences in getting good humorous stories 
 is thus explained. It also accounts for Live Stories' belief that 
 it is useless to look for an idea in humorous contributions. 
 "There ain't no such animal" in America, and if there were it 
 is doubtful if the public would appreciate it. 
 
 In the list of short stories memorable, one finds that each is 
 based on an idea; that is, each is more than a story. "The Fall 
 of The House of Usher," "They," "The Man Without a 
 Country," "Lear of the Steppes," "A Bit of String," are strik- 
 ing examples that come readily to mind. The list could be ex- 
 tended to embrace all of the great short stories. O. Henry, 
 you will notice, is not represented here. Indeed, the bulk of 
 O. Henry's stories are without ideas. Have you never noticed 
 that it is difficult to remember an O. Henry story? The ex- 
 planation lies in the fact that they are just stories — delightful, 
 captivating, what you will — but they are not intense, compel- 
 ling an undivided concentration. 
 
 Live Stories has, deliberately, gone in for ideas. It was this 
 policy that led it to publish Thomas Grant Springer's, "The 
 Blood of the Dragon," a story that won honorable mention by 
 the O. Henry Memorial Commiitee of the Society of Arts and 
 Sciences. "The Blood of the Dragon" was rejected by a large 
 number of New York editors who, doubtless, were entirely 
 right in their position. Yet this study of the Chinese character 
 will be remembered long after the stories those editors published 
 are forgotten. 
 
 To entertain and more, that is the policy of Live Stories. It 
 does not want trick stories; it doesn't want a fabricated and 
 artificial drama; it does not want action simply for action; it 
 does not want weeping authors. It does want the tenseness 
 incident to an inevitable situation. It wants drama, happy or 
 tragic, based upon a fundamental idea. In short. Live Stories 
 wants ideas, clearly, forcibly, dramatically evolved. 
 
 Grove Wilson. 
 
 Live Stories. 
 
 The New Fiction Publishing Company, 
 
 35-37 West Thirty-ninth Street, New York City.
 
 330 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 McCALL'S MAGAZINE 
 
 'cCALL'S finds it hard to specify its standards of the per- 
 fect McCall story, because we believe a magazine should 
 cultivate a diversity of story types. A publication with a circu- 
 lation of over one million and a half, read by people scattered 
 all over the United States, should carefully select from a wide 
 field. 
 
 In a short story, we demand first, perhaps that it be a story; 
 that it tell itself convincingly, and interestingly, with its due 
 measure of plot, characterization and charm of style. Honesty 
 and truthfulness in theme and treatment are essential. Though 
 we are opposed to the sentimental and saccharine tale which has 
 been the accepted convention for the woman's magazine, we be- 
 lieve in romance and adventure and glamour. Life is colored 
 with those three things, and a story is either dull or fantastic 
 unless it bear relation to life. 
 
 Although McCall's is a woman's magazine, we believe there 
 is no sex in reading, that a woman is not necessarily interested 
 in the old conventionally accepted story in which gilded heroes 
 and heroines pranced through a hectic and golden existence, in 
 which the heroine's name was always Gwen or Violet, in which 
 the desired male prize was always married off to the poor but 
 noble girl at the consummating altar. Nor need all women's 
 magazine stories have to do with the abuse of the sacrificial 
 mother or the efforts of an orphan stenographer alone in a great 
 city. Love and money and fame may be fundamental pillars of 
 plots, as of life; but to-day's v/oman, even as to-day's flapper, de- 
 mands more than the sentimental narration of their inter- 
 twinings. 
 
 As for the young author, we welcome him — or her. The 
 famous and the arrived have their place, but the world is ever 
 to the oncoming. If there is a germ of a story in any neophyte's 
 contribution, McCall's is only too glad to throw all its energies 
 into framing for it a more effective setting. 
 
 Bessie Beatty. 
 
 McCall's Magazine. 
 
 236-250 West Thirty-seventh Street, 
 
 New York City.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 331 
 
 McCLURE'S MAGAZINE 
 
 IT is difficult to frame rigidly the deciding factors in selecting 
 fiction for a magazine that is planned for the general reading 
 public. Any reply that I may make must be human rather than 
 formal. 
 
 You see, the work of buying for and making a magazine is a 
 firing line job. Tactics and strategy go into preparation for the 
 battle, but in the strife one does many things because they have 
 to be done. 
 
 Reduced to practicality, I buy what I want when I get it. 
 
 You will say, to tell you what I want, since I know it. But 
 if I did, you would be misled, for all wants are not constant. 
 
 Fundamentals, of course, are, but they are rather the funda- 
 mentals of art — an idea to convey, a picture to paint, in short, 
 creation. A creative thought first, then an object modeled with 
 the tools of craftsmanship. Finally, a composition (in the paint- 
 ing rather than the writing sense) that, when looked at from 
 points in a sense afar, tells u'hat the creator wants to tell. 
 
 I am trying here, perhaps indistinctly, to state that said cre- 
 ator has to build for perspective. He has to make things, ac- 
 tions and persons seem real. For example, the actor is made up 
 for the appearance he will make to you sitting on the other side 
 of the footlights. He does not strive, in the laying on of paint, 
 for the effect on you standing at his side, but on you more 
 remote. Contrariwise, if he did not make up, he would seem 
 to you in that audience as unreal, and unnatural. 
 
 There is a good lesson in this for the young writer, if I can 
 get it over. 
 
 It is the distinction between crude photographic reality and 
 the art of reality; it is the proof of the uselcssness of writing 
 from life alone, without the craft of employing materials so 
 that the reader (the audience of the theatre) sees the picture 
 not only of the actuality of life, but of the life the author meant 
 that he should see. 
 
 Not that the author departs from the r le of observer and 
 picture maker. The artist is indeed the mirror of nature. That 
 is his function — high and chosen. 
 
 He has that which is not given to us of colder blood and 
 thought. His temperature is higher, he sees often what we do 
 not see. Creation is fever, let us say, but after creation comes 
 craft, and that is as cold and critical and laborious as creation 
 is hot.
 
 332 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 The actor must be master of himself, tiniest muscle of the 
 finger and act of the mind, to portray the frenzy of emotion. 
 The writer mu§t have the craft to weave texture in sentence 
 and word, to get clarity and simplicity, to lay tone on tone of 
 character lineament, all the while keeping plot a-moving and 
 reader interest unfaltering. No work can be harder than this — 
 even where talent has been granted, and craftsmanship acquired. 
 
 Personally, I do not believe that the untalented (persons with- 
 out creative imagination) should be encouraged to study the 
 mechanics of fiction technique. The waste is in energy which 
 might win success in some other field. 
 
 Markets may prove to be lower than the ideals of writers, 
 but that should be the fault of the markets and not of the 
 writers. Nor will this course of faithfulness to ideals fail in 
 recompense in one form or another, for this is the law: 
 
 The best art has the best chance of popularity and the only 
 chance of long life. 
 
 Recognition often is delayed, but won in time, generally in 
 due time. 
 
 Because, for one thing, it drives through discouragement. If 
 the talent is not hardy enough to do so, the chances are that it is 
 not sufficiently virile to deserve the crown. 
 
 In general, money gainful success comes to the talented Ameri- 
 can writer too soon if not too easily. If one works harder than 
 ever after success has come, no harm is done. And if one stops 
 working, success passes. So the situation, after all, contains its 
 own remedy. 
 
 You ask me finally, if I have any suggestion as to what 
 writers should send to a particular magazine. I have noticed 
 for years, that writers study a magazine with the aim of send- 
 ing it material of the order of which it appears to publish most. 
 For convenience, wc will call this a magazine major. 1 am quite 
 sure the selling method is wrong, and that magazines should be 
 studied for their minors instead. It stands to reason that editors 
 will have more difficulty in supplying the minor balances. Mind, 
 I do not say the lesser, for 1 am referring to quantity, not 
 quality. 
 
 You see, a general magazine circulation may be likened to a 
 circle, divided into segments. No one unit of contents will 
 have appeal for the whole circle. That would be universality, 
 practically impossible to achieve. But it can be aimed at. Cer- 
 tain basic factors are known. One kind of material can be de- 
 pended upon for a larger segment than another. The smaller 
 segments, however, arc no less essential, and more effort will 
 have to be used to fill them than will be used to supply the
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 333 
 
 largest segment. Circulation comes from adding interest to 
 interest — up to the point of harmony. Beyond, of course, lies 
 confusion, but the problem of how far to go and when to stop 
 is an editor's, not a writer's. It is sufficient for a writer to be 
 able to know how to take market advantage of an editor's need 
 of maximum circulation pull from the smaller as well as the 
 larger segments of the circle. 
 
 Edgar Sisson. 
 
 McClure's Magazine. 
 
 25 West Forty-fourth Street, 
 
 New York City. 
 
 METROPOLITAN 
 
 IN choosing fiction for a popular magazine one must be sure 
 first of all that the story will appeal to a large audience of 
 readers. It must have the essential quality of holding the atten- 
 tion. A story which the Editor has to make an effort to read 
 is not very likely to receive much attention from any one else. 
 On the other hand, if a story, through qualities of form, con- 
 struction, style and the needed element of suspense, literally car- 
 ries one along from page to page, it has at least the first essential 
 quality of a popular magazine story. 
 
 Every Editor, of course, will tell you this. We shall not 
 differ a great deal, either, 1 imagine, in what we say afterward. 
 Every Editor likes dramatic suspense, every Editor likes natur- 
 alness and humor in the characters when he can get it. 
 
 But when you apply yourself to the practical task of selecting 
 manuscripts for your own publication you do consciously or un- 
 consciously evolve a set of rules by which the final verdict of 
 yes or no is governed. We buy eight or ten short stories a 
 month for the Metropolitan in addition to an occasional serial. 
 Naturally these stories are not to be all of one kind. 1 should 
 say, however, that there is a sort of category into which we 
 prefer our stories to fall. It is perhaps somewhat the same with 
 magazine editors as with other persons such as painters and 
 musicians who manifest their tastes more directly-wc go in for 
 very different degrees of intensity in the portrayal of a life, and 
 so on. I can think of Editors who pin their faith, because they 
 like it, to clever, thin, mauvish specimens of the art of fiction ; 
 of others who love the middle register of common life; and still 
 others who go in for the heights and depths of emotion, the
 
 334 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 passionate crises which after all do enter into the lives of prac- 
 tically all people. There are many ways of interesting the 
 public; our way in the Metropolitan lies a good deal in the 
 field last mentioned. We believe in dynamic fiction, we like it 
 so much that we would rather have a crudely done but expres- 
 sive story from a new hand than a manufactured, tepid yarn 
 from the best of practiced writers. Manufactured stuff in gen- 
 eral we abhor, although we do not fail to see that many of our 
 contemporaries do quite well with it. But stop, there is a kind 
 of manufactured story which we welcome; detective stories, 
 night life adventures, the thriller which produces a murder of 
 the unpopular character and skilful escape of the hero, — we like 
 these in spite of the fact that the whole thing is a frame. Of 
 this class of stories it is to be said that they resemble a play 
 in which you take for granted a good deal of unreality without 
 which the thing could not take place at all, and lend yourself 
 to the breathless character of the performance. 
 
 We care nothing about happy or unhappy endings. Of course 
 when the only thing a writer really has to offer you as a re- 
 ward for reading a lot of pages is a peculiarly lugubrious finish 
 we decline to be enthusiastic. But there are many stories which 
 are far better for having sad endings. And if we think so we 
 are confident that the public, which is also human, thinks so too. 
 But there is one thing we have strong convictions about ; 
 namely, length. Ten years ago five thousand words was a 
 good length for a short story. Since that time, unhappily, 
 writers have become so proficient on the typewriter, that they 
 pour out eight, ten and tvv-elve thousand words without being 
 able to stop. In most cases this is utterly unnecessary and 
 spoils the performance for any purpose except filling space, or 
 encouraging a siesta on the part of the reader. Conditions of 
 magazine publication have encouraged authors to write at length 
 instead of compressing and intensifying their work. We do not 
 hold with this school. For the Metropolitan we want short 
 stories — the shorter the better, provided everything is put in 
 that should be. No master of the short story has made a prac- 
 tice of writing the long, ungainly things which are commonly 
 produced nowadays. Foe didn't. Maupassant didn't. O. Henry 
 and Kipling didn't. It is not to the point to argue that all of 
 these men wrote at times lengthy tales; when they did there 
 was some excuse for it; but their finest work was always short. 
 When we begin to receive in our office a flood of manuscripts 
 ranging from two to five thousand words, then we shall think 
 a new inspiration has come to the great benefit of the whole 
 writing profession.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 335 
 
 In this connection note the work of Booth Tarkington. The 
 best short stories we have ever published came from his pen 
 and they filled no more than from fifteen to twenty pages of 
 typewritten paper. There is a man who builds up a short story 
 piece by piece, every word, every sentence counts. And this 
 reminds us to say that the William Sylvanus Baxter stories 
 may not be supposed to fall quite in the circle which we drew a 
 little way above to mark our special Metropolitan field. But 
 they do. Intense reality may quite as readily, though by no 
 means so easily, appear in the form of humor as along lines of 
 emotional stress. Moreover, the great humanity and genius of 
 Booth Tarkington place him beyond the need of classification of 
 any sort. He is a great writer in any style he chooses, and for 
 example of another style of his writing we refer to "The Mag- 
 nificent Ambersons," that pointed and tragic novel of real life 
 which appeared as a serial in the Metropolitan. 
 
 If we looked for eight or ten Booth Tarkington's a month we 
 would very quickly enter a padded cell, although we may confide 
 that the Circulation Manager will have no objections if we de- 
 scribe each one of our writers in terms just as superlative. Let 
 us hasten to say, then, without raking up a list of famous names, 
 as we might do, that we are extremely enthusiastic about many, 
 many authors who do not perhaps sell us more than one story 
 apiece a year. There are exceptions like Elinor Mordaunt, 
 whose remarkable tale-telling talent, whose romantic ilair for 
 the picturesque and dramatic, whose love of the salt sea and 
 strange adventures and adventurers, have been deeply appreci- 
 ated in the Metropolitan many times in the last few years. But 
 as a rule we do not harry and pursue one author. We want 
 the fresh and new, the deeply felt, the sincere, the genuine ef- 
 fort, wherever we can find it. We look for it continually. 
 
 SoNYA Levien. 
 
 Metropolitan. 
 
 432 Fourth Avenue, 
 
 New York City.
 
 336 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 THE MODERN PRISCILLA 
 
 THE MODERN PRISCILLA finds Its readers among the 
 highly intelligent home-abiding women of the country, and in 
 the choice of suitable fiction for them, stories of dramatic inter- 
 est having to do with the affairs of real people are what is most 
 desired. 
 
 We do not want sapless stories, but those that are vital, color- 
 ful, interesting, and concerned with the actual problems of 
 to-day. 
 
 We plan always to publish two stories a month, not over four 
 thousand words in length. 
 
 The Editors. 
 
 Modern Prisdlla, 
 8s Broad Street, 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 AT the time of the comp ilation of this book there had been 
 a recent change in editorial management. The editors 
 in charge said that they were constantly on the look out for 
 good short stories, the kind that were being published in The 
 Red Book, The Saturday Evening Post and The Cosmopolitan. 
 As a matter of fact the stories that are usually published 
 in Munsey's Magazine are generally shorter; another point 
 of differentiation that might be brought out is that they are 
 lighter in manner of treatment if not in actual theme. This 
 though is only a generalization and many exceptions can immedi- 
 ately be pointed out for they have in the past published 
 stories by men like Cobb and Abdullah that the other editors 
 had feared as too e.xtreme. 
 
 Munsey's Magazine. 
 
 The Frank A. Munsey Co., 
 
 280 Broadway, 
 
 New York City.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 337 
 
 MYSTERY MAGAZINE 
 
 THE first requirement for stories in Mystery Magazine, is 
 interest. Literary style is of no consequence if the stories 
 arouse and hold our readers' interest from beginning to end. 
 The types required, are detective stories and mystery stories. In 
 the former we must have plots containing absorbing mysteries, 
 with few principal characters, a pretty love theme, plenty rele- 
 vant dialogue, lively action, and local color pertaining to the 
 police department. A slight touch of comedy is permissible, but 
 dramatic climaxes are the rule. Long drawn descriptions tire. 
 Large numbers of characters confuse, and too much dialogue is 
 irksome. These romances must be distinctly, as their name 
 implies, detective stories, and they must cater to girls as well 
 as to men. 
 
 The mystery stories must be based upon popular occult 
 theories, with lucid and logical explanations of the phenomena, 
 or they can be mere mysteries of a material nature. In short we 
 only purchase good wholesome stories, with gripping interest, 
 tense situations and powerful, mystifying plots, having a simple 
 explanation. Sex problems and stories of loose morals are not 
 wanted. 
 
 Lu Senarens. 
 
 Mystery Magazine. 
 Frank Tousey, Publisher, 
 168 West 23rd Street, 
 New York City. 
 
 THE OUTLOOK 
 
 THE OUTLOOK has only a limited space available for the 
 publication of fiction, and therefore there arc certain arbi- 
 trary bounds which we must set, bounds which have little or no 
 relation to literary merit. We do not use continued stories and 
 we practically never accept single stories of more than five 
 thousand words in length, and seldom stories of more than 
 three or four thousand words. 
 
 Within this rather narrow limit we are anxious to secure 
 stories which show that the author has a background or ex- 
 perience and a knowledge of human nature. Fiction which
 
 338 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 indicates the fact that its author has a sense of form, as well 
 as an idea to express, is doubly welcome. Stories which are 
 sentimental do not appeal to us, but we are also convinced that 
 stories with real strength can be written which are not raw, 
 crude, or offensive to good taste. We do not think that the 
 adjective "strong" and the adjective "unpleasant" are neces- 
 sarily sj'nonymous. 
 
 After all, the editorial selection of fiction depends so much 
 upon the personal equation and upon the immediate needs of 
 a journal that it is difficult to give any more definite guide than 
 that we have presented here to those who desire to submit fiction 
 to The Outlook. 
 
 The Editors of The Outlook. 
 
 The Outlook Company. 
 381 Fourth Avenue, 
 New York City. 
 
 THE PARISIENNE 
 
 THE following is in response to your question about what 
 kind of fiction we want for The Parisienne and Saucy 
 Stories : 
 
 The Parisienne and Saucy Stories differ only very slightly in 
 type of fiction. Both want stories with very rapid action and 
 strong, novel plots. The Parisienne wants romance, gaiety, ad- 
 venture, mystery, in the foreign and society setting. Saucy 
 Stories wants melodrama, adventure, mystery, romance, prefer- 
 ably in an American setting. Both prefer the sex element, 
 though this is not absolutely essential. We want, however, to 
 emphasize especially that neither magazine wants stories that 
 are unpleasantly risque. Occult stories are acceptable but 
 nothing horrible. 
 
 But, as a matter of fact, it is easier to say what we do not 
 want than what wc do want — here are some of the constant re- 
 jections: 
 
 First and last, nothing that is risque. 
 
 Fillers in which the mysterious he, she or it turns out to be 
 a cat, dog or baby. 
 
 Stories in which the husband, wife or fiance fails to recog- 
 nize wife, husband or fiancee masquerading in any guise. 
 
 Stories in which the mysterious man whom husband suspects
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 339 
 
 turns out to be the brother, or the unknown lady whom wife 
 suspects turns out to be the sister. 
 
 Stories in which the denouement explains that the entire plot 
 is merely a rehearsal for the movies or a play. 
 
 Stories in which the supposed farmer's daughter turns out to 
 be a famous movie star. 
 
 Stories in which the starving heroine is persuaded to play the 
 part of an imaginary wife in order that the rich relative will 
 leave his money to the nephew whom he wanted to see marry 
 before passing on. 
 
 Stories in which a will demands that two people who hate 
 each other marry and they do fall in love with one another. 
 
 Stories in which all complications are explained by the un- 
 known existence of a twin. 
 
 War stories. 
 
 Suicide stories. 
 
 We realize that this list is quite incomplete, but we hope that 
 it will act as a suggestion to would-be Parisiennc and Saucy 
 Stories contributors that they consider very carefully before 
 submitting a story, whether the plot answer our first requisite- 
 novelty. 
 
 And we want to make an earnest plea that authors will not 
 only read this short article carefully, but will look over both 
 magazines and get some idea of the type of fiction required 
 before sending in stories that are totally unsuitcd to either 
 publication. 
 
 The Editors. 
 
 The Par'isienne. 
 
 Saucy Stories. 
 
 25 West Forty-fifth Street, 
 
 New York City. 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S HOME JOURNAL 
 
 THE conscientious writer of fiction, the man who takes his 
 work seriously, is sure to get his innings. And at no time 
 in the history of magazines has this been so true as now. War 
 conditions were responsible for a four-years' opportunity seized 
 by too many mediocre writers to get their wares before the 
 reading public. The result has been a healthy, vigorous re- 
 action against the sort of stuff Editors were perhaps obliged to 
 accept when so many able-bodied, sober-minded drivers of the
 
 340 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 quill were across the sea fighting for battle honors instead of 
 bay wreaths. 
 
 Because for thirty-six years The People's Home Journal has 
 been called "the magazine for every member of the family," it 
 has offered a more inclusive market for fiction than magazines 
 making their principal appeal to women. Big stories of the 
 out of doors have helped to swell the Journal's circulation. On 
 the other hand, the kind of story that surprises the laugh be- 
 fore the tear is over is popular with our readers. 
 
 Certainly these readers will not stand either for the dry-as- 
 dust, categorical type of story, nor for the rapid-fire tj'pe, the 
 kind manufactured, not created. The Journal's rising news- 
 stand sales respond barometer-wise to a Journal serial built 
 around love, mystery or high adventure, but crowded with real 
 things happening and truthful in its transcript of healthy emo- 
 tions. Studies in morbid pathology come to every Editor's desk, 
 usually from the amateur, but the sane reactions which follow 
 situations dealing with real people are what most readers 
 understand and like. The villain who might be your next-door 
 neighbor, the hero who could have jostled elbows with you in 
 the subway, the heroine who is the not impossible she of every 
 man's dreams are sure to score. 
 
 There will always be a demand for the psychological story. 
 And the story dealing with mental processes can be made as 
 tense and gripping as the so-called action story if it has actual 
 story interest. But too many psychological stories start out to 
 prove something of no importance. 
 
 In the last analysis, "the story's the thing," whether it deals 
 with battle, murder or sudden death, or with the complexities of 
 mind induced by a given situation. 
 
 If I were asked to explain briefly what I considered the chief 
 characteristic of The People's Home Journal story, I would say 
 that it is dramatic because it interprets life in a way to stir the 
 emotions, and I would add that it usually contains a message, 
 always clear to the reader, a message which lingers in his mem- 
 ory when perhaps the plot, the characters and the story's charm 
 have faded. 
 
 Mary Botsford Charlton, 
 
 The People's Home Journal, 
 76-88 Lafayette Street, 
 New York City.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 341 
 
 PEOPLE'S MAGAZINE 
 
 IT is one of the easiest things in the world to make a state- 
 ment of the negative side of a proposition and it is corre- 
 spondingly difficult to give an adequate and intelligent idea of 
 all that is involved in the positive. 
 
 So, it is invariably my impulse to tell what I don't want when 
 I am asked to explain the needs of the magazine of which I 
 happen to be the editor. At the present time I am in editorial 
 charge of the People's Magazine, and its special aversions can 
 be briefly and, I hope, comprehensively stated. 
 
 We will return, as promptly as courtesy permits, all manu- 
 scripts purporting to be stories — the magazine uses only fiction — 
 but which are, in fact, nothing more than catalogues or mono- 
 logues. "Catalogues" include fiction in which descriptive writ- 
 ing prevails, with a minimum amount of action and character- 
 ization. This applies aFso to so-called "machine-made" stories, 
 narratives merely of events, bare recitals of what happened to 
 so-and-so under such-and-such conditions. The objection to 
 such stories is that, as a rule they are anemic in substance, 
 superficial in conception and perfunctory in execution. They are 
 lacking in real vital, dramatic interest. Monologues, in the 
 derivative sense in which I have used the term, obviously means 
 a "story within a story," or one told by one of the characters. 
 
 Specifically, the People's Magazine will not publish a sex 
 story, or even what is, generically and innocuously, a love story, 
 though as to the latter, one which is otherwise acceptable will 
 not be rejected because it embodies a love interest which is a 
 necessary episode in the plot; it does not care for pseudo-scien- 
 tific stories, or business stories constructed according to the 
 formulas in common use; it objects to prize-fight or other sport 
 stories, but only those of the conventional type which, after 
 glancing at the opening, the average reader can finish for him- 
 self with little deviation from the text; it objects to society 
 stories, high, middle-class or low, and it turns its back on hor- 
 rors, sordidness and abnormality. And finally it cannot use 
 mere character or psychological studies, which arc not stories 
 at all. 
 
 This is a very brief statement, limited by space requirements, 
 of what the People's Magazine docs not want. 
 
 What it does want will take a little longer to tell. The pre- 
 vailing note of the magazine is open air adventure, with a dis- 
 tinctly American flavor; with this qualification we impose no 
 limitations as to place. Adventure stories with a setting in the 
 United States or Canada may be put in a period within the 
 limits of the nineteenth or twentieth centuries. There is a
 
 342 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 mine of authentic material of highly dramatic character, much 
 of which, to be sure, has been used in fiction, but by no means 
 all. We do not object to the use in fictional forms of histori- 
 cal events and characters by name; in fact we rather wel- 
 come it. 
 
 Every one, of course, is familiar with the "western story." 
 Thanks to "The Virginian" it has been popularized by the 
 magazines and vulgarized by the movies; we object, not to the 
 "western story," but to its formula. If anybody has anything 
 fresh and original to contribute to it we will thank God and 
 reward him according to his deserts and our ability. Open air 
 adventure, American, but in any part of the world is, as I have 
 said, the prevailing note, and we want to strike that note with 
 a complete novel of from 30,000 to 50,000 words in every 
 number. 
 
 In general, and excluding the type of stories I have already 
 referred to as those that we don't want, we will accept any 
 short or continued story that is a really good one; this covers 
 the mystery story. 
 
 Now a story, in order to deserve the name, must involve a 
 conflict or duel, either of human beings, or — proceeding of 
 course from human beings — ideas or emotions. Without the 
 conflict there is no drama, and without the drama there is no 
 story. And out of the conflict and complication should come a 
 denouement which satisfies the reader's sense of justice or his 
 sense of the appropriateness of things in general. Such a de- 
 nouement may incur the reproach of being a "happy ending," 
 but the author should rid himself of that bugaboo and not be 
 afraid of utilizing it, if necessary. It's only a cant phrase and 
 does not mean a thing to the masses who read him and make 
 his reputation for him. Personally, I believe that most unhappy 
 endings are deliberately planned and thrown in as a sop to the 
 Cerberus of "realism." 
 
 A real story ought to have an initial impulse that carries it 
 along, without faltering, from beginning to end, that is to say, 
 movement. A great many stories sag at some point, or collapse 
 in the middle or go to pieces at the end. Such catastrophes can 
 be averted. 
 
 It sometimes seems to me that very, very few authors realize 
 how much honest, sincere characterization helps a story — how 
 much, indeed, it may help to make a genuine story out of a 
 verj' slender plot. The human element is what gives a story 
 such vitality as it has and time and effort devoted to it is well 
 spent, and usually profitably spent. 
 
 This leads me to say that the human touch is the thing we 
 look for in every manuscript that comes in to People's 
 editorial oflSce; somewhere in each story we hope to find an un-
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 343 
 
 expected display, by one or more of the characters, of courage, 
 or generosity, or renunciation, or self-sacrifice, or some other 
 human trait that brings to the reader a conviction that, after 
 all, human nature is better than experience has taught him to 
 believe. This is the sort of thing that people never weary of. 
 Common-place characters, common-place experiences, common- 
 place emotions take on dramatic color by these unlooked-for 
 demonstrations. 
 
 Finally, we want our stories told in plain, direct, straight- 
 forward style. We object to any peculiarity of phraseology 
 which tends to divert the attention of the reader from the sub- 
 stance of the story to the manner of the writer. But individu- 
 ality of style, which is quite another thing, and honest slang, 
 judiciously used, are welcome. 
 
 I want to conclude with a word on some of the delusions, as 
 they seem to me, about what is called "the art of the short 
 story," or of "short story writing." I am almost tempted to 
 say that there is no such art, but I have no desire to dogmatize 
 because, in dealing in generalities, it is always necessary to add 
 qualifications. I should say that story-telling is instinctive; 
 that every human being has the story-telling sense. There's 
 nothing particularly original in that idea, but it seems to me 
 that its significance has been curiously neglected with the result 
 that so-called instruction in the forms of an alleged art has 
 taken the place of the cultivation of an inherent impulse. The 
 faculty of observation is the one which, first of all, makes any 
 story possible. In O. Henry it was so highly developed that, at 
 a glance, he saw a significance in things that simply did not 
 exist for most people, even for trained writers. To this he 
 added facility of expression and a sense of humor, which is 
 fundamentally, a sense of proportion; and he paid little attention 
 to forms. I speak of him because he illustrates so distinctly the 
 points I have in mind and also because I was intimately ac- 
 quainted with him and \\ith his methods. 
 
 Of course "we can't all be O. Henrys" — he was born with 
 the story-telling sense fully developed — but we can attain a 
 certain degree of approximation to his achievements by diligent 
 cultivation of the three essentials that he had without cultiva- 
 tion, namely: observation, expression, proportion. And this is 
 a lesson that must be self-taught — nobody can teach it. for the 
 simple reason that one person cannot do another's hard work. 
 
 A. L. Sessions. 
 
 People's Popular Monthly. 
 79 Seventh Avenue, 
 New York City.
 
 344 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S POPULAR MONTHLY 
 
 WHEN we buy a short story there are three very different 
 things which we desire that story to do: 
 
 First: It must tell a story compellingly — so compellingly that 
 when one is through reading, there is a very definite emotional 
 response which stays with the reader. If one is conscious of the 
 means technically employed to place the story before the reader, 
 that story has failed as such. 
 
 If, however, the narrative takes you out of yourself and gives 
 you a definite feeling of sympathy with that of the people in the 
 story — it is in this point successful. 
 
 Second: Having gripped the attention and taken a hold upon 
 the feeling of the reader, it must, in order to qualify for a place 
 in our pages, fill a very real need in the lives of our particular 
 type of readers. 
 
 There are many splendid stories which we are forced to re- 
 turn, due to the fact that they do not fill this particular need. 
 
 We have among our readers a preponderance of people who 
 have been limited in their mental experiences and are conse- 
 quently limited in their intellectual grasp. They are, however, 
 from the rural and small town districts in that opulent region ex- 
 tending from the AUeghenies to the Rockies, and are, by virtue 
 of this fact, a peculiarly keen and progressive people. Their judg- 
 ment is sincere and their viewpoint is human. Their lives are in 
 many cases a bit monotonous and often isolated; in consequence 
 of which a story should have a real narrative interest, and, in all 
 cases, strong entertainment value, with a wholesome dose of 
 brightness and good cheer. We return all morbidly tragic stories. 
 
 Third: When we have found a story which stirs the feeling 
 and fills the need of our particular readers, it is then time, and 
 not until then, to look to the technic of the story. That is some- 
 thing which can be regulated to a large extent by editing in those 
 cases where errors are not too flagrant. 
 
 There is, of course, a certain readability of expression, ab- 
 solutely imperative, but that is something incorporate with the 
 first point. They are practically inseparable. 
 
 Therefore, granted that the style was such as to make the 
 emotional feeling paramount to the word consciousness of the 
 reader — then any errors which may have crept in are not too 
 flagrant to be corrected. 
 
 Of course, we do not find, in as many cases as we wish, 
 stories which meet all three requirements, and oftentimes our 
 pages have in them things which fall short of these three points. 
 
 The People's Popular Monthly. Elizabeth B. Canaday. 
 
 Des Moines, Iowa.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 345 
 
 PHOTOPLAY 
 
 IDG NOT believe that any editor, whether of a fiction maga- 
 zine or any periodical, can judge material successfully on 
 any other than a very personal basis of likes and dislikes. In 
 other words, I buy a story if I like it, and believe this to be the 
 only method. Someone has to pass on it finally, and a publica- 
 tion must stand or fall on his judgment. 
 
 James R. Quirk. 
 
 Photoplay. 
 
 25 West Forty-fifth Street, 
 
 New York City. 
 
 PICTORIAL REVIEW 
 
 YOU ask me a pretty difficult question — I have no absolute 
 rule for saying yes or no to a short story and, as far as 
 that goes, I don't think any other editor has. There are such 
 things in magazine offices as editorial policies, but if they are 
 good editorial policies they must be more or less elastic, subject 
 to change without notice and not very well defined a:.»yway. 
 Folks come in and ask me what kind of stories Pictorial Review 
 likes. The only answer I can give is "good stories." If they 
 ask why I buy this story and not that, 1 would say because I 
 think it more interesting than the other, but to go further and 
 to ask me to explain precisely why it is the more interesting is 
 too much for me. There may be editors who can sit down and 
 in a magic manner tell just exactly why they bought this story 
 and refused that, but they must be smarter editors than I am. 
 I really cannot do it with sincerity or conviction and do not try. 
 
 Do I buy stories because I like them myself or because I 
 think our readers will like them? That's another sticker. I 
 generally buy stories because I like them myself, because if I 
 disregarded my own taste and tried to pick out a story that our 
 readers would like and which I didn't like, I would be hopelessly 
 at sea all the time. 
 
 I would really feel ashamed of myself were I to publish a 
 story which I personally thought to be piffle just because I 
 thought it would "sell the magazine."' 
 
 Moreover, I don't think any editor knows just what his read- 
 ers like or might like except in a general way. We have no
 
 346 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 exact way of telling and my experience has been to follow my 
 own judgment and, when the Circulation Manager comes along 
 and tells me the circulation of the magazine is increasing by 
 leaps and hounds, I am then licensed to feel that my judgment 
 must have been good. Because I am just a plain, ordinary type 
 of person and there must be hundreds of thousands and millions 
 of people in the country like me; and what interests me will 
 quite generally interest them, at least I have found it so. Don't 
 take from this that the Circulation Manager comes along every 
 month and tells me the circulation of the magazine is increasing 
 by leaps and bounds, but sometimes he does, and then I know 
 a certain story or serial in the magazine got across in a big way; 
 but what docs that mean? It doesn't mean that I can go out 
 off-hand and get another story just like it and ring the bell 
 again. We don't buy stories that way — writers do not write 
 them that wav — I wish they did because the editor's job would 
 be easy. 
 
 Now here's another peculiar thing. Pictorial Review is a 
 woman's magazine, and yet I am a man and there is nothing 
 particularly feminine about me in my tastes or activities. We 
 do not pick out stories because we think they are good woman's 
 magazine stories; in fact, we have no earthly use for the typical 
 woman's magazine story, that sweet and pretty, mush and milk 
 afFair that used to grace the pages of our contemporaries. We 
 found out years ago that women were interested in good, short 
 stories that picture the vital, human things in life and that there 
 was no real reason for their being obliged to go to the men's 
 magazines to read them. So we began to publish real stories 
 in Pictorial Review, 
 
 I realize that all this is more or less indefinite and possibly 
 of little help to the aspiring author, but if said aspiring author 
 will bear in mind that the only way to sell short stories is to 
 make them interesting and, if they are made sufficiently interest- 
 ing, they will sell themselves — that's all there is to it. 
 
 Arthur T. Vance. 
 
 Pictorial Review. 
 
 The Pictorial Review Company, 
 214-226 West 39th Street, 
 New York City.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 347 
 
 POPULAR MAGAZINE 
 
 IN selecting stories I bear in mind the fact that the buying of 
 fiction is a business and not a h'terary occupation. This means 
 that I have always in mind the ultimate consumer — the fellow 
 who knows nothing of literature as such but who likes good 
 stories. 
 
 What are these? 
 
 First and foremost, a story about a new phase of life and in- 
 dustry. The American reader is by no means a prude or intol- 
 erant, but he likes sane, almost practical stuff. He likes ro- 
 mance, but it must be normal and wholesome. He does not like 
 the erotic or morbid. Without being in the least "literary," his 
 taste is surprisingly good. As a rule, he does not want tragedies, 
 but will accept them if exceedingly well done. A good mystery 
 story is sure-fire. 
 
 Current American fiction is one of the livest things in the 
 world to-day. Keen intelligence goes into the making of it. It 
 plays a bigger part in the formation of public opinion than most 
 people know. It is a genuinely civilizing influence. As a rule, 
 a man's taste in fiction improves and his standards in stories 
 become higher the more he reads. The very cheapest of the 
 magazines are turning the foreign populations of the second 
 generation in our cities into Americans at a surprising rate. The 
 author of the day is writing for a big public, not a small, select 
 one. 
 
 Here are a few things for the author to bear in mind, li a 
 writer can describe human beings so well that they seem real ; 
 if he sometimes laughs at, sometimes is irritated with, some- 
 times loves these people who come to life in the pages of the 
 story, he has his first great point. If he can write conversation 
 such as you actually hear he has his second. If he can write 
 good, straightforward English, at once clear, forcible, and vivid, 
 he has the third. But all of these are of no use unless the 
 author has the sense of construction that makes him w.ite real 
 stories, — that is, plots that unfold and develop to a logical con- 
 clusion, instead of mere sketches or anecdotes. The one satis- 
 fies; the other does not. 
 
 Successful authors all work hard, and the bigger an author 
 is the more you can criticise his work to his face. He appreci- 
 ates that it is a technical calling and he wants and appreciates 
 intelligent criticism. 
 
 Are there many good writers who can't get a hearing? Prac- 
 tically none. Names count in a fashion. The author who has
 
 348 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 a public gets stronger with his readers the more he writes. If 
 a man has a literary gift and the energy and persistency back 
 of it he will find fiction a good bi'siness. 
 
 But just because story-writing has taken on some of the as- 
 pects of commercialism it has by no means lost the romance, 
 the humor, the humanity, that it had in the old Grub Street 
 days. After all, we are dealing with the stuff that dreams are 
 made of, the inspiration of ambition, the literature of hope and 
 effort and human aspiration, the running chronicle of our ways, 
 our manners, our civilization. Most of it will fade and pass 
 with the fading years; some of it will live. 
 
 Charles Agnew MacLean. 
 
 Popular Magazine. 
 Street and Smith Corporation, 
 Seventh Avenue and Fifteenth Street, 
 New York City. 
 
 THE RED BOOK MAGAZINE 
 
 KARL HARRIMAN, the editor, had promised a statement 
 as he said that he welcomed this opportunity to point 
 out to would-be contributors the differentiation in editorial 
 policy between The Red Book Magazine, The Blue Book Mag- 
 azine and The Green Book Masjazine. However, a press of 
 unexpected work made it impossible for him to do this before 
 this book had to be sent to press. At that time he spoke in 
 a general way of the fact that for The Red Book Magazine 
 he was constantly looking for stories of the different sections 
 of the United States; then again for stories of the different 
 interests that were absorbing the attention of the people at 
 the moment, such as stories of oil, psychic stories, etc. 
 For The Blue Book Magazine he wanted more out-and-out 
 adventu/e and tales that would primarily appeal to men; 
 for The Green Book Magazine stories that would find their 
 immediate audience among women. 
 
 The Red Book Magazine. 
 The Blue Book Magazine. 
 The Green Book Magazine. 
 36 South State Street, 
 Chicago, 111.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 349 
 
 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 
 
 GEORGE HORACE LORIMER, the editor-in-chief of 
 The Saturday Evening Post, said quite frankly when asked 
 to write briefly his attitude and point of view in the selecting 
 of fiction for his magazine that neither he nor his staff were 
 willing to regard the Post as a training school for young writ- 
 ers. 
 
 He went on to say that he and his associates felt that the 
 circulation of the magazine, the fact that it bought more 
 fiction than any other American periodical, paid well and quickly, 
 and published without great delay, made it inevitable that 
 most writers who entered the profession would in the course 
 of events submit material to the Post. Should a story by an 
 unknown writer please one of the staff readers it would then 
 be submitted to him and to his immediate associates for accep- 
 tance or rejection. Should this same writer succeed equally 
 with subsequent stories, the Post's editors would then personally 
 consult with this author as to the magazine's immediate needs 
 and help by suggestion and advice to make his or her material 
 more available from the Post viewpoint. 
 
 In this connection it is interesting to note that while their 
 list of writers includes many of the best-known names among 
 American short story writers, the magazine has also accepted 
 and published the stories of many writers who had had no 
 previous audience and whose names were until the time of their 
 appearance in the Post wholly unknown. 
 
 While it is perhaps impossible to state tersely what the Post 
 wants, and while Mr. Lorimer may hesitate to speak didac- 
 tically as to what is and what is not a good short story, the 
 earnest student can easily discern certain of the Post require- 
 ments by a study of the magazine. That the stories are inclined 
 to run to a certain more or less definite length; that the major- 
 ity are American in both setting and characters; that they con- 
 form to a certain standard of writing and method of treatment 
 is at once apparent, and certain errors of judgment in submission 
 may easily be avoided. 
 
 The Saturday Evening Post, 
 Curtis Publishing Co., 
 Independence Square, 
 Philadelphia, Pa,
 
 350 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE 
 
 ROBERT BRIDGES, the editor of Scribner's Magazine, 
 felt that he would do injustice to his periodical were he 
 to attempt to say in a few short paragraphs the type of stories 
 they preferred. He went on to say that the magazine had 
 been in existence for so long that its reputation for good art 
 and good craftsmanship in everything that appeared in its 
 pages was so well established that nothing he could say would 
 either add to or make more definitelv practical from the 
 neophyte's approach the type of fiction wanted. 
 
 Scribncrs Magazine, 
 599 Fifth Avenue, 
 New York City. 
 
 SHORT STORIES 
 
 ^~^HE best, indeed the only reply to the question as to the 
 needs of a magazine that I can think of is — read it. 
 That is the answer for Short Stories. 
 
 When a writer asks me what we want for Short Stories, I am 
 apt to feel a bit hopeless for, as I see it, my first duty is to seek 
 and develop talent, and my second is to select material. I cannot 
 feel that it is good for a fiction magazine, nor good for a fiction 
 writer, to have the editor suggest ideas, or plots. (General 
 magazines using non-fiction articles are different. In the nature 
 of things they must suggest articles and ideas to their writers.) 
 An intelligent reading of a fiction magazine will give a better 
 idea of its aims and field than any amount of talking by the 
 editor. We can at best, in the time at our disposal, give an idea 
 of our field. The more important thing is the spirit of the 
 magazine, and that can only be taken in by reading it. 
 
 Once a writer gets the spirit of the magazines he wishes to 
 write for and has determined their respective fields, it is up 
 to him. 
 
 Within the scope of his publication, and in its general spirit, 
 what an editor wants most of all is ideas — something new, fresh, 
 different. 
 
 There is one more preliminary point — self-analysis. Many 
 writers suffer from lack of understanding of their own material. 
 The field is so large to-day that any writer can develop his own 
 natural imaginative expression and find a market for it. If
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 35 1 
 
 one is more interested in outdoor adventure — write it. If a 
 writer's mind runs to psj'chological problem stories — write 
 those. There are magazines looking for adventure and others 
 looking for psychological character analysis. But don't, Mr. 
 Writer, try to force yourself to write something you yourself 
 do not like. You cannot write down to a field successfully, and 
 you must develop into a higher literary class naturally, by hard 
 work. 
 
 As for Short Stories: Being primarily a magazine of adven- 
 ture and the outdocj-rs, our interest naturally lies in that field 
 first. Our public is, a wide one embracing many kinds of people. 
 Yet, when they buy a fiction magazine like Short Stories, we are 
 convinced they do so in pretty much the same frame of mind. 
 They want to be amused. They want a good story. They 
 want to read it in a hurry, on a railroad train, in a spare hour, 
 or to relieve a tedious wait. We believe they do not want too 
 much complexity, nor too highly polished a style. Literary ex- 
 cellence is all to the good. We want it and our readers ap- 
 preciate it, but it must be within our field and done in our spirit. 
 For example, imagine the joy of our public if we could publish 
 as brand new to-day some of Kipling's early short stories — "The 
 Man That Would Be King." "William the Conqueror," and the 
 rest. They fall perfectly "within our scope," and in spite of 
 the fact that they were done by the greatest literary craftsman 
 of the age, they are not, like some of his later work, too subtle 
 for our public. They are mostly on the objective plane, full of 
 action, stories straight from the shoulder. 
 
 Of course, our public like stories of the far places, of the 
 West, both old and new, of the North and the Tropics. Yet, 
 even to these there are some strange exceptions such as the 
 question of remoteness from the reader's understanding. Miles 
 are nothing to the author or to the reader of the printed page, 
 but unless the author succeeds in making the reader feel his 
 locality, the sense of remoteness creeps in and the story fails. 
 Naturally, with this small world and the fairly limited number 
 of situations possible to a human being in adventure, variety 
 becomes a very desirable thing with us — variety, remember, 
 within our field. 
 
 The public that reads Short Stories likes mystery stories. 
 That in itself is a broad field and includes the tales of the track- 
 ing down of the perpetrators of crime — detective stories. We 
 have mighty few hard and fast rules, but we never use a story 
 in which we make crime and criminals heroic. If the hero of a 
 story is a burglar, we want the story to siiow his redemption, 
 the failure of crime with its ultimate punishment, or we want
 
 352 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 his actions within the story to be for a laudable purpose. Our 
 attitude may best be summed up by the phrase, "the effect on the 
 young." We want no story which will have an evil effect on any 
 reader. 
 
 Mystery stories tend to run along conventional lines. We 
 would like some variety there. The playwrights have accom- 
 plished something new and thrilling in pieces such as: "The 
 Unknown Purple," "The 13th Chair," "The Alibi" with excel- 
 lent results. Why cannot some equally ingenious writers work 
 out mystery tales as far from the ordinary murder or jewel 
 mysteries as these? 
 
 And humor! Oh, give us humor! Not too subtle, nor too 
 rough. But give us a laugh. Human interest stories too. Busi- 
 ness stories and the sports interest our readers. They are 
 fairly scarce, the good ones, so we are always on the lookout 
 for them. 
 
 Short Stories, like its contemporaries, including The Satur- 
 day Evening Post, was created by a reading public's demand. 
 Therefore, with the exception of the purely love stories and 
 speaking quite generally, any story that would hit The Satur- 
 day Evening Post would hit us. Many and many a writer ap- 
 pearing regularly in that great weekly has found himself 
 through the medium of Short Stories and similar magazines. 
 
 The love theme is desirable in our field. Our public, we be- 
 lieve, likes it, but only as a normal motive in a plot. We do 
 not use love stories, as such, but love naturally enters into and 
 strengthens any story, adventure, mystery, business, humor, 
 sports, or what not. 
 
 We are not squeamish, yet we never forget that phrase, "the 
 influence on the young." We do not want to print any story 
 that leaves a bad taste in the mouth. Our public do not want 
 nor expect that in Short Stories. Hence, the so-called sex story 
 is not for us. 
 
 A word as to dialect. We try to print stories that read easily 
 and smoothly. Too hard or too consistent a dialect repels 
 readers. Likewise, the widely popular slang "roughneck" story. 
 We use 'em of course, but we do not want 'em too rough. Every 
 reader likes the relief of straight English rather than to go 
 through page after page of dialect or slangy misspelling. 
 
 But, read the magazine, and then within our scope give us 
 something different. 
 
 Harry E. Maule. 
 
 Short Stories. 
 
 DouBLEDAY Page & CoMPANY, PubHshefs, 
 
 Garden City, N.Y.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 353 
 
 THE SMART SET 
 
 S Editors of The Smart Set. Mencken and I buy any story 
 4. ^ that appeals to us personally. We employ no so-called 
 "readers." Every manuscript submitted to the magazine is 
 read by the one or the other of us. We have no rules. But, 
 we have prejudices. Style is a most important factor. The 
 viewpoint of a cultured man or woman is a most important 
 factor. 
 
 George Jean Nathan. 
 
 A 
 
 The Smart Set. 
 
 25 West Forty-fifth Street, 
 
 New York City. 
 
 SNAPPY STORIES 
 
 I AM setting forth, more or less briefly, what Snappy Stories 
 desires from its contributors. From its inception, this maga- 
 zine has specialized in fiction and other material with a strong 
 sex interest, and this policy is being adhered to — not because 
 this is the only type of story that appeals to us, but because we 
 feel that there are a vast number of readers who enjoy tales 
 with themes based upon the relations between the sexes. This 
 is by no means a depraved taste, but a healthy, natural one, 
 characterizing most normal men and women. Many of the most 
 famous stories ever written have had this so-called sex interest, 
 and this applies also to plays and grand operas. Vulgar or 
 salacious material is barred, but we have no objection to stories 
 that are a trifle audacious or that have a dash of the risque. 
 
 Each bi-monthly issue of Snappy Stories contains a complete 
 novelette of from 15,000 to 18,000 words. This is the length 
 we prefer, although we sometimes publish longer novelettes or 
 shorter ones. They should be strongly plotted, with plenty of 
 action and a real climax. Happy endings preferred, but not 
 absolutely insisted upon. Occasionally a good humorous novel- 
 ette or an ingeniously plotted mystery story, without a pro- 
 nounced sex interest, is used. 
 
 We publish one short serial of from 20,000 to 30,000 words, 
 suitable for two or three parts. Longer stories are occasionally 
 taken, and used in a greater number of installments. What
 
 354 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 we have said about the novelette applies also to the continued 
 story: stories w^ith sex interest stand the best chance of accept- 
 ance. Of course we desire good "breaks" where they are to be 
 divided. 
 
 Short stories, of which we use about eight to a number, may 
 be of almost any length, although those of 5,000 words or less 
 are most in demand. We don't want them either padded or 
 unduly compressed. Sex interest here also, although we some- 
 times use other kinds — humorous, say, or a good occult or mys- 
 tery tale. We do not object to unhappy endings. Action is a 
 desideratum. Slow moving stories, depending principally on at- 
 mosphere and characterization, are not desired. 
 
 A short play is published in every issue. These may be funny 
 or serious. We want especially good acting plays, clever and 
 skilfully plotted. 
 
 We use a number of poems, mostly tense love verses or those 
 of a humorous or whimsical sort. Occasionally blank verse is 
 used. Poems may vary in length from the quatrain to forty 
 lines. We seldom buy longer ones, although this is not a hard 
 and fast rule. 
 
 There is a good market here for short bits of prose, of six 
 hundred words or less. These may be grave or gay, cynical or 
 satirical. Jokes and epigrams are also in demand. 
 
 Writers should make a little study of the magazine to which 
 they desire to contribute, as in this way they will save their own 
 time as well as the editor's. We are only too glad to get in 
 touch with new writers, and do all we can to encourage and 
 develop them. 
 
 The Editor. 
 
 Snappy Stories. 
 
 The New Fiction Publishing Company, 
 
 35-37 West Thirty-ninth Street, 
 
 New York City.
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 351; 
 
 TELLING TALES 
 
 IN the ten years or so that I have been editing magazines that 
 question "Why I Buy the Stories I Do" has been asked of 
 me dozens and dozens of times, and I am as far as ever from 
 being able to answer it. 
 
 Authors and would-be authors are constantly coming and say- 
 ing: "Mr. Clayton, what kind of stories do you want for your 
 magazine?" and the only answer I can give them is, that I want 
 any good story, providing it is not a sex story, and when they 
 want to pin me down to what constitutes a good story I am 
 utterly lost, and can only say that my idea of a good story is 
 any story that I like. 
 
 I presume that every magazine to be successful must be an 
 expression of its editor's individual taste. In other words, it 
 must have a personality of its own, and that personality can 
 only come from the man who makes it. 
 
 Perhaps the point that appeals to me most strongly about a 
 story is the hiimanness of its characters. They mi'-'.t really 
 live, so that the reader is impressed with their realiij. Only 
 thus may he come to feel toward them a friendly spirit which 
 will lead him to take an actual interest in their adventures or 
 misadventures, their love affairs, their successes or failures. 
 
 The writing of a story is not, to me, the most important part 
 of it. If the story is there, careful editorial work will smooth 
 out many of the crudities of expression or careless short-comings 
 of its author, but no editing can supply a plot where none exists, 
 nor make human or interesting characters that are obviously 
 mere wooden puppets to their creator. 
 
 Of course, the better written a story is, the larger is apt t6 be 
 the check that is sent in return for it, because naturally, an edi- 
 tor, like the buyer of any commodity, cannot afford to pay as 
 much for raw materials requiring a great deal of work to put 
 them into usable shape, as he can for a finished and perfected 
 article. 
 
 To sum up, I would say that before writing a story an 
 author should first have a story to tell, and then be as careful 
 as possible in the telling. The main quality needed after that, 
 if one is to become a successful writer, is, I should say, in- 
 exhaustible perseverance. 
 
 William M Clayton. 
 Telling Tales. 
 114 Bible House, 
 New York City.
 
 356 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 TODAY'S HOUSEWIFE 
 
 OU ask me to give you some indication of the fiction re- 
 quirements of Today's Housewife. I can give you this 
 
 Y 
 
 very briefly: About all that we require is that the story shall 
 be clean and interesting. It may deal with the home and child 
 interest, it may be a married love story, a young love story, a 
 humorous story or one of adventure and mystery. There must 
 be no sex problem; no repulsive crime. It may be as much of 
 a thriller as any one can desire, but it must lead to ultimate 
 good; it must leave the reader in a satisfied frame of mind, al- 
 though this does not necessarily mean that it needs have a 
 "happy ending." It must have a satisfactory ending and it must 
 lead the reader along an upward path. We like our stories to 
 be full of action, plenty of sparkling dialogue, and they must 
 be well written. We use but few stories in Today's HousewifCj 
 but we demand that these be of an excellent type. 
 
 Della T. Lutes. 
 
 Today's Housewife. 
 Cooperstown, N.Y. 
 
 TOP-^NOTCH MAGAZINE 
 
 IT always seems to me so futile to talk to people who do not 
 know how to write stories about the way they should be 
 written. I feel that when I attempt it, I speak a language they 
 do not understand. I never have a feeling that I am being 
 understood when I talk on the subject to amateurs. And ex- 
 perience tells me that I am not understood. I must ask you, 
 therefore, to excuse me from holding forth on this very illusive 
 topic. 
 
 Thanking you for the compliment you pay me in asking me 
 to write something, I am 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Henry W. Thomas, 
 
 Editor. 
 Top-Notch Magazine. 
 79-89 Seventh Avenue, 
 islew York City. 
 
 J
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 357 
 
 THE TOUCHSTONE 
 
 THE kind of storj' I am always longing to have for my maga- 
 zine must have in it characters that affect me as human 
 beings would, characters that are true to their inheritance and 
 environment, Vvho react honestly and sincerely to their training 
 and surroundings. Write about any type of man, woman or 
 child that you choose, but make them true to type, or rather 
 true to character. For instance, the longshoreman must not 
 only talk, but think and feel like a longshoreman. It seems im- 
 portant to me that the soubrette should not react to life as a 
 bishop would, and that the philosophy of a returned soldier 
 should vary somewhat from that of an elderly spinster of New 
 England training. 
 
 In other words the fiction writer has got to know life, either 
 by intuition, in which case he has genius; or by experience, in 
 which case talent will serve. 
 
 And having achieved the power to see life profoundly and 
 sincerely you must then find a way to tell your public what you 
 see, to tell it in such a manner that you create the illusion of life 
 in your characters, and make the characters create the illusion 
 of reality in their environment. 
 
 An author may write cleverly, smartly, brightly, with quite 
 a little sense of drama, sell his stories easily, and have a name 
 that you remember, and not possess one atom of real insight 
 into human nature, and not one moment's grasp of power to 
 portray humanity through words that convince and thrill. 
 
 I am not at all satisfied with the idea that if you amuse the 
 public you arc a good short story writer, or even if you manage 
 to thrill the public that your short stories are worthwhile. Very 
 young and very poor writers can do both these things. 
 And 1 do not think it at all necessary to have happy endings to 
 stories. This absurd catering to the more feeble public mind 
 is not thought essential in writing an opera or a great tragedy 
 or in painting a picture. Wagner did not think that it was 
 necessary at the end of "Gotterdiimmerung" to have his orchestra 
 play some tinkling little melody to send his people home happy. 
 He wrote his music so that you go home after the great sacri- 
 fice of Brunnhilde's filled with mighty splendid thoughts of life, 
 love, death and immortality. When Rodin pictured "A Thinker," 
 a man facing universal problems, he did not carve at his side 
 a merry little clown to cheer up the beholder, who is afraid of 
 thought. And a poet does not jest at the end of a beautiful 
 rhythm that has poured out through his heart and soul. 
 
 So why should we ask of the writer, and always of the dram-
 
 358 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 atist, that these particular works of art should invariably leave 
 humanity smiling, light-hearted and forgetful. I do not think 
 it is necessary to consider the ending at all, let it develop from 
 the psychology of the people in the story, and make the episode 
 as it would be in life to the best of your ability. 
 
 I think, perhaps, at the start, the best way to learn how to 
 write is, not to write. And, of course, I mean here, not to write 
 thoughtlessly and without relating life to words. Above all, I 
 am opposed to studying models in writing. I would like to say, 
 forget all about the styles that have been set before you as 
 models. Disregard those famous old English essayists. Turn 
 your face away firmly, however reluctantly, from Lamb, Ma- 
 caulay and Carlyle. I even advise you to bid a sad farewell to 
 Edith Wharton and Henry James. And while Bernard Shaw 
 will amuse and delight you, he will only inspire you to imitate 
 him. And what could be less important to you, and more tor- 
 turing to the editors than to join the ever-swelling army of 
 Shaw's imitators? Because the important thing about Shaw 
 is — his fantastic brain, his whimsical soul, his lack of philosophy, 
 his ability to contort all life into witty jeers, and these attributes 
 for good or evil you must be born with. 
 
 It sounds very drastic, but I think it very important to 
 empty your minds of all literary ideals. And above all to aban- 
 don forever the burning desire "to express yourself." Because 
 it is immensely more important to gather through experience 
 and vision and fine sympathy, universal truths to express, than 
 to imagine that within oneself is hidden a great unwritten truth. 
 Once your mind is delightfully empty and free and at your com- 
 mand, begin to think, to observe, to appreciate; but do not make 
 the mistake of branding the people you meet as interesting 
 models for fiction writing. It is far more important to think 
 of your characters as real people. After you have learned to 
 observe life honestly and very simply, all the phases of life with 
 which you come into contact, then write exactly what you 
 think about them, just as you would tell typical episodes to 
 some one interested in your observation — except of course that 
 you must tell your story conscientiously, you must bear in mind 
 the pattern that you are weaving. And you are not writing 
 good fiction, until you have learned to design a pattern of writ- 
 ing with beauty, and put it down with power. 
 
 As I think I have said before, one of the first points I look 
 for in a story is character that is a product of its own environ- 
 ment. Dialogue that has an accent is not enough to separate one 
 nation from another; it is the kind of person that is expressed 
 through an accent that is significant. The dialogue must be
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 359 
 
 born in the soul; otherwise the impression given is irritatingly 
 superficial and sometimes absurd. 
 
 So you see, observation is not enough for fiction writing, how- 
 ever searching; nor experience, however varied; nor style, how- 
 ever distinguished. There must be power to discern truth, and 
 imagination to fashion for it a garment of shining loveliness. I 
 have grown to believe that the very words used in writing should 
 carry a weight of emotionalism. It is not enough to feel drama 
 or to talk about drama when you are writing. Drama must 
 pass through the actual words and drench them with fervor. 
 
 Mary Fanton Roberts. 
 
 The Touchstone. 
 I West 47th Street, 
 New York City. 
 
 WESTERN STORY MAGAZINE 
 
 WESTERN STORY MAGAZINE is a weekly publica- 
 tion. It is therefore a large fiction market, con- 
 stantly in need of short stories of 2,500 to 6,000 or 7,000 words, 
 novelettes of 12,000 or 15,000, and novels of 25,000 words. 
 Serials should run from 36,000 to 100,000 words in length, and 
 break up approximately in about 12,000-word installments. 
 
 All stories for IVcstern Story Magazine must deal with in- 
 cidents in the West, Canada, Alaska. If possible, they must 
 be written in such a way as to urge readers to want to lead a 
 life in the open. While many readers realize that conditions 
 have changed in the West, the stories should be written so that 
 the reader who knows that these conditions have changed will 
 understand that what the author means is that such and such 
 was the case in the good old days, and that on the other hand 
 the reader who docs not know that conditions have changed 
 will assume that they are to-day as the author states. 
 
 No story is acceptable for IVestern Story Magazine which 
 contains an unpleasant sex element. 
 
 F. E. Blackwell. 
 
 Western Story Magazine. 
 79 Seventh Avenue, 
 New York City.
 
 36o WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 THE WOMAN'S HOKIE COMPANION 
 
 FICTION is a very large element in our program. We 
 publish not less than five short stories in each issue and not 
 less than six serials a year. 
 
 These are the requirements which make a fiction manuscript 
 available : 
 
 It must tell a story. 
 
 It must tell it well — that is, according to accepted standards 
 of good writing. 
 
 The story must be worth telling. 
 
 The theme must be interesting to the average normal human 
 being. 
 
 It may be a story of love, mystery, humor, pathos, childhood, 
 youth, old age, men, women, home life, business life; its scene 
 may be laid anywhere on earth, in the past, present or future. 
 It may have plot and action, or merely atmosphere. It may 
 be by an unknown writer or by the most famous. We merely 
 want to be convinced that a great number of our readers will 
 enjoy reading it. 
 
 Of all the stories the Woman's Home Companion published 
 in 1920, I put at the head of the list, "According to Ruskin," 
 by Harriet Welles. 
 
 It answers the requirements I have outlined. It tells a story, 
 a poignant and appealing story. It tells it well, with skill, di- 
 rectness and restraint, and with power. The theme is that of 
 sacrifice, one that has held its appeal for hundreds of years, a 
 theme around which many of the greatest stories of all times 
 have been written. It has both plot and atm.osphere. 
 
 It was not altogether easy to choose the best story of the 
 year's issues, and it would not be easy to choose the second or 
 third in rank. But there are several that I wish to mention as 
 illustrative of what we consider good stories and the kind of 
 fiction we like to publish. 
 
 "The Neighbor" by Katharine Holland Brown is a difficult 
 thing well done. Written with less skill and feeling it would 
 lack the beauty that distinguishes it. It is a type of story that is 
 seldom successful, but in Miss Brown's skilful hands it is a 
 masterly piece of work. 
 
 "Shooting Stars" is one of Alice Brown's New England tales, 
 well told and absorbing in its carefully-presented setting and 
 its analysis of character. 
 
 "The Boy in the Corner" by M. C. L. Pickthall is a story of 
 the West, of a mining town, in its setting and atmosphere. In
 
 WHY EDITORS BUY 361 
 
 plot it is a study in spiritual values simply and dramatically 
 related. 
 
 Two stories, dealing in widely different ways with love and 
 poverty in the relation of a mother to a young daughter, are 
 "The Genius" by Sophie Kerr, and "A Sweater for Mabel" by 
 Elsie Singmaster. They are both admirable examples of narra- 
 tive, woven around plots of universal interest. 
 
 "The Master Passion" by Mary Heaton Vorse is a piece of 
 work that is distinguished by its keen realization of situations 
 and values and by the mingling of emotion and reason which the 
 story discloses. 
 
 Of lighter tone and somewhat slighter structure is "Thurs- 
 day and the King and Queen" by Theodora DuBois. This is 
 an excellent example of a pleasing humorous story, with a real 
 plot and real people, plenty of incident and amusing situations, 
 the kind of story we delight in. 
 
 "The Torch" by Anna Branson Hillyard is an example of a 
 serious and sincere story dealing with one of the problems of 
 present day young people. It is earnest without being preachy, 
 and it has a purpose without being propaganda. 
 
 "But I Knew You'd Understand" by Ruth Comfort Mitchell 
 is a graphic and sympathetic picture of young married life. It 
 has a variety of well-drawn characters and an atmosphere that 
 bears the sure touch of reality. 
 
 These are the stories that I feel I cannot pass over without 
 mention. These stories come up to our requirements for a good 
 piece of fiction and in every case they offer to the story-reader 
 value that is pressed down and running over. 
 
 I am glad to have had the opportunity to publish these stories 
 and I am happy to recommend them as examples of good con- 
 temporary fiction. 
 
 Gertrude B. Lane. 
 Woman's Home Companion. 
 381 Fourth Avenue, 
 New York City. 
 
 YOUNG'S MAGAZINE 
 
 FOR about thirty years Young's Magazine has been purvey- 
 ing fiction for the entertainment of the public. It has many 
 readers and some contributors of twenty years' standing. Of its 
 fellows — all-fiction magazines that started with or shortly after 
 it — what remnant is left! 
 
 It is good philosophy, as well as common sense, that such
 
 362 WHY EDITORS BUY 
 
 survival testifies to an inhering excellence or usefulness. In the 
 case of Yoiin(/'s Mar/azine the qr.ality makinji for survival is 
 that not only has it given to the public what was wanted — good 
 stories, but it has helped to create them; it has been the arena 
 where many, now famous, perfected the use of their medium — 
 where some have learned first principles, too — and it has helped 
 all by criticism and advice. 
 
 Allowing full weight to mannrr — graces of style, diction and 
 what not — Young's has steadfastly worked from the standpoint 
 that ?natter comes first. The story's the thing; what the reader 
 wants. This insistence on "meat" in the story — something 
 cogent, logical, properly articulated — has won for the magazine 
 a standing and a place with writers that is emphasized by its 
 popular success. 
 
 Looking back over the index, familiar names are everywhere; 
 selecting haphazard: Jeffery Farnol, Mary Roberts Rinehart, 
 "Ouida," Charles Hanson Towne, Marcel Prevost, Margaret 
 Pedler, Mrs. Justin H. McCarthy, Tom Gallon, Richard Le 
 Gallienne, Dale Drummond, Berton Braley, Hildegarde Haw- 
 thorne, Rita Weiman, Harry Kemp, Doctor Frank Crane. Oc- 
 tavus Roy Cohen, Nalbo Hartley, Reginald Wright Kauffman, 
 Homer Croy, Mabel Wagnalls, Henry Payson Dowst, Martha 
 M. Stanley, William Le Queux, Oliver Sandys, Nina Wilcox 
 Putnam, Elizabeth Jordan, Grace MacGowan Cooke, Julian 
 Hawthorne, Achmed Abdullah, Hapsburg Liebe, Jules Eckert 
 Goodman, Roi Cooper Megrue, Clarence L. Cullen, Jeanne 
 Judson, Channing Pollock, Percival Weil, Louise Winter, Mar- 
 tha Morton, Temple Bailey, Gertrude Brooke Hamilton, 
 Maude Fulton. 
 
 Take it how you will — whether the fact be welcome or not — 
 "sex," as it is called (with the quotation marks), shares with 
 one or two other big things the distinction of being a primal 
 force in the life of the world. It is real; it is vital. And as 
 Young's Magazine and Breezy Stories want vital fiction, they 
 seek stories of love and its attendant emotions as they affect 
 and as they are expressed in life as it is lived; not the tenuous 
 sentimentalism of the "mushy" love-story — moonshine and 
 bubbles, beautiful airy nothings that touch life at not a single 
 point. 
 
 Cashel Pomeroy. 
 Young^s Magazine. 
 Breezy Stories. 
 
 The C. H. Young PuBusmNG Co., Inc., 
 377 Fourth Avenue, 
 New York City.
 
 I 
 
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