LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVEIL . OF CALIFORNIA 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 THE LOST ROAD
 
 THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 BY 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 JOHN T. McCUTCHEON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED
 
 1127 
 
 The first seren stories In this volume from "The Lost 
 Road," copyright, 1813, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S 
 SONS; " Somewhere in France " and " The Boy Scout " 
 from "Somewhere in France," copyright, 1815, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. 
 
 The Man Who Had Everything," copyright, 1916 by THB 
 METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE CoMi-Any. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 TO 
 
 MY WIFE
 
 WITH DAVIS IN VERA CRUZ, 
 BRUSSELS, AND SALONIKA 
 
 IN common with many others who have been with 
 Richard Harding Davis as correspondents, I find it 
 difficult to realize that he has covered his last story 
 and that he will not be seen again with the men 
 who follow the war game, rushing to distant places 
 upon which the spotlight of news interest suddenly 
 centres. 
 
 It seems a sort of bitter irony that he who had 
 covered so many big events of world importance in 
 the past twenty years should be abruptly torn away 
 in the midst of the greatest event of them all, while 
 the story is still unfinished and its outcome unde 
 termined. If there is a compensating thought, it 
 lies in the reflection that he had a life of almost 
 unparalleled fulness, crowded to the brim, up to 
 the last moment, with those experiences and achieve 
 ments which he particularly aspired to have. He 
 left while the tide was at its flood, and while he still 
 held supreme his place as the best reporter in his 
 country. He escaped the bitterness of seeing the 
 ebb set in, when the youth to which he clung had 
 slipped away, and when he would have to sit im- 
 
 vii
 
 patient in the audience, while younger men were in 
 the thick of great, world-stirring dramas on the 
 stage. 
 
 This would have been a real tragedy in "Dick" 
 Davis's case, for, while his body would have aged, 
 it is doubtful if his spirit ever would have lost its 
 youthful freshness or boyish enthusiasm. 
 
 It was my privilege to see a good deal of Davis 
 in the last two years. 
 
 He arrived in Vera Cruz among the first of the 
 sixty or seventy correspondents who flocked to that 
 news centre when the situation was so full of sensa 
 tional possibilities. It was a time when the Ameri 
 can newspaper-reading public was eager for thrills, 
 and the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the corre 
 spondents in Vera Cruz were tried to the uttermost 
 to supply the demand. 
 
 In the face of the fiercest competition it fell to 
 Davis's lot to land the biggest story of those days 
 of marking time. 
 
 The story "broke" when it became known that 
 Davis, Medill McCormick, and Frederick Palmer 
 had gone through the Mexican lines in an effort to 
 reach Mexico City. Davis and McCormick, with 
 letters to the Brazilian and British ministers, got 
 through and reached the capital on the strength of 
 those letters, but Palmer, having only an American 
 passport, was turned back. 
 
 After an ominous silence which furnished Ameri- 
 viii
 
 WITH DAVIS IN VERA CRUZ 
 
 can newspapers with a lively period of suspense, the 
 two men returned safely with wonderful stories of 
 their experiences while under arrest in the hands of 
 the Mexican authorities. McCormick, in recently 
 speaking of Davis at that time, said that, "as a 
 correspondent in difficult and dangerous situations, 
 he was incomparable cheerful, ingenious, and un- 
 discouraged. When the time came to choose be 
 tween safety and leaving his companion he stuck by 
 his fellow captive even though, as they both said, 
 a firing-squad and a blank wall were by no means 
 a remote posssibility." 
 
 This Mexico City adventure was a spectacular 
 achievement which gave Davis and McCormick a 
 distinction which no other correspondents of all 
 the ambitious and able corps had managed to attain. 
 
 Davis usually "hunted" alone. He depended en 
 tirely upon his own ingenuity and wonderful instinct 
 for news situations. He had the energy and en 
 thusiasm of a beginner, with the experience and 
 training of a veteran. His interest in things re 
 mained as keen as though he had not been years 
 at a game which often leaves a man jaded and 
 blase. His acquaintanceship in the American army 
 and navy was wide, and for this reason, as well as 
 for the prestige which his fame and position as a 
 national character gave him, he found it easy to 
 establish valuable connections in the channels from 
 which news emanates. And yet, in spite of the 
 
 ix
 
 WITH DAVIS IN VERA CRUZ 
 
 fact that he was "on his own" instead of having a 
 working partnership with other men, he was gener 
 ous in helping at times when he was able to do so. 
 
 Davis was a conspicuous figure in Vera Cruz, as 
 he inevitably had been in all such situations. Wher 
 ever he went, he was pointed out. His distinction 
 of appearance, together with a distinction in dress, 
 which, whether from habit or policy, was a valuable 
 asset in his work, made him a marked man. He 
 dressed and looked the "war correspondent," such 
 a one as he would describe in one of his stories. He 
 fulfilled the popular ideal of what a member of that 
 fascinating profession should look like. His code of 
 life and habits was as fixed as that of the Briton who 
 takes his habits and customs and games and tea 
 wherever he goes, no matter how benighted or 
 remote the spot may be. 
 
 He was just as loyal to his code as is the Briton. 
 He carried his bath-tub, his immaculate linen, his 
 evening clothes, his war equipment in which he 
 had the pride of a connoisseur wherever he went, 
 and, what is more, he had the courage to use the 
 evening clothes at times when their use was con 
 spicuous. He was the only man who wore a dinner 
 coat in Vera Cruz, and each night, at his particular 
 table in the crowded "Portales," at the Hotel Dili- 
 gencia, he was to be seen, as fresh and clean as 
 though he were in a New York or London restaurant. 
 
 Each day he was up early to take the train out 
 
 x
 
 WITH DAVIS IN VERA CRUZ 
 
 to the "gap," across which came arrivals from 
 Mexico City. Sometimes a good "story" would 
 come down, as when the long-heralded and long- 
 expected arrival of Consul Silliman gave a first-page 
 "feature" to all the American papers. 
 
 In the afternoon he would play water polo over 
 at the navy aviation camp, and always at a certain 
 time of the day his "striker" would bring him his 
 horse and for an hour or more he would ride out 
 along the beach roads within the American lines. 
 
 After the first few days it was difficult to extract 
 real thrills from the Vera Cruz situation, but we 
 used to ride out to El Tejar with the cavalry patrol 
 and imagine that we might be fired on at some 
 point in the long ride through unoccupied territory; 
 or else go out to the "front," at Legarto, where a 
 little American force occupied a sun-baked row of 
 freight-cars, surrounded by malarial swamps. From 
 the top of the railroad water-tank, we could look 
 across to the Mexican outposts a mile or so away. 
 It was not very exciting, and what thrills we got 
 lay chiefly in our imagination. 
 
 Before my acquaintanceship with Davis at Vera 
 Cruz I had not known him well. Our trails didn't 
 cross while I was in Japan in the Japanese-Russian 
 War, and in the Transvaal I missed him by a few 
 days, but in Vera Cruz I had many enjoyable op 
 portunities of becoming well acquainted with him. 
 
 The privilege was a pleasant one, for it served to 
 
 xi
 
 WITH DAVIS IN VERA CRUZ 
 
 dispel a preconceived and not an entirely favorable 
 impression of his character. For years I had heard 
 stories about Richard Harding Davis stories which 
 emphasized an egotism and self-assertiveness which, 
 if they ever existed, had happily ceased to be ob 
 trusive by the time I got to know him. 
 
 He was a different Davis from the Davis whom 
 I had expected to find; and I can imagine no more 
 charming and delightful companion than he was 
 in Vera Cruz. There was no evidence of those 
 qualities which I feared to find, and his attitude was 
 one of unfailing kindness, considerateness, and gen 
 erosity. 
 
 In the many talks I had with him, I was always 
 struck by his evident devotion to a fixed code of 
 personal conduct. In his writings he was the inter 
 preter of chivalrous, well-bred youth, and his heroes 
 were young, clean-thinking college men, heroic big- 
 game hunters, war correspondents, and idealized 
 men about town, who always did the noble thing, 
 disdaining the unworthy in act or motive. It 
 seemed to me that he was modelling his own life, 
 perhaps unconsciously, after the favored types which 
 his imagination had created for his stories. In a 
 certain sense he was living a life of make-believe, 
 wherein he was the hero of the story, and in which 
 he was bound by his ideals always to act as he 
 would have the hero of his story act. It was a 
 quality which only one could have who had pre- 
 
 xii
 
 WITH DAVIS IN VERA CRUZ 
 
 served a fresh youth fulness of outlook in spite of 
 the hardening processes of maturity. 
 
 His power of observation was extraordinarily 
 keen, and he not only had the rare gift of sensing 
 the vital elements of a situation, but also had, to 
 an unrivalled degree, the ability to describe them 
 vividly. I don't know how many of those men at 
 Verz Cruz tried to describe the kaleidoscopic life of 
 the city during the American occupation, but I 
 know that Davis's story was far and away the most 
 faithful and satisfying picture. The story was pho 
 tographic, even to the sounds and smells. 
 
 The last I saw of him in Vera Cruz was when, on 
 the Utah, he steamed past the flagship Wyoming, 
 upon which I was quartered, and started for New 
 York. The Battenberg cup race had just been 
 rowed, and the Utah and Florida crews had tied. 
 As the Utah was sailing immediately after the race, 
 there was no time in which to row off the tie. So 
 it was decided that the names of both ships should 
 be engraved on the cup, and that the Florida crew 
 should defend the title against a challenging cre\r 
 from the British Admiral Craddock's flagship. 
 
 By the end of June, the public interest in Vera 
 Cruz had waned, and the corps of correspondents 
 dwindled until there were only a few left. 
 
 Frederick Palmer and I went up to join Carranza 
 and Villa, and on the 26th of July we were in Mon 
 terey waiting to start with the triumphal march of 
 
 xiii
 
 WITH DAVIS IN BRUSSELS 
 
 Carranza's army toward Mexico City. There was 
 no sign of serious trouble abroad. That night omi 
 nous telegrams came, and at ten o'clock on the fol 
 lowing morning we were on a train headed for the 
 States. 
 
 Palmer and Davis caught the Lusitania, sailing 
 August 4 from New York, and I followed on the 
 Saint Paul, leaving three days later. 
 
 On the 1 7th of August I reached Brussels, and it 
 seemed the most natural thing in the world to find 
 Davis already there. He was at the Palace Hotel, 
 where a number of American and English corre 
 spondents were quartered. 
 
 Things moved quickly. On the I9th Irvin Cobb, 
 Will Irwin, Arno Dosch, and I were caught between 
 the Belgian and German lines in Louvain; our re 
 treat to Brussels was cut, and for three days, while 
 the vast German army moved through the city, we 
 were detained. Then, the army having passed, we 
 were allowed to go back to the capital. 
 
 In the meantime Davis was in Brussels. The 
 Germans reached the outskirts of the city on the 
 morning of the 2Oth, and the correspondents who 
 had remained in Brussels were feverishly writing 
 despatches describing the imminent fall of the city. 
 One of them, Harry Hansen, of the Chicago Daily 
 News, tells the following story, which I give in his 
 words : 
 
 "While we were writing," says Hansen, "Richard 
 xiv
 
 WITH DAVIS IN BRUSSELS 
 
 Harding Davis walked into the writing-room of the 
 Palace Hotel with a bunch of manuscript in his hand. 
 With an amused expression he surveyed the three 
 correspondents filling white paper. 
 
 "'I say, men/ said Davis, 'do you know when 
 the next train leaves ?' 
 
 "'There is one at three o'clock,' said a corre 
 spondent, looking up. 
 
 "'That looks like our only chance to get a story 
 out,' said Davis. 'Well, we'll trust to that.' 
 
 "The story was the German invasion of Brussels, 
 and the train mentioned was considered the forlorn 
 hope of the correspondents to connect with the out 
 side world that is, every correspondent thought it 
 to be the other man's hope. Secretly each had pre 
 pared to outwit the other, and secretly Davis had 
 already sent his story to Ostend. He meant to 
 emulate Archibald Forbes, who despatched a courier 
 with his real manuscript, and next day publicly 
 dropped a bulky package in the mail-bag. 
 
 "Davis had sensed the news in the occupation of 
 Brussels long before it happened. With dawn he 
 went out to the Louvain road, where the German 
 army stood, prepared to smash the capital if nego 
 tiations failed. His observant eye took in all the 
 details. Before noon he had written a comprehen 
 sive sketch of the occupation, and when word was 
 received that it was under way, he trusted his copy 
 to an old Flemish woman, who spoke not a word of 
 
 xv
 
 WITH DAVIS IN BRUSSELS 
 
 English, and saw her safely on board the train that 
 pulled out under Belgian auspices for Ostend." 
 
 With passes which the German commandant in 
 Brussels gave us the correspondents immediately 
 started out to see how far those passes would carry 
 us. A number of us left on the afternoon of August 
 23 for Waterloo, where it was expected that the 
 great clash between the German and the Anglo- 
 French forces would occur. We had planned to be 
 back the same evening, and went prepared only for 
 an afternoon's drive in a couple of hired street car 
 riages. It was seven weeks before we again saw 
 Brussels. 
 
 On the following day (August 24) Davis started 
 for Mons. He wore the khaki uniform which he 
 had worn in many campaigns. Across his breast 
 was a narrow bar of silk ribbon indicating the cam 
 paigns in which he had served as a correspondent. 
 He so much resembled a British officer that he was 
 arrested as a British derelict and was informed that 
 he would be shot at once. 
 
 He escaped only by offering to walk to Brand 
 Whitlock, in Brussels, reporting to each officer he 
 met on the way. His plan was approved, and as a 
 hostage on parole he appeared before the American 
 minister, who quickly established his identity as an 
 American of good standing, to the satisfaction of 
 the Germans. 
 
 In the following few months our trails were widely 
 xvi
 
 WITH DAVIS IN SALONIKA 
 
 separated. I read of his arrest by German officers 
 on the road to Mons; later I read the story of his 
 departure from Brussels by train to Holland a 
 trip which carried him through Louvain while the 
 town still was burning; and still later I read that he 
 was with the few lucky men who were in Rheims 
 during one of the early bombardments that dam 
 aged the cathedral. By amazing luck, combined 
 with a natural news sense which drew him instinc 
 tively to critical places at the psychological mo 
 ment, he had been a witness of the two most widely 
 featured stories of the early weeks of the war. 
 
 Arrested by the Germans in Belgium, and later 
 by the French in France, he was convinced that the 
 restrictions on correspondents were too great to 
 permit of good work. 
 
 So he left the European war zone with the widely 
 quoted remark: "The day of the war correspondent 
 is over." 
 
 And yet I was not surprised when, one evening, 
 late in November of last year, he suddenly walked 
 into the room in Salonika where William G. Shep 
 herd, of the United Press, "Jimmy Hare," the vet 
 eran war photographer, and I had established our 
 selves several weeks before. 
 
 The hotel was jammed, and the city, with a nor 
 mal capacity of about one hundred and seventy-five 
 thousand, was struggling to accommodate at least 
 a hundred thousand more. There was not a room 
 
 xvii
 
 WITH DAVIS IN SALONIKA 
 
 to be had in any of the better hotels, and for several 
 days we lodged Davis in our room, a vast chamber 
 which formerly had been the main dining-room of 
 the establishment, and which now was converted 
 into a bedroom. There was room for a dozen men, 
 if necessary, and whenever stranded Americans 
 arrived and could find no hotel accommodations we 
 simply rigged up emergency cots for their temporary 
 use. 
 
 1 he weather in Salonika at this time, late Novem 
 ber, was penetratingly cold. In the mornings the 
 steam coils struggled feebly to dispel the chill in 
 the room. 
 
 Early in the morning after Davis had arrived, we 
 were aroused by the sound of violent splashing, 
 accompanied by shuddering gasps, and we looked 
 out from the snug warmth of our beds to see Davis 
 standing in his portable bath-tub and drenching 
 himself with ice-cold water. As an exhibition of 
 courageous devotion to an established custom of 
 life it was admirable, but I'm not sure that it was 
 prudent. 
 
 For some reason, perhaps a defective circulation 
 or a weakened heart, his system failed to react from 
 these cold-water baths. All through the days he 
 complained of feeling chilled. He never seemed to 
 get thoroughly, warmed, and of us all he was the 
 one who suffered most keenly from the cold. It 
 was all the more surprising, for his appearance was 
 
 xviii
 
 WITH DAVIS IN SALONIKA 
 
 always that of a man in the pink of athletic fitness 
 ruddy-faced, clear-eyed, and full of tireless energy. 
 
 On one occasion we returned from the French 
 front in Serbia to Salonika in a box car lighted only 
 by candles, bitterly cold, and frightfully exhausting. 
 We were seven hours in travelling fifty-five miles, 
 and we arrived at our destination at three o'clock 
 in the morning. Several of the men contracted 
 desperate colds, which clung to them for weeks. 
 Davis was chilled through, and said that of all the 
 cold he had ever experienced that which swept 
 across the Macedonian plain from the Balkan high 
 lands was the most penetrating. Even his heavy 
 clothing could not afford him adequate protection. 
 
 When he was settled in his own room in our 
 hotel he installed an oil-stove which burned beside 
 him as he sat at his desk and wrote his stories. The 
 room was like an oven, but even then he still com 
 plained of the cold. 
 
 When he left he gave us the stove, and when we 
 left, some time later, it was presented to one of our 
 doctor friends out in a British hospital, where I'm 
 sure it is doing its best to thaw the Balkan chill out 
 of sick and wounded soldiers. 
 
 Davis was always up early, and his energy and 
 interest were as keen as a boy's. We had our meals 
 together, sometimes in the crowded and rather 
 smart Bastasini's, but more often in the maelstrom 
 of humanity that nightly packed the Olympos Pal- 
 
 xix
 
 WITH DAVIS IN SALONIKA 
 
 ace restaurant. Davis, Shepherd, Hare, and I, with 
 sometimes Mr. and Mrs. John Bass, made up these 
 parties, which, for a period of about two weeks or 
 so, were the most enjoyable daily events of our lives. 
 
 Under the glaring lights of the restaurant, and 
 surrounded by British, French, Greek, and Serbian 
 officers, German, Austrian, and Bulgarian civilians, 
 with a sprinkling of American, English, and Scotch 
 nurses and doctors, packed so solidly in the huge, 
 high-ceilinged room that the waiters could barely 
 pick their way among the tables, we hung for hours 
 over our dinners, and left only when the landlord 
 and his Austrian wife counted the day's receipts 
 and paid the waiters at the end of the evening. 
 
 One could not imagine a more charming and de 
 lightful companion than Davis during these days. 
 While he always asserted that he could not make a 
 speech, and was terrified at the thought of standing 
 up at a banquet-table, yet, sitting at a dinner-table 
 with a few friends who were only too eager to listen 
 rather than to talk, his stories, covering personal 
 experiences in all parts of the world, were intensely 
 vivid, with that remarkable "holding" quality of 
 description which characterizes his writings. 
 
 He brought his own bread a coarse, brown sort, 
 which he preferred to the better white bread and 
 with it he ate great quantities of butter. As we sat 
 down at the table his first demand was for "Mas- 
 tika," a peculiar Greek drink distilled from mastic 
 
 xx
 
 WITH DAVIS IN SALONIKA 
 
 gum, and his second demand invariably was "Du 
 beurre !" with the "r's" as silent as the stars; and if 
 it failed to come at once the waiter was made to 
 feel the enormity of his tardiness. 
 
 The reminiscences ranged from his early news 
 paper days in Philadelphia, and skipping from Man 
 churia to Cuba and Central America, to his early 
 Sun days under Arthur Brisbane; they ranged 
 through an endless variety of personal experiences 
 which very nearly covered the whole course of 
 American history in the past twenty years. 
 
 Perhaps to him it was pleasant to go over his 
 remarkable adventures, but it could not have been 
 half as pleasant as it was to hear them, told as they 
 were with a keenness of description and brilliancy of 
 humorous comment that made them gems of narra 
 tive. 
 
 At times, in our work, we all tried our hands at 
 describing the Salonika of those early days of the 
 Allied occupation, for it was really what one widely 
 travelled British officer called it "the most amaz 
 ingly interesting situation I've ever seen" but 
 Davis's description was far and away the best, just 
 as his description of Vera Cruz was the best, and 
 his wonderful story of the entry of the German 
 army into Brussels was matchless as one of the 
 great pieces of reporting in the present war. 
 
 In thinking of Davis, I shall always remember 
 him for the delightful qualities which he showed 
 
 xxi
 
 WITH DAVIS IN SALONIKA 
 
 in Salonika. He was unfailingly considerate and 
 thoughtful. Through his narratives one could see 
 the pride which he took in the width and breadth 
 of his personal relation to the great events of the 
 past twenty years. His vast scope of experiences 
 and equally wide acquaintanceship with the big 
 figures of our time, were amazing, and it was equally 
 amazing that one of such a rich and interesting his 
 tory could tell his stories in such a simple way that 
 the personal element was never obtrusive. 
 
 When he left Salonika he endeavored to obtain 
 permission from the British staff to visit Moudros, 
 but, failing in this, he booked his passage on a 
 crowded little Greek steamer, where the only ob 
 tainable accommodation was a lounge in the dining 
 saloon. We gave him a farewell dinner, at which 
 the American consul and his family, with all the 
 other Americans then in Salonika, were present, 
 and after the dinner we rowed out to his ship and 
 saw him very uncomfortably installed for his voyage. 
 
 He came down the sea ladder and waved his 
 hand as we rowed away. That was the last I saw 
 of Richard Harding Davis. 
 
 JOHN T. McCuTCHEON. 
 
 XXII
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 With Davis in Vera Cruz, Brussels, and Salonika 
 
 John T. McCutcbeon 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE LOST ROAD I 
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS ...... 30 
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 6l 
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 92 
 
 THE LONG ARM 137 
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 157 
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE .... 189 
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 245 
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 271 
 
 THE DESERTER 308
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 "IT IS AN ENCHANTED ROAD," SAID THE 
 GIRL; "OR MAYBE WE ARE ENCHANTED" 6 
 
 HE FOUND IT LIKE BEING PERPETUALLY IN 
 A COMIC OPERA 96 
 
 "YOU MUSTN'T GET HER MIXED UP WITH 
 ANYTHING I TOLD YOU ABOUT HER 
 
 BROTHER" 202 
 
 JIMMIE DROPPED THE VALISE . . . AND SA 
 LUTED 248 
 
 WITH HER EYE FOR DETAIL MARIE OB 
 SERVED THAT THE YOUNG OFFICER, IN 
 STEAD OF IMPARTING INFORMATION, RE 
 CEIVED IT 294
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 DURING the war with Spain, Colton Lee 
 came into the service as a volunteer. For a 
 young man, he always had taken life almost 
 too seriously, and when, after the campaign in 
 Cuba, he elected to make soldiering his profes 
 sion, the seriousness with which he attacked his 
 new work surprised no one. Finding they had 
 lost him forever, his former intimates were 
 bored, but his colonel was enthusiastic, and the 
 men of his troop not only loved, but respected 
 him. 
 
 From the start he determined in his new life 
 women should have no part a determination 
 that puzzled no one so much as the women, for 
 to Lee no woman, old or young, had found 
 cause to be unfriendly. But he had read that 
 the army is a jealous mistress who brooks no 
 rival, that " red lips tarnish the scabbard steel," 
 that "he travels the fastest who travels alone." 
 
 So, when white hands beckoned and pretty 
 eyes signalled, he did not look. For five years, 
 until just before he sailed for his three years of 
 duty in the Philippines, he succeeded not only 
 in not looking, but in building up for himself 
 
 I
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 such a fine reputation as a woman-hater that 
 all women were crazy about him. Had he not 
 been ordered to Agawamsett that fact would not 
 have affected him. But at the Officers* School 
 he had indulged in hard study rather than in 
 hard riding, had overworked, had brought back 
 his Cuban fever, and was in poor shape to face 
 the tropics. So, for two months before the 
 transport was to sail, they ordered him to Cape 
 Cod to fill his lungs with the bracing air of a 
 New England autumn. 
 
 He selected Agawamsett, because, when at 
 Harvard, it was there he had spent his summer 
 vacations, and he knew he would find sailboats 
 and tennis and, through the pine woods back 
 of the little whaling village, many miles of un- 
 travelled roads. He promised himself that over 
 these he would gallop an imaginary troop in 
 route marches, would manoeuvre it against pos 
 sible ambush, and, in combat patrols, ground 
 scouts, and cossack outposts, charge with rt "as 
 foragers." But he did none of these things. 
 For at Agawamsett he met Frances Gardner, 
 and his experience with her was so disastrous 
 that, in his determination to avoid all women, 
 he was convinced he was right. 
 
 When later he reached Manila he vowed no 
 other woman would ever again find a place in 
 his thoughts. No other woman did. Not be- 
 
 2
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 cause he had the strength to keep his vow, but 
 because he so continually thought of Frances 
 Gardner that no other woman had a chance. 
 
 Miss Gardner was a remarkable girl. Her 
 charm appealed to all kinds of men, and, un 
 fortunately for Lee, several kinds of men ap 
 pealed to her. Her fortune and her relations 
 were bound up in the person of a rich aunt with 
 whom she lived, and who, it was understood, 
 some day would leave her all the money in the 
 world. But, in spite of her charm, certainly in 
 spite of the rich aunt, Lee, true to his deter 
 mination, might not have noticed the girl had 
 not she ridden so extremely well. 
 
 It was to the captain of cavalry she first ap 
 pealed. But even a cavalry captain, whose 
 duty in life is to instruct sixty men in the art 
 of taking the life of as many other men as pos 
 sible, may turn his head in the direction of a 
 good-looking girl. And when for weeks a man 
 rides at the side of one through pine forests as 
 dim and mysterious as the aisles of a great 
 cathedral, when he guides her across the wet 
 marshes when the sun is setting crimson in the 
 pools and the wind blows salt from the sea, 
 when he loses them both by moonlight in wood- 
 roads where the hoofs of the horses sink silently 
 into dusty pine needles, he thinks more fre 
 quently of the girl at his side than of the farth- 
 
 3
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 ful troopers waiting for him in San Francisco. 
 The girl at his side thought frequently of him. 
 
 With the "surface indications" of a young 
 man about to ask her to marry him she was 
 painfully familiar; but this time the possibility 
 was the reverse of painful. What she meant to 
 do about it she did not know, but she did know 
 that she was strangely happy. Between living 
 on as the dependent of a somewhat exacting 
 relative and becoming the full partner of this 
 young stranger, who with men had proved him 
 self so masterful, and who with her was so 
 gentle, there seemed but little choice. But she 
 did not as yet wish to make the choice. She 
 preferred to believe she was not certain. She 
 assured him that before his leave of absence 
 was over she would tell him whether she would 
 remain on duty with the querulous aunt, who 
 had befriended her, or as his wife accompany 
 him to the Philippines. 
 
 It was not the answer he wanted; but in her 
 happiness, which was evident to every one, he 
 could not help but take hope. And in the 
 questions she put to him of life in the tropics, 
 of the life of the "officers' ladies," he saw that 
 what was in her mind was a possible life with 
 him, and he was content. 
 
 She became to him a wonderful, glorious per 
 son, and each day she grew in loveliness. It 
 
 4
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 had been five years of soldiering in Cuba, China, 
 and on the Mexican border since he had talked 
 to a woman with interest, and now in all she 
 said, in all her thoughts and words and delights, 
 he found fresher and stronger reasons for dis 
 carding his determination to remain wedded 
 only to the United States Army. He did not 
 need reasons. He was far too much in love to 
 see in any word or act of hers anything that was 
 not fine and beautiful. 
 
 In their rides they had one day stumbled upon 
 a long-lost and long-forgotten road through the 
 woods, which she had claimed as their own by 
 right of discovery, and, no matter to what point 
 they set forth each day, they always returned 
 by it. Their way through the woods stretched 
 for miles. It was concealed in a forest of 
 stunted oaks and black pines, with no sign of 
 human habitation, save here and there a clear 
 ing now long neglected and alive only with 
 goldenrod. Trunks of trees, moss-grown and 
 crumbling beneath the touch of the ponies' 
 hoofs, lay in their path, and above it the branches 
 of a younger generation had clasped hands. At 
 their approach squirrels raced for shelter, wood 
 cock and partridge shot deeper into the net 
 work of vines and saplings, and the click of the 
 steel as the ponies tossed their bits, and their 
 own whispers, alone disturbed the silence.
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 "It is an enchanted road," said the girl; "or 
 maybe we are enchanted." 
 
 "Not I," cried the young man loyally. "I 
 was never so sane, never so sure, never so happy 
 in knowing just what I wanted ! If only you 
 could be as sure !" 
 
 One day she came to him in high excitement 
 with a book of verse. "He has written a 
 poem," she cried, "about our own woods, about 
 our lost road! Listen!" she commanded, and 
 she read to him: 
 
 "'They shut the road through the woods 
 
 Seventy years ago. 
 Weather and rain have undone ft again, 
 
 And now you would never know 
 There was once a road through the woods 
 
 Before they planted the trees. 
 It is underneath the coppice and heath, 
 
 And the thin anemones. 
 
 Only the keeper sees 
 That, where the ringdove broods, 
 
 And the badgers roll at ease, 
 
 There was once a road through the woods. 
 
 *" Yet, if you enter the woods 
 
 Of a summer evening late, 
 When the night air cools on the trout-ringed pools 
 
 Where the otter whistles his mate 
 (They fear not men in the woods 
 
 Because they see so few), 
 You will hear the beat of a horse's feet, 
 
 And the swish of a skirt in the dew, 
 
 Steadily cantering through 
 
 6
 
 It is an enchanted road," said the girl; "or maybe we 
 are enchanted."
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 The misty solitudes, 
 
 As though they perfectly knew 
 The old lost road through the woods. . . . 
 But there is no road through the woods.' " 
 
 "I don't like that at a//," cried the soldier- 
 man. "It's too too sad it doesn't give you 
 any encouragement. The way it ends, I mean: 
 'But there is no road through the woods.' Of 
 course there's a road ! For us there always will 
 be. I'm going to make sure. I'm going to buy 
 those woods, and keep the lost road where we 
 can always find it." 
 
 "I don't think," said the girl, "that he means 
 a real road." 
 
 "I know what he means," cried the lover, 
 "and he's wrong! There is a road, and you 
 and I have found it, and we are going to follow 
 it for always." 
 
 The girl shook her head, but her eyes were 
 smiling happily. 
 
 The "season" at Agawamsett closed with 
 the tennis tournament, and it was generally 
 conceded fit and proper, from every point of 
 view, that in mixed doubles Lee and Miss 
 Gardner should be partners. Young Stedman, 
 the Boston artist, was the only one who made 
 objection. Up in the sail-loft that he had 
 turned into a studio he was painting a portrait 
 of the lovely Miss Gardner, and he protested 
 
 7
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 that the three days' tournament would sadly 
 interrupt his work. And Frances, who was 
 very much interested in the portrait, was in 
 clined to agree. 
 
 But Lee beat down her objections. He was 
 not at all interested in the portrait. He disap 
 proved of it entirely. For the sittings robbed 
 him of Frances during the better part of each 
 morning, and he urged that when he must so 
 soon leave her, between the man who wanted 
 her portrait and the man who wanted her, it 
 would be kind to give her time to the latter. 
 
 "But I had no idea," protested Frances, "he 
 would take so long. He told me he'd finish it 
 in three sittings. But he's so critical of his 
 own work that he goes over it again and again. 
 He says that I am a most difficult subject, but 
 that I inspire him. And he says, if I will only 
 give him time, he believes this will be the best 
 thing he has done." 
 
 "That's an awful thought," said the cavalry 
 officer. 
 
 "You don't like him," reproved Miss Gard 
 ner. "He is always very polite to you." 
 
 "He's polite to everybody," said Lee; "that's 
 why I don't like him. He's not a real artist. 
 He's a courtier. God gave him a talent, and he 
 makes a mean use of it. Uses it to flatter 
 people. He's like these long-haired violinists 
 
 8
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 who play anything you ask them to in the lob 
 ster palaces.'* 
 
 Miss Gardner looked away from him. Her 
 color was high and her eyes very bright. 
 
 "I think," she said steadily, "that Mr. Sted- 
 man is a great artist, and some day all the world 
 will think so, too !" 
 
 Lee made no answer. Not because he dis 
 agreed with her estimate of Mr. Stedman's 
 genius he made no pretense of being an art 
 critic but because her vehement admiration 
 had filled him with sudden panic. He was not 
 jealous. For that he was far too humble. In 
 deed, he thought himself so utterly unworthy of 
 Frances Gardner that the fact that to him she 
 might prefer some one else was in no way a 
 surprise. He only knew that if she should pre 
 fer some one else not all his troop horses nor all 
 his men could put Humpty Dumpty back again. 
 
 But if, in regard to Mr. Stedman, Miss Gard 
 ner had for a moment been at odds with the 
 man who loved her, she made up for it the day 
 following on the tennis court. There she was 
 in accord with him in heart, soul, and body, 
 and her sharp "Well played, partner!" thrilled 
 him like one of his own bugle calls. For two 
 days against visiting and local teams they 
 fought their way through the tournament, and 
 the struggle with her at his side filled Lee with 
 
 9
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 a great happiness. Not that the championship 
 of Agawamsett counted greatly to one exiled 
 for three years to live among the Moros. He 
 wanted to win because she wanted to win. But 
 his happiness came in doing something in com 
 mon with her, in helping her and in having her 
 help him, in being, if only in play, if only for 
 three days, her "partner/* 
 
 After they won they walked home together, 
 each swinging a fat, heavy loving-cup. On each 
 was engraved: 
 
 "Mixed doubles, Agawamsett, 1910." 
 
 Lee held his up so that the setting sun flashed 
 on the silver. 
 
 "I am going to keep that," he said, "as long 
 as I live. It means you were once my * part 
 ner/ It's a sign that once we two worked to 
 gether for something and won" In the words 
 the man showed such feeling that the girl said 
 soberly: 
 
 "Mine means that to me, too. I will never 
 part with mine, either." 
 
 Lee turned to her and smiled, appealing wist- 
 
 fully. 
 
 "It seems a pity to separate them," he said. 
 "They'd look well together over an open fire 
 place." 
 
 The girl frowned unhappily. " I don't know," 
 she protested. "I don't know." 
 
 10
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 The next day Lee received from the War De 
 partment a telegram directing him to "proceed 
 without delay*' to San Francisco, and there to 
 embark for the Philippines. 
 
 That night he put the question to her directly, 
 but again she shook her head unhappily; again 
 she said: "I don't know!" 
 
 So he sailed without her, and each evening at 
 sunset, as the great transport heaved her way 
 across the swell of the Pacific, he stood at the 
 rail and looked back. With the aid of the 
 first officer he calculated the difference in time 
 between a whaling village situated at forty-four 
 degrees north and an army transport dropping 
 rapidly toward the equator, and so, each day, 
 kept in step with the girl he loved. 
 
 "Now," he would tell himself, "she is in her 
 cart in front of the post-office, and while they 
 sort the morning mail she gossips with the 
 fisher folks, the summer folks, the grooms, and 
 chauffeurs. Now she is sitting for her portrait 
 to Stedman" (he did not dwell long on that 
 part of her day), "and now she is at tennis, or, 
 as she promised, riding alone at sunset down 
 our lost road through the woods." 
 
 But that part of her day from which Lee hur 
 ried was that part over which the girl herself 
 lingered. As he turned his eyes from his can 
 vas to meet hers, Stedman, the charming, the 
 
 ii
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 deferential, the adroit, who never allowed his 
 painting to interrupt his talk, told her of what 
 he was pleased to call his dreams and ambitions, 
 of the great and beautiful ladies who had sat 
 before his easel, and of the only one of them 
 who had given him inspiration. Especially of 
 the only one who had given him inspiration. 
 With her always to uplift him, he could become 
 one of the world's most famous artists, and she 
 would go down into history as the beautiful 
 woman who had helped him, as the wife of 
 Rembrandt had inspired Rembrandt, as "Mona 
 Lisa" had made Leonardo. 
 
 Gilbert wrote: "It is not the lover who comes 
 to woo, but the lover's way of wooing!" His 
 successful lover was the one who threw the girl 
 across his saddle and rode away with her. But 
 one kind of woman does not like to have her 
 lover approach shouting: "At the gallop! 
 Charge!" 
 
 She prefers a man not because he is master 
 ful, but because he is not. She likes to believe 
 the man needs her more than she needs him, 
 that she, and only she, can steady him, cheer 
 him, keep him true to the work he is in the world 
 to perform. It is called the "mothering" in 
 stinct. 
 
 Frances felt this mothering instinct toward 
 the sensitive, imaginative, charming Stedman. 
 
 12
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 She believed he had but two thoughts, his art 
 and herself. She was content to place his art 
 first. She could not guess that to one so un 
 worldly, to one so wrapped up in his art, the 
 fortune of a rich aunt might prove alluring. 
 
 When the transport finally picked up the 
 landfalls of Cavite Harbor, Lee, with the in 
 stinct of a soldier, did not exclaim: "This is 
 where Dewey ran the forts and sank the Span 
 ish fleet!" On the contrary, he was saying: 
 "When she comes to join me, it will be here I 
 will first see her steamer. I will be waiting with 
 a field-glass on the end of that wharf. No, I 
 will be out here in a shore-boat waving my hat. 
 And of all those along the rail, my heart will 
 tell me which is she !" 
 
 Then a barefooted Filipino boy handed him 
 an unsigned cablegram. It read: "If I wrote 
 a thousand words I could not make it easier for 
 either of us. I am to marry Arthur Stedman in 
 December." 
 
 Lee was grateful for the fact that he was not 
 permitted to linger in Manila. Instead, he was 
 at once ordered up-country, where at a one- 
 troop post he administered the affairs of a 
 somewhat hectic province, and under the guid 
 ance of the local constabulary chased will-o'- 
 the-wisp brigands. On a shelf in his quarters 
 he placed the silver loving-cup, and at night,
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 when the village slept, he would sit facing it, 
 filling one pipe after another, and through the 
 smoke staring at the evidence to the fact that 
 once Frances Gardner and he had been partners. 
 In these post-mortems he saw nothing mor 
 bid. With his present activities they in no way 
 interfered, and in thinking of the days when 
 they had been together, in thinking of what he 
 had lost, he found deep content. Another man, 
 having lost the woman he loved, would have 
 tried to forget her and all she meant to him. 
 But Lee was far too honest with himself to sub 
 stitute other thoughts for those that were glori 
 ous, that still thrilled him. The girl could take 
 herself from him, but she could not take his love 
 for her from him. And for that he was grate 
 ful. He never had considered himself worthy, 
 and so could not believe he had been ill used. 
 In his thoughts of her there was no bitterness: 
 for that also he was grateful. And, as he knew 
 he would not care for any other woman in the 
 way he cared for her, he preferred to care in 
 that way, even for one who was lost, than in a 
 lesser way for a possible she who some day 
 might greatly care for him. So she still re 
 mained in his thoughts, and was so constantly 
 with him that he led a dual existence, in which 
 by day he directed the affairs of an alien and 
 hostile people and by night again lived through 
 
 14
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 the wonderful moments when she had thought 
 she loved him, when he first had learned to 
 love her. At times she seemed actually at his 
 side, and he could not tell whether he was pre 
 tending that this were so or whether the force 
 of his love had projected her image half around 
 the world. 
 
 Often, when in single file he led the men 
 through the forest, he seemed again to be back 
 on Cape Cod picking his way over their own 
 lost road through the wood, and he heard "the 
 beat of a horse's feet and the swish of a skirt 
 in the dew." And then a carbine would rattle, 
 or a horse would stumble and a trooper swear, 
 and he was again in the sweating jungle, where 
 men, intent upon his life, crouched in ambush. 
 
 She spared him the mockery of wedding- 
 cards; but the announcement of the wedding 
 came to him in a three-months-old newspaper. 
 Hoping they would speak of her in their letters, 
 he kept up a somewhat one-sided correspondence 
 with friends of Mrs. Stedman's in Boston, where 
 she now lived. But for a year in none of their 
 letters did her name appear. When a mutual 
 friend did write of her Lee understood the 
 silence. 
 
 From the first, the mutual friend wrote, the 
 life of Mrs. Stedman and her husband was thor 
 oughly miserable. Stedman blamed her be- 
 
 15
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 cause she came to him penniless. The rich 
 aunt, who had heartily disapproved of the art 
 ist, had spoken of him so frankly that Frances 
 had quarrelled with her, and from her no longer 
 would accept money. In his anger at this 
 Stedman showed himself to Frances as he was. 
 And only two months after their marriage she 
 was further enlightened. 
 
 An irate husband made him the central fig 
 ure in a scandal that filled the friends of Frances 
 with disgust, and that for her was an awaken 
 ing cruel and humiliating. Men no longer per 
 mitted their womenfolk to sit to Stedman for 
 a portrait, and the need of money grew imper 
 ative. He the more blamed Frances for having 
 quarrelled with her aunt, told her it was for her 
 money he had married her, that she had ruined 
 his career, and that she was to blame for his 
 ostracism a condition that his own misconduct 
 had brought upon him. Finally, after twelve 
 months of this, one morning he left a note say 
 ing he no longer would allow her to be a drag 
 upon him, and sailed for Europe. 
 
 They learned that, in Paris, he had returned 
 to that life which before his marriage, even in 
 that easy-going city, had made him notorious. 
 "And Frances," continued Lee's correspondent, 
 "has left Boston, and now lives in New York. 
 She wouldn't let any of us help her, nor even 
 
 16
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 know where she is. The last we heard of her 
 she was in charge of the complaint department 
 of a millinery shop, for which work she was 
 receiving about the same wages I give my 
 cook." 
 
 Lee did not stop to wonder why the same 
 woman, who to one man was a "drag," was to 
 another, even though separated from her by 
 half the world, a joy and a blessing. Instead, 
 he promptly wrote his lawyers to find Mrs. 
 Stedman, and, in such a way as to keep her 
 ignorant of their good offices, see that she ob 
 tained a position more congenial than her pres 
 ent one, and one that would pay her as much 
 as, without arousing her suspicions, they found 
 it possible to give. 
 
 Three months had passed, and this letter had 
 not been answered, when in Manila, where he 
 had been ordered to make a report, he heard of 
 her again. One evening, when the band played 
 on the Luneta, he met a newly married couple 
 who had known him in Agawamsett. They 
 now were on a ninety-day cruise around the 
 world. Close friends of Frances Gardner, they 
 remembered him as one of her many devotees 
 and at once spoke of her. 
 
 "That blackguard she married," the bride 
 groom told him, "was killed three months ago 
 racing with another car from Versailles back to 
 
 17
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 Paris after a dinner at which, it seems, all 
 present drank * burgundy out of the finger- 
 bowls.' Coming down that steep hill into 
 Saint Cloud, the cars collided, and Stedman 
 and a woman, whose husband thought she was 
 somewhere else, were killed. He couldn't even 
 die without making a scandal of it." 
 
 "But the worst," added the bride, "is that, 
 in spite of the way the little beast treated her, 
 I believe Frances still cares for him, and always 
 will. That's the worst of it, isn't it?" she de 
 manded. 
 
 In words, Lee did not answer, but in his heart 
 he agreed that was much the worst of it. The 
 fact that Frances was free filled him with hope; 
 but that she still cared for the man she had 
 married, and would continue to think only of 
 him, made him ill with despair. 
 
 He cabled his lawyers for her address. He 
 determined that, at once, on learning it, he 
 would tell her that with him nothing was 
 changed. He had forgotten nothing, and had 
 learned much. He had learned that his love 
 for her was a splendid and inspiring passion, 
 that even without her it had lifted him up, 
 helped and cheered him, made the whole world 
 kind and beautiful. With her he could not 
 picture a world so complete with happiness. 
 
 Since entering the army he had never taken 
 
 18
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 a leave of absence, and he was sure, if now he 
 asked for one, it would not be refused. He de 
 termined, if the answer to his cable gave him 
 her address, he would return at once, and again 
 offer her his love, which he now knew was 
 deeper, finer, and infinitely more tender than 
 the love he first had felt for her. But the cable 
 balked him. "Address unknown," it read; "be 
 lieved to have gone abroad in capacity of gov 
 erness. Have employed foreign agents. Will 
 cable their report." 
 
 Whether to wait for and be guided by the 
 report of the detectives, or to proceed to Eu 
 rope and search for her himself, Lee did not 
 know. He finally determined that to seek for 
 her with no clew to her whereabouts would be 
 but a waste of precious moments, while, if in 
 their search the agents were successful, he would 
 be able to go directly to her. Meanwhile, by 
 cable, he asked for protracted leave of absence 
 and, while waiting for his answer, returned to 
 his post. There, within a week, he received his 
 leave of absence, but in a fashion that threat 
 ened to remove him forever from the army. 
 
 The constabulary had located the will-o'-the- 
 wisp brigands behind a stockade built about an 
 extinct volcano, and Lee and his troop and a 
 mountain battery attempted to dislodge them. 
 In the fight that followed Lee covered his brows 
 
 19
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 with laurel wreaths and received two bullet 
 wounds in his body. 
 
 For a month death stood at the side of his 
 cot; and then, still weak and at times delirious 
 with fever, by slow stages he was removed to 
 the hospital in Manila. In one of his sane 
 moments a cable was shown him. It read: 
 "Whereabouts still unknown." Lee at once 
 rebelled against his doctors. He must rise, he 
 declared, and proceed to Europe. It was upon 
 a matter of life and death. The surgeons as 
 sured him his remaining exactly where he was 
 also was a matter of as great consequence. 
 Lee's knowledge of his own lack of strength 
 told him they were right. 
 
 Then, from headquarters, he was informed 
 that, as a reward for his services and in recog 
 nition of his approaching convalescence, he 
 was ordered to return to his own climate and 
 that an easy billet had been found for him as a 
 recruiting officer in New York City. Believing 
 the woman he loved to be in Europe, this plan 
 for his comfort only succeeded in bringing on a 
 relapse. But the day following there came 
 another cablegram. It put an abrupt end to his 
 mutiny, and brought him and the War Depart 
 ment into complete accord. 
 
 "She is in New York," it read, "acting as 
 agent for a charitable institution, which one 
 
 20
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 not known, but hope in a few days to cable 
 correct address." 
 
 In all the world there was no man so happy. 
 The next morning a transport was sailing, and, 
 probably because they had read the cablegram, 
 the surgeons agreed with Lee that a sea voyage 
 would do him no harm. He was carried on 
 board, and when the propellers first churned 
 the water and he knew he was moving toward 
 her, the hero of the fight around the crater 
 shed unmanly tears. He would see her again, 
 hear her voice; the same great city would shelter 
 them. It was worth a dozen bullets. 
 
 He reached New York in a snow-storm, a 
 week before Christmas, and went straight to 
 the office of his lawyers. They received him 
 with embarrassment. Six weeks before, on the 
 very day they had cabled him that Mrs. Sted- 
 man was in New York, she had left the charita 
 ble institution where she had been employed, 
 and had again disappeared. 
 
 Lee sent his trunks to the Army and Navy 
 Club, which was immediately around the cor 
 ner from the recruiting office in Sixth Avenue, 
 and began discharging telegrams at every one 
 who had ever known Frances Gardner. The 
 net result was discouraging. In the year and 
 a half in which he had been absent every 
 friend of the girl he sought had temporarily 
 
 21
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 changed his place of residence or was perma 
 nently dead. 
 
 Meanwhile his arrival by the transport was 
 announced in the afternoon papers. At the 
 wharf an admiring trooper had told a fine tale 
 of his conduct at the battle of the crater, and 
 reporters called at the club to see him. He did 
 not discourage them, as he hoped through them 
 the fact of his return might be made known to 
 Frances. She might send him a line of wel 
 come, and he would discover her whereabouts. 
 But, though many others sent him hearty greet 
 ings, from her there was no word. 
 
 On the second day after his arrival one of the 
 telegrams was answered in person by a friend of 
 Mrs. Stedman. He knew only that she had 
 been in New York, that she was very poor and 
 in ill health, that she shunned all of her friends, 
 and was earning her living as the matron of 
 some sort of a club for working girls. He did 
 not know the name of it. 
 
 On the third day there still was no news. On 
 the fourth Lee decided that the next morn 
 ing he would advertise. He would say only: 
 "Will Mrs. Arthur Stedman communicate with 
 Messrs. Fuller & Fuller?" Fuller & Fuller were 
 his lawyers. That afternoon he remained until 
 six o'clock at the recruiting office, and when he 
 left it the electric street lights were burning 
 
 22
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 brightly. A heavy damp snow was falling, and 
 the lights and the falling flakes and the shouts 
 of drivers and the toots of taxicabs made for the 
 man from the tropics a welcome homecoming. 
 
 Instead of returning at once to his club, he 
 slackened his steps. The shop windows of 
 Sixth Avenue hung with Christmas garlands, 
 and colored lamps glowed like open fireplaces. 
 Lee passed slowly before them, glad that he 
 had been able to get back at such a season. 
 For the moment he had forgotten the woman 
 he sought, and was conscious only of his sur 
 roundings. He had paused in front of the 
 window of a pawn-shop. Over the array of 
 cheap jewelry, of banjos, shot-guns, and razors, 
 his eyes moved idly. And then they became 
 transfixed and staring. In the very front of 
 the window, directly under his nose, was a 
 tarnished silver loving-cup. On it was en 
 graved, "Mixed Doubles. Agawamsett, 1910." 
 In all the world there were only two such cups, 
 and as though he were dodging the slash of a 
 bolo, Lee leaped into the shop. Many precious 
 seconds were wasted in persuading Mrs. Cohen 
 that he did not believe the cup had been stolen; 
 that he was not from the Central Office; that he 
 believed the lady who had pawned the cup had 
 come by it honestly; that he meant no harm to 
 the lady; that he meant no harm to Mrs. 
 
 23
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 Cohen; that, much as the young lady may have 
 needed the money Mrs. Cohen had loaned her 
 on the cup, he needed the address of the young 
 lady still more. 
 
 Mrs. Cohen retired behind a screen, and Lee 
 was conscious that from the other side of it 
 the whole family of Cohens were taking his 
 measurements. He approved of their efforts to 
 protect the owner of the cup, but not from him. 
 
 He offered, if one of the younger Cohens 
 would take him to the young lady, to let him 
 first ask her if she would receive Captain Lee, 
 and for his service he would give the young 
 Cohen untold gold. He exhibited the untold 
 gold. The young Cohen choked at the sight 
 and sprang into the seat beside the driver of a 
 taxicab. 
 
 "To the Working Girls' Home, on Tenth 
 Street!" he commanded. 
 
 Through the falling snow and the flashing 
 lights they slid, skidded, and leaped. Inside 
 the cab Lee shivered with excitement, with 
 cold, with fear that it might not be true. He 
 could not realize she was near. It was easier 
 to imagine himself still in the jungle, with 
 months of time and sixteen thousand miles of 
 land and water separating them; or in the hos 
 pital, on a white-enamel cot, watching the 
 shadow creep across the whitewashed wall; or 
 
 24
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 lying beneath an awning that did not move, 
 staring at a burning, brazen sea that did not 
 move, on a transport that, timed by the beat 
 ing of his heart, stood still. 
 
 Those days were within the radius of his 
 experience. Separation, absence, the immuta 
 ble giants of time and space, he knew. With 
 them he had fought and could withstand them. 
 But to be near her, to hear her voice, to bring 
 his love into her actual presence, that was an 
 attack upon his feelings which found him with 
 out weapons. That for a very few dollars she 
 had traded the cup from which she had sworn 
 never to part did not concern him. Having 
 parted from him, what she did with a silver 
 mug was of little consequence. It was of sig 
 nificance only in that it meant she was poor. 
 And that she was either an inmate or a matron 
 of a lodging-house for working girls also showed 
 she was poor. 
 
 He had been told that was her condition, and 
 that she was in ill health, and that from all who 
 loved her she had refused to accept help. At 
 'the thought his jaws locked pugnaciously. 
 There was one who loved her, who, should she 
 refuse his aid, was prepared to make her life 
 intolerable. He planned in succession at light 
 ning speed all he might do for her. Among 
 other things he would make this Christmas the 
 
 25
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 happiest she or he would ever know. Not for 
 an instant did he question that she who had 
 refused help from all who loved her could refuse 
 anything he offered. For he knew it was 
 offered with a love that demanded nothing in 
 return, with a love that asked only to be al 
 lowed to love, and to serve. To refuse help 
 inspired by such a feeling as his would be mor 
 bid, wicked, ridiculous, as though a flower re 
 fused to turn its face to the sun, and shut its 
 lips to the dew. 
 
 The cab stopped in front of a brick building 
 adorned with many fire-escapes. Afterward he 
 remembered a bare, brilliantly lit hall hung 
 with photographs of the Acropolis, and a stout, 
 capable woman in a cap, who looked him over 
 and said: 
 
 "You will find Mrs. Stedman in the writing- 
 room." 
 
 And he remembered entering a room filled 
 with Mission furniture and reading-lamps under 
 green shades. It was empty, except for a young 
 girl in deep black, who was seated facing him, 
 her head bent above a writing-desk. As he 
 came into the circle of the lamps the girl raised 
 her eyes and as though lifted to her feet by 
 what she saw, and through no effort of her 
 own, stood erect. 
 
 And the young man who had persuaded him- 
 
 26
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 self his love demanded nothing, who asked only 
 to worship at her gate, found his arms reaching 
 out, and heard his voice as though it came from 
 a great distance, cry, "Frances!" 
 
 And the girl who had refused the help of all 
 who loved her, like a homing pigeon walked 
 straight into the outstretched arms. 
 
 After five minutes, when he was almost able 
 to believe it was true, he said in his command 
 ing, masterful way: "And now I'm going to 
 take you out of here. Fm going to buy you a 
 ring, and a sable coat, and a house to live in, 
 and a dinner. Which shall we buy first?" 
 
 "First," said Frances, frowning happily, "I 
 am afraid we must go to the Ritz, to tell Aunt 
 Emily. She always loved you, and it will 
 make her so happy." 
 
 "To the Ritz!" stammered the young man. 
 "To Aunt Emily! I thought they told me 
 your aunt and you " 
 
 "We quarrelled, yes," said Frances, "and she 
 has forgiven me; but she has not forgiven her 
 self, so she spoils me, and already I have a house 
 to live in, and several sable coats, and, oh! 
 everything, everything but the ring." 
 
 "I am so sorry !" cried Lee. "I thought you 
 were poor. I hoped you were poor. But you 
 are joking!" he exclaimed delightedly. "You 
 
 are here in a working girls' home " 
 
 27
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 "It is one of Aunt Emily's charities. She 
 built it," said Frances. "I come here to talk 
 to the girls." 
 
 "But," persisted Lee triumphantly, "if you 
 are not poor, why did you pawn our silver loving- 
 cup?" 
 
 The face of the girl became a lovely crimson, 
 and tears rose to her eyes. As though at a 
 confessional, she lifted her hands penitently. 
 
 "Try to understand," she begged; "I wanted 
 you to love me, not for my money " 
 
 "But you knew!" cried Lee. 
 
 "I had to be sure," begged the girl; "and I 
 wanted to believe you loved me even if I did 
 not love you. When it was too late I knew 
 you loved me as no woman ever deserved to 
 be loved; and I wanted that love. I could not 
 live without it. So when I read in the papers 
 you had returned I wouldn't let myself write 
 you; I wouldn't let myself beg you to come to 
 see me. I set a test for you. I knew from the 
 papers you were at the Army and Navy Club, 
 and that around the corner was the recruiting 
 office. I'd often seen the sergeant there, in 
 uniform, at the door. I knew you must pass 
 from your club to the office many times each 
 day, so I thought of the loving-cup and the 
 pawn-shop. I planted it there. It was a trick, 
 a test. I thought if you saw it in a pawn-shop 
 
 28
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 you would believe I no longer cared for you, 
 and that I was very poor. If you passed it by, 
 then I would know you yourself had stopped 
 caring, but if you asked about it, if you inquired 
 for me, then I would know you came to me of 
 your own wish, because you " 
 
 Lee shook his head. 
 
 "You don't have to tell me" he said gently, 
 "why I came. I've a cab outside. You will 
 get in it," he commanded, "and we will rescue 
 our cup. I always told you they would look 
 well together over an open fireplace."
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 THIS is the story of a gallant officer who loved 
 his profession, his regiment, his country, but 
 above all, whiskey; of his miraculous conver 
 sion to total abstinence, and of the humble in 
 strument that worked the miracle. At the time 
 it was worked, a battalion of the Thirty-third 
 Infantry had been left behind to guard the 
 Zone, and was occupying impromptu barracks 
 on the hill above Las Palmas. That was when 
 Las Palmas was one of the four thousand sta 
 tions along the forty miles of the Panama Rail 
 road. When the railroad was "reconstructed" 
 the name of Las Palmas did not appear on the 
 new time-table, and when this story appears 
 Las Palmas will be. eighty feet under water. 
 So if any one wishes to dispute the miracle he 
 will have to conduct his investigation in a 
 diving-bell. 
 
 On this particular evening young Major Ain- 
 tree, in command of the battalion, had gone 
 up the line to Panama to dine at the Hotel 
 Tivoli, and had dined well. To prevent his 
 doing this a paternal government had ordered 
 that at the Tivoli no alcoholic liquors may be 
 
 30
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 sold; but only two hundred yards from the 
 hotel, outside the zone of temperance, lies 
 Panama and Angelina's, and during the dinner, 
 between the Tivoli and Angelina's, the Jamaican 
 waiter-boys ran relay races. 
 
 After the dinner, the Jamaican waiter-boys 
 proving too slow, the dinner-party in a body 
 adjourned to Angelina's, and when later, Major 
 Aintree moved across the street to the night 
 train to Las Palmas, he moved unsteadily. 
 
 Young Standish of the Canal Zone police, 
 who, though but twenty-six, was a full corporal, 
 was for that night on duty as "train guard," 
 and was waiting at the rear steps of the last 
 car. As Aintree approached the steps he saw 
 indistinctly a boyish figure in khaki, and, mis 
 taking it for one of his own men, he clasped the 
 handrail for support, and halted frowning. 
 
 Observing the condition of the officer the 
 policeman also frowned, but in deference to the 
 uniform, slowly and with reluctance raised his 
 hand to his sombrero. The reluctance was 
 more apparent than the salute. It was less of 
 a salute than an impertinence. 
 
 Partly out of regard for his rank, partly from 
 temper, chiefly from whiskey, Aintree saw 
 scarlet. 
 
 "When you s'lute your s'perior officer," he 
 shouted, "you s'lute him quick. You unner-
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 stan', you s'lute him quick! S'lute me again," 
 he commanded, "and s'lute me damn quick." 
 
 Standish remained motionless. As is the 
 habit of policemen over all the world, his thumbs 
 were stuck in his belt. He answered without 
 offense, in tones matter-of-fact and calm. 
 
 "You are not my superior officer," he said. 
 
 It was the calmness that irritated Aintree. 
 His eyes sought for the infantryman's cap and 
 found a sombrero. 
 
 "You damned leatherneck," he began, "I'll 
 report " 
 
 "I'm not a marine, either," interrupted Stand 
 ish. "I'm a policeman. Move on," he or 
 dered, "you're keeping these people waiting." 
 
 Others of the dinner-party formed a flying 
 wedge around Aintree and crowded him up the 
 steps and into a seat and sat upon him. Ten 
 minutes later, when Standish made his rounds 
 of the cars, Aintree saw him approaching. He 
 had a vague recollection that he had been in 
 sulted, and by a policeman. 
 
 "You!" he called, and so loudly that all in 
 the car turned, "I'm going to report you, going 
 to report you for insolence. What's your 
 name?" 
 
 Looking neither at Aintree nor at the faces 
 turned toward him, Standish replied as though 
 Aintree had asked him what time it was. 
 
 32
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 "Standish," he said, "corporal, shield num 
 ber 226, on train guard." He continued down 
 the aisle. 
 
 "I'll remember you," Aintree shouted. 
 
 But in the hot, glaring dawn of the morning 
 after, Aintree forgot. It was Standish who 
 remembered. 
 
 The men of the Zone police are hand-picked. 
 They have been soldiers, marines, cowboys, 
 sheriffs, "Black Hussars" of the Pennsylvania 
 State constabulary, rough riders with Roose 
 velt, mounted police in Canada, irregular horse 
 in South Africa; they form one of the best- 
 organized, best-disciplined, most efficient, most 
 picturesque semi-military bodies in the world. 
 Standish joined them from the Philippine con 
 stabulary in which he had been a second lieu 
 tenant. There are several like him in the Zone 
 police, and in England they would be called 
 gentlemen rankers. On the Isthmus, because 
 of his youth, his fellow policemen called Stan- 
 dish "Kid." And smart as each of them was, 
 each of them admitted the Kid wore his uniform 
 with a difference. With him it always looked 
 as though it had come freshly ironed from the 
 Colon laundry; his leather leggings shone like 
 meerschaum pipes; the brim of his sombrero 
 rested impudently on the bridge of his nose. 
 
 "He's been an officer," they used to say in 
 33
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 extenuation. "You can tell when he salutes. 
 He shows the back of his hand." Secretly, 
 they were proud of him. Standish came of a 
 long chain of soldiers, and that the weakest 
 link in the chain had proved to be himself was 
 a sorrow no one else but himself could fathom. 
 Since he was three years old he had been trained 
 to be a soldier, as carefully, with the same sin 
 gleness of purpose, as the crown prince is trained 
 to be a king. And when, after three happy, 
 glorious years at West Point, he was found not 
 clever enough to pass the examinations and 
 was dropped, he did not curse the gods and 
 die, but began again to work his way up. He 
 was determined he still would wear shoulder- 
 straps. He owed it to his ancestors. It was 
 the tradition of his family, the one thing he 
 wanted; it was his religion. He would get into 
 the army even if by the side door, if only after 
 many years of rough and patient service. He 
 knew that some day, through his record, through 
 the opportunity of a war, he would come into 
 his inheritance. Meanwhile he officered his 
 soul, disciplined his body, and daily tried to 
 learn the lesson that he who hopes to control 
 others must first control himself. 
 
 He allowed himself but one dissipation, one 
 excess. That was to hate Major Amtree, com 
 manding the Thirty-third Infantry. Of all the 
 
 34
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 world could give, Aintree possessed everything 
 that Standish considered the most to be de 
 sired. He was a graduate of West Point, he 
 had seen service in Cuba, in the Boxer business, 
 and in the Philippines. For an act of conspicu 
 ous courage at Batangas, he had received the 
 medal of honor. He had had the luck of the 
 devil. Wherever he held command turned out 
 to be the place where things broke loose. And 
 Aintree always attacked and routed them, al 
 ways was the man on the job. It was his name 
 that appeared in the newspapers, it was his 
 name that headed the list of the junior officers 
 mentioned for distinguished conduct. Stan- 
 dish had followed his career with an admiration 
 and a joy that was without taint of envy or 
 detraction. He gloried in Aintree, he delighted 
 to know the army held such a man. He was 
 grateful to Aintree for upholding the traditions 
 of a profession to which he himself gave all the 
 devotion of a fanatic. He made a god of him. 
 This was the attitude of mind toward Aintree 
 before he came to the Isthmus. Up to that 
 time he had never seen his idol. Aintree had 
 been only a name signed to brilliant articles in 
 the service magazines, a man of whom those 
 who had served with him or under him, when 
 asked concerning him, spoke with loyalty and 
 awe, the man the newspapers called "the hero 
 
 35
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 of Batangas." And when at last he saw his 
 hero, he believed his worship was justified. For 
 Aintree looked the part. He was built like a 
 greyhound with the shoulders of a stevedore. 
 His chin was as projecting, and as hard, as the 
 pointed end of a flat-iron. His every move 
 ment showed physical fitness, and his every 
 glance and tone a confidence in himself that 
 approached insolence. He was thirty-eight, 
 twelve years older than the youth who had 
 failed to make his commission, and who, as 
 Aintree strode past, looked after him with 
 wistful, hero-worshipping eyes. The revulsion, 
 when it came, was extreme. The hero-worship 
 gave way to contempt, to indignant condem 
 nation, in which there was no pity, no excuse. 
 That one upon whom so much had been lav 
 ished, who for himself had accomplished such 
 good things, should bring disgrace upon his 
 profession, should by his example demoralize 
 his men, should risk losing all he had attained, 
 all that had been given, was intolerable. When 
 Standish learned his hero was a drunkard, when 
 day after day Aintree furnished visible evidences 
 of that fact, Standish felt Aintree had betrayed 
 him and the army and the government that 
 had educated, trained, clothed, and fed him. 
 He regarded Aintree as worse than Benedict 
 Arnold, because Arnold had turned traitor for 
 
 36
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 power and money; Aintree was a traitor through 
 mere weakness, because he could not say "no" 
 to a bottle. 
 
 Only in secret Standish railed against Ain 
 tree. When his brother policemen gossiped and 
 jested about him, out of loyalty to the army 
 he remained silent. But in his heart he could 
 not forgive. The man he had so generously 
 envied, the man after whose career he had 
 wished to model his own, had voluntarily 
 stepped from his pedestal and made a swine of 
 himself. And not only could he not forgive, 
 but as day after day Aintree furnished fresh 
 food for his indignation he felt a fierce desire 
 to punish. 
 
 Meanwhile, of the conduct of Aintree, men 
 older and wiser, if less intolerant than Standish, 
 were beginning to take notice. It was after a 
 dinner on Ancon Hill, and the women had left 
 the men to themselves. They were the men 
 who were placing the Panama Canal on the 
 map. They were officers of the army who for 
 five years had not worn a uniform. But for 
 five years they had been at war with an enemy 
 that never slept. Daily they had engaged in 
 battle with mountains, rivers, swamps, two 
 oceans, and disease. Where Aintree command 
 ed five hundred soldiers, they commanded a 
 body of men better drilled, better disciplined, 
 
 37
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 and in number half as many as those who 
 formed the entire army of the United States. 
 The mind of each was occupied with a world 
 problem. They thought and talked in millions 
 of millions of cubic yards of dirt, of millions 
 of barrels of cement, of millions of tons of steel, 
 of hundreds of millions of dollars, of which 
 latter each received enough to keep himself 
 and his family just beyond the reach of neces 
 sity. To these men with the world waiting 
 upon the outcome of their endeavor, with re 
 sponsibilities that never relaxed, Aintree's be 
 havior was an incident, an annoyance of less 
 importance than an overturned dirt train that 
 for five minutes dared to block the completion 
 of their work. But they were human and loyal 
 to the army, and in such an infrequent moment 
 as this, over the coffee and cigars, they could 
 afford to remember the junior officer, to feel 
 sorry for him, for the sake of the army, to save 
 him from himself. 
 
 "He takes his orders direct from the War 
 Department," said the chief. "I've no au 
 thority over him. If he'd been one of my 
 workmen I'd have shipped him north three 
 months ago." 
 
 "That's it," said the surgeon, "he's not a 
 workman. He has nothing to do, and idleness 
 is the curse of the army. And in this cli 
 mate " 
 
 38
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 "Nothing to do!" snorted the civil adminis 
 trator. "Keeping his men in hand is what he 
 has to do! They're running amuck all over 
 Panama, getting into fights with the Spiggoty po 
 lice, bringing the uniform into contempt. As for 
 the climate, it's the same climate for all of us. 
 Look at Butler's marines and Barber's Zone 
 police. The climate hasn't hurt them. They're 
 as smart men as ever wore khaki. It's not the 
 climate or lack of work that ails the Thirty- 
 third, it's their commanding officer. 'So the 
 colonel, so the regiment.' That's as old as the 
 hills. Until Aintree takes a brace, his men 
 won't. Some one ought to talk to him. It's a 
 shame to see a fine fellow like that going to 
 the dogs because no one has the courage to 
 tell him the truth." 
 
 The chief smiled mockingly. 
 
 "Then why don't you?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm a civilian," protested the administrator. 
 "If I told him he was going to the dogs he'd 
 tell me to go to the devil. No, one of you 
 army men must do it. He'll listen to you." 
 
 Young Captain Haldane of the cavalry was 
 at the table; he was visiting Panama on leave 
 as a tourist. The chief turned to him. 
 
 "Haldane's the man," he said. "You're his 
 friend and you're his junior in rank, so what 
 you say won't sound official. Tell him people 
 are talking; tell him it won't be long be- 
 
 39
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 fore they'll be talking in Washington. Scare 
 him!" 
 
 The captain of cavalry smiled dubiously. 
 
 "Ain tree's a hard man to scare," he said. 
 "But if it's as bad as you all seem to think, I'll 
 risk it. But, why is it," he complained, "that 
 whenever a man has to be told anything par 
 ticularly unpleasant they always pick on his 
 best friend to tell him? It makes them both 
 miserable. Why not let his bitterest enemy 
 try it? The enemy at least would have a fine 
 time." 
 
 "Because," said the chief, "Aintree hasn't 
 an enemy in the world except Aintree." 
 
 The next morning, as he had promised, Hal- 
 dane called upon his friend. When he arrived 
 at Las Palmas, although the morning was well 
 advanced toward noon, he found Aintree still 
 under his mosquito bars and awake only to 
 command a drink. The situation furnished 
 Haldane with his text. He expressed his opin 
 ion of any individual, friend or no friend, officer 
 or civilian, who on the Zone, where all men be 
 gin work at sunrise, could be found at noon 
 still in his pajamas and preparing to face the 
 duties of the day on an absinth cocktail. He 
 said further that since he had arrived on the 
 isthmus he had heard only of Aintree's miscon 
 duct, that soon the War Department would 
 
 40
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 hear of it, that Aintree would lose his commis 
 sion, would break the backbone of a splendid 
 career. 
 
 "It's a friend talking," continued Haldane, 
 "and you know it! It's because I am your 
 friend that I've risked losing your friendship ! 
 And, whether you like it or not, it's the truth. 
 You're going down-hill, going fast, going like 
 a motor-bus running away, and unless you put 
 on the brakes you'll smash!" 
 
 Aintree was not even annoyed. 
 
 "That's good advice for the right man," he 
 granted, "but why waste it on me? I can do 
 things other men can't. I can stop drinking 
 this minute, and it will mean so little to me 
 that I won't know I've stopped." 
 
 "Then stop," said Haldane. 
 
 "Why?" demanded Aintree. "I like it. 
 Why should I stop anything I like? Because 
 a lot of old women are gossiping? Because old 
 men who can't drink green mint without danc 
 ing turkey-trots think I'm going to the devil 
 because I can drink whiskey? I'm not afraid 
 of whiskey," he laughed tolerantly. " It amuses 
 me, that's all it does to me; it amuses me." He 
 pulled back the coat of his pajamas and showed 
 his giant chest and shoulder. With his fist he 
 struck his bare flesh and it glowed instantly a 
 healthy, splendid pink. 
 
 41
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 " See that ! " commanded Aintree. "If there's 
 a man on the isthmus in any better physical 
 shape than I am, I'll " He interrupted him 
 self to begin again eagerly. "I'll make you 
 a sporting proposition," he announced. "I'll 
 fight any man on the isthmus ten rounds no 
 matter who he is, a wop laborer, shovel man, 
 Barbadian nigger, marine, anybody and if he 
 can knock me out I'll stop drinking. You see," 
 he explained patiently, "I'm no mollycoddle or 
 jelly-fish. I can afford a headache. And be 
 sides, it's my own head. If I don't give any 
 body else a headache, I don't see that it's any 
 body else's damned business." 
 
 "But you do," retorted Haldane steadily. 
 "You're giving your own men worse than a 
 headache, you're setting them a rotten example, 
 you're giving the Thirty-third a bad name " 
 
 Aintree vaulted off his cot and shook his fist 
 at his friend. 
 
 "You can't say that to me" he cried. 
 
 "I do say it," protested Haldane. "When 
 you were in Manila your men were models; here 
 they're unshaven, sloppy, undisciplined. They 
 look like bell-hops. And it's your fault. And 
 everybody thinks so." 
 
 Slowly and carefully Aintree snapped his 
 fingers. 
 
 "And you can tell everybody, from me," he 
 42
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 cried, "that's all I care what they think! And 
 now," he continued, smiling hospitably, "let 
 me congratulate you on your success as a mis 
 sionary, and, to show you there's not a trace of 
 hard feeling, we will have a drink." 
 
 Informally Haldane reported back to the 
 commission, and the wife of one of them must 
 have talked, for it was soon known that a 
 brother officer had appealed to Aintree to re 
 form, and Aintree had refused to listen. 
 
 When she heard this, Grace Carter, the wife 
 of Major Carter, one of the surgeons at the 
 Ancon Hospital, was greatly perturbed. Ain 
 tree was engaged to be married to Helen Scott, 
 who was her best friend and who was arriving 
 by the next steamer to spend the winter. When 
 she had Helen safely under her roof, Mrs. 
 Carter had planned to marry off the young 
 couple out of hand on the isthmus. But she 
 had begun to wonder if it would not be better 
 they should delay, or best that they should 
 never marry. 
 
 "The awakening is going to be a terrible blow 
 to Helen," she said to her husband. "She is so 
 proud of him." 
 
 "On the contrary," he protested, "it will be 
 the awakening of Aintree if Helen will stand 
 for the way he's acting, she is not the girl I 
 know. And when he finds she won't, and that 
 he may lose her, he'll pull up short. He's 
 
 43
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 talked Helen to me night after night until he's 
 bored me so I could strangle him. He cares 
 more for her than he does for anything, for the 
 army, or for himself, and that's saying a great 
 deal. One word from her will be enough." 
 
 Helen spoke the word three weeks after she 
 arrived. It had not been necessary to tell her 
 of the manner in which her lover was miscon 
 ducting himself. At various dinners given in 
 their honor he had made a nuisance of himself; 
 on another occasion, while in uniform, he had 
 created a scene in the dining-room of the Tivoli 
 under the prying eyes of three hundred seeing- 
 the-Canal tourists; and one night he had so 
 badly beaten up a cabman who had laughed at 
 his condition that the man went to the hospital. 
 Major Carter, largely with money, had healed 
 the injuries of the cabman, but Helen, who had 
 witnessed the assault, had suffered an injury 
 that money could not heal. 
 
 She sent for Aintree, and at the home of her 
 friend delivered her ultimatum. 
 
 " I hit him because he was offensive to you," 
 said Aintree. "That's why I hit him. If I'd 
 not had a drink in a year, I'd have hit him just 
 as quick and just as hard." 
 
 "Can't you see," said the girl, "that in being 
 not yourself when I was in your care you were 
 much more insulting to me than any cabman 
 could possibly be? When you are like that 
 
 44
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 you have no respect for me, or for yourself. 
 Part of my pride in you is that you are so 
 strong, that you control yourself, that common 
 pleasures never get a hold on you. If you 
 couldn't control your temper I wouldn't blame 
 you, because you've a villainous temper and 
 you were born with it. But you weren't born 
 with a taste for liquor. None of your people 
 drank. You never drank until you went into 
 the army. If I were a man," declared the girl, 
 "I'd be ashamed to admit anything was stronger 
 than I was. You never let pain beat you. I've 
 seen you play polo with a broken arm, but in 
 this you give pain to others, you shame and 
 humiliate the one you pretend to love, just 
 because you are weak, just because you can't 
 say 'no.'" 
 
 Aintree laughed angrily. 
 
 "Drink has no hold on me," he protested. 
 "It affects me as much as the lights and the 
 music affect a girl at her first dance, and no 
 more. But, if you ask me to stop " 
 
 "I do not!" said the girl. "If you stop, 
 you'll stop not because I have any influence 
 over you, but because you don't need my influ 
 ence. If it's wrong, if it's hurting you, if it's 
 taking away your usefulness and your power 
 for good, that's why you'll stop. Not because a 
 girl begs you. Or you're not the man I think 
 
 you." 
 
 45
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 Aintree retorted warmly. "I'm enough of a 
 man for this," he protested: "I'm enough of a 
 man not to confess I can't drink without mak 
 ing a beast of myself. It's easy not to drink 
 at all. But to stop altogether is a confession 
 of weakness. I'd look on my doing that as 
 cowardly. I give you my word not that I'll 
 swear off, that I'll never do but I promise you 
 you'll have no further reason to be what you 
 call humiliated, or ashamed. You have my 
 word for it." 
 
 A week later Aintree rode his pony into a 
 railway cutting and rolled with it to the tracks 
 below, and, if at the time he had not been 
 extremely drunk, would have been killed. The 
 pony, being quite sober, broke a leg and was 
 destroyed. 
 
 When word of this came to Helen she was 
 too sick at heart to see Aintree, and by others 
 it was made known to him that on the first 
 steamer Miss Scott would return North. Ain 
 tree knew why she was going, knew she had 
 lost faith and patience, knew the woman he 
 loved had broken with him and put him out 
 of her life. Appalled at this calamity, he pro 
 ceeded to get drunk in earnest. 
 
 The night was very hot and the humidity 
 very heavy, and at Las Palmas inside the bun 
 galow that served as a police-station the lamps
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 on either side of the lieutenant's desk burned 
 like tiny furnaces. Between them, panting in 
 the moist heat and with the sweat from his 
 forehead and hand dripping upon an otherwise 
 immaculate report, sat Standish. Two weeks 
 before, the chief had made him one of his six 
 lieutenants. With the force the promotion had 
 been most popular. 
 
 Since his promotion Standish had been in 
 charge of the police-station at Las Palmas and 
 daily had seen Aintree as, on his way down the 
 hill from the barracks to the railroad, the hero 
 of Batangas passed the door of the station- 
 house. Also, on the morning Aintree had 
 jumped his horse over the embankment, Stan- 
 dish had seen him carried up the hill on a 
 stretcher. At the sight the lieutenant of police 
 had taken from his pocket a note-book, and on a 
 flyleaf made a cross. On the flyleaf were many 
 other dates and opposite each a cross. It was 
 Aintree's record and as the number of black 
 crosses grew, the greater had grown the resent 
 ment of Standish, the more greatly it had in 
 creased his anger against the man who had put 
 this affront upon the army, the greater became 
 his desire to punish. 
 
 In police circles the night had been quiet, the 
 cells in the yard were empty, the telephone at 
 his elbow had remained silent, and Standish, 
 
 47
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 alone in the station-house, had employed him 
 self in cramming "Moss's Manual for Subal 
 terns.'* He found it a fascinating exercise. 
 The hope that soon he might himself be a sub 
 altern always burned brightly, and to be pre 
 pared seemed to make the coming of that day 
 more certain. It was ten o'clock and Las 
 Palmas lay sunk in slumber, and after the down 
 train which was now due had passed, there was 
 nothing likely to disturb her slumber until at 
 sunrise the great army of dirt-diggers with 
 shrieks of whistles, with roars of dynamite, with 
 the rumbling of dirt-trains and steam-shovels, 
 again sprang to the attack. Down the hill, a 
 hundred yards below Standish, the night train 
 halted at the station, with creakings and groan- 
 ings continued toward Colon, and again Las 
 Palmas returned to sleep. 
 
 And, then, quickly and viciously, like the 
 crack of a mule-whip, came the reports of a 
 pistol; and once more the hot and dripping 
 silence. 
 
 On post at the railroad-station, whence the 
 shots came, was Meehan, one of the Zone po 
 lice, an ex-sergeant of marines. On top of the 
 hill, outside the infantry barracks, was another 
 policeman, BuIIard, once a cowboy. 
 
 Standish ran to the veranda and heard the 
 pebbles scattering as BuIIard leaped down the
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 hill, and when, in the light from the open door, 
 he passed, the lieutenant shouted at him to find 
 Meehan and report back. Then the desk tele 
 phone rang, and Standish returned to his chair. 
 
 "This is Meehan," said a voice. "Those 
 shots just now were fired by Major Aintree. 
 He came down on the night train and jumped 
 off after the train was pulling out and stumbled 
 into a negro, and fell. He's been drinking and 
 he swore the nigger pushed him; and the man 
 called Aintree a liar. Aintree pulled his gun 
 and the nigger ran. Aintree fired twice; then I 
 got to him and knocked the gun out of his hand 
 with my nightstick." 
 
 There was a pause. Until he was sure his 
 voice would be steady and official, the boy lieu 
 tenant did not speak. 
 
 "Did he hit the negro?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know," Meehan answered. "The 
 man jumped for the darkest spot he could find." 
 The voice of Meehan lost its professional calm 
 and became personal and aggrieved. 
 
 "Aintree's on his way to see you now, lieu 
 tenant. He's going to report me." 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 The voice over the telephone rose indignantly. 
 
 "For knocking the gun out of his hand. He 
 says it's an assault. He's going to break me!'* 
 
 Standish made no comment. 
 49
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 " Report here," he ordered. 
 
 He heard BuIIard hurrying up the hill and 
 met him at the foot of the steps. 
 
 "There's a nigger," began BuIIard, "lying 
 under some bushes " 
 
 "Hush!" commanded Standish. 
 
 From the path below came the sound of foot 
 steps approaching unsteadily, and the voice of 
 a man swearing and muttering to himself. 
 Standish pulled the ex-cowboy into the shadow 
 of the darkness and spoke in eager whispers. 
 
 "You understand," he concluded, "you will 
 not report until you see me pick up a cigar 
 from the desk and light it. You will wait out 
 here in the darkness. When you see me light 
 the cigar, you will come in and report." 
 
 The cowboy policeman nodded, but without 
 enthusiasm. "I understand, lieutenant," he 
 said, "but," he shook his head doubtfully, "it 
 sizes up to me like what those police up in New 
 York call a 'frame-up." 
 
 Standish exclaimed impatiently. 
 
 "It's not my frame-up!" he said. "The 
 man's framed himself up. All I'm going to do 
 is to nail him to the wall !" 
 
 Standish had only time to return to his desk 
 when Aintree stumbled up the path and into 
 the station-house. He was "fighting drunk," 
 ugly, offensive, all but incoherent with anger. 
 
 50
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 "You in charge?" he demanded. He did 
 not wait for an answer. "I've been 'saulted!" 
 he shouted. * 'Saulted by one of your damned 
 policemen. He struck me struck me when I 
 was protecting myself. He had a nigger with 
 him. First the nigger tripped me; then, when 
 I tried to protect myself, this thug of yours hits 
 me, clubs me, you unnerstan', clubs me! I 
 want him " 
 
 He was interrupted by the entrance of Mee- 
 han, who moved into the light from the lamps 
 and saluted his lieutenant. 
 
 "That's the man!" roared Aintree. The 
 sight of Meehan whipped him into greater fury. 
 
 "I want that man broke. I want to see you 
 strip his shield off him now;, you unnerstan', 
 now for 'saulting me, for 'saulting an officer in 
 the United States army. And, if you </on V he 
 threw himself into a position of the prize-ring, 
 "I'll beat him up and you, too." Through 
 want of breath, he stopped, and panted. Again 
 his voice broke forth hysterically. "I'm not 
 afraid of your damned night-sticks," he taunted. 
 "I got five hundred men on top this hill, all 
 I've got to do is to say the word, and they'll 
 rough-house this place ano! throw it into the 
 cut and you with it." 
 
 Standish rose to his feet, and across the desk 
 looked steadily at Aintree. To Aintree the
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 steadiness of his eyes and the quietness of his 
 voice were an added aggravation. 
 
 "Suppose you did/' said Standish, "that 
 would not save you." 
 
 "From what?" roared Aintree. "Think I'm 
 afraid of your night-sticks?" 
 
 "From arrest!" 
 
 "Arrest me/" yelled Aintree. "Do you know 
 who's talking to you? Do you know who I 
 am? I'm Major Aintree, damn you, command 
 ing the infantry. An' I'm here to charge that 
 thug- 
 
 "You are here because you are under arrest," 
 said Standish. "You are arrested for threat 
 ening the police, drunkenness, and assaulting a 
 citizen with intent to kill " The voice of the 
 young man turned shrill and rasping. "And 
 if the man should die " 
 
 Aintree burst into a bellow of mocking 
 laughter. 
 
 Standish struck the desk with his open palm. 
 
 "Silence!" he commanded. 
 
 "Silence to me/" roared Aintree, "you im 
 pertinent pup!" He flung himself forward, 
 shaking his fist. "I'm Major Aintree. I'm 
 your superior officer. I'm an officer an* a gen 
 tleman " 
 
 "You are not!" replied Standish. "You are 
 a drunken loafer !" 
 
 52
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 Aintree could not break the silence. Amaze 
 ment, rage, stupefaction held him in incredulous 
 wonder. Even Meehan moved uneasily. Be 
 tween the officer commanding the infantry and 
 an officer of police, he feared the lieutenant 
 would not survive. 
 
 But he heard the voice of his lieutenant con 
 tinuing, evenly, coldly, like the voice of a judge 
 delivering sentence. 
 
 "You are a drunken loafer," repeated the 
 boy. "And you know it. And I mean that 
 to-morrow morning every one on the Zone 
 shall know it. And I mean to-morrow night 
 every one in the States shall know it. You've 
 killed a man, or tried to, and I'm going to 
 break you." With his arm he pointed to 
 Meehan. "Break that man?" he demanded. 
 "For doing his duty, for trying to stop a mur 
 der? Strip him of his shield?" The boy 
 laughed savagely. "It's you I am going to 
 strip, Aintree," he cried, "you 'hero of Batan- 
 gas'; I'm going to strip you naked. I'm going 
 to 'cut the buttons off your coat, and tear the 
 stripes away.' I'm going to degrade you and 
 disgrace you, and drive you out of the army !" 
 He threw his note-book on the table. "There's 
 your dossier, Aintree," he said. " For three 
 months you've been drunk, and there's your 
 record. The police got it for me; it's written 
 
 53
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 there with dates and the names of witnesses. 
 I'll swear to it. I've been after you to get you, 
 and I've got you. With that book, with what 
 you did to-night, you'll leave the army. You 
 may resign, you may be court-martialled, you 
 may be hung. I don't give a damn what they 
 do to you, but you will leave the army!" 
 
 He turned to Meehan, and with a jerk of the 
 hand signified Aintree. 
 
 "Put him in a cell," he said. "If he re 
 sists " 
 
 Aintree gave no sign of resisting. He stood 
 motionless, his arms hanging limp, his eyes pro 
 truding. The liquor had died in him, and 
 his anger had turned chill. He tried to moisten 
 his lips to speak, but his throat was baked, and 
 no sound issued. He tried to focus his eyes 
 upon the menacing little figure behind the desk, 
 but between the two lamps it swayed, and 
 shrank and swelled. Of one thing only was he 
 sure, that some grave disaster had overtaken 
 him, something that when he came fully to his 
 senses still would overwhelm him, something he 
 could not conquer with his fists. His brain, 
 even befuddled as it was, told him he had been 
 caught by the heels, that he was in a trap, that 
 smashing this boy who threatened him could 
 not set him free. He recognized, and it was 
 this knowledge that stirred him with alarm, 
 
 54
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 that this was no ordinary officer of justice, but 
 a personal enemy, an avenging spirit who, for 
 some unknown reason, had spread a trap; who, 
 for some private purpose of revenge, would 
 drag him down. 
 
 Frowning painfully, he waved Meehan from 
 him. 
 
 "Wait," he commanded. "I don* unner- 
 stan'. What good's it goin' to do you to lock 
 me up an' disgrace me? What harm have I 
 done you? Who asked you to run the army, 
 anyway? Who are you?" 
 
 "My name is Standish," said the lieutenant. 
 "My father was colonel of the Thirty-third 
 when you first joined it from the Academy." 
 
 Aintree exclaimed with surprise and enlight 
 enment. He broke into hurried speech, but 
 Standish cut him short. 
 
 "And General Standish of the Mexican War," 
 he continued, "was my grandfather. Since 
 Washington all my people have been officers of 
 the regular army, and I'd been one, too, if Fd 
 been bright enough. That's why I respect the 
 army. That's why I'm going to throw you 
 out of it. You've done harm fifty men as good 
 as you can't undo. You've made drunkards of 
 a whole battalion. You've taught boys who 
 looked up to you, as I looked up to you once, 
 to laugh at discipline, to make swine of them- 
 
 55
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 selves. You've set them an example. I'm 
 going to make an example of you. That's all 
 there is to this. I've got no grudge against you. 
 I'm not vindictive; I'm sorry for you. But," 
 he paused and pointed his hand at Aintree as 
 though it held a gun, "you are going to leave 
 the army!* 1 
 
 Like a man coming out of an ugly dream, 
 Aintree opened and shut his eyes, shivered, 
 and stretched his great muscles. They watched 
 him with an effort of the will force himself back 
 to consciousness. When again he spoke, his 
 tone was sane. 
 
 "See here, Standish," he began, "I'll not beg 
 of you or any man. I only ask you to think 
 what you're doing. This means my finish. If 
 you force this through to-night it means court- 
 martial, it means I lose my commission, I lose 
 lose things you know nothing about. And, 
 if I've got a record for drinking, I've got a 
 record for other things, too. Don't forget 
 that!" 
 
 Standish shook his head. "7 didn't forget 
 it," he said. 
 
 "Well, suppose 7 did," demanded Aintree. 
 "Suppose I did go on the loose, just to pass the 
 time, just because I'm sick of this damned 
 ditch? Is it fair to wipe out all that went be 
 fore, for that? I'm the youngest major in the
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 army, I served in three campaigns, I'm a medal- 
 of-honor man, I've got a career ahead of me, 
 and and I'm going to be married. If you 
 give me a chance " 
 
 Standish struck the table with his fist. 
 
 "I will give you a chance," he cried. "If 
 you'll give your word to this man and to me, 
 that, so help you God, you'll never drink again 
 I'll let you go." 
 
 If what Standish proposed had been some 
 thing base, Aintree could not have accepted it 
 with more contempt. 
 
 " I'll see you in hell first," he said. 
 
 As though the interview was at an end, 
 Standish dropped into his chair and leaning 
 forward, from the table picked up a cigar. As 
 he lit it, he motioned Meehan toward his pris 
 oner, but before the policeman could advance 
 the sound of footsteps halted him. 
 
 BuIIard, his eyes filled with concern, leaped 
 up the steps, and ran to the desk. 
 
 "Lieutenant!" he stammered, "that man 
 the nigger that officer shot he's dead!" 
 
 Aintree gave a gasp that was partly a groan, 
 partly a cry of protest, and BuIIard, as though 
 for the first time aware of his presence, sprang 
 back to the open door and placed himself be 
 tween it and Aintree. 
 
 "It's murder!" he said. 
 57
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 None of the three men spoke; and when 
 Meehan crossed to where Aintree stood, staring 
 fearfully at nothing, he had only to touch his 
 sleeve, and Aintree, still staring, fell into step 
 beside him. 
 
 From the yard outside Standish heard the 
 iron door of the cell swing shut, heard the key 
 grate in the lock, and the footsteps of Meehan 
 returning. 
 
 Meehan laid the key upon the desk, and with 
 BuIIard stood at attention, waiting. 
 
 "Give him time," whispered Standish. "Let 
 it sink in!" 
 
 At the end of half an hour Standish heard 
 Aintree calling, and, with Meehan carrying a 
 lantern, stepped into the yard and stopped at 
 the cell door. 
 
 Aintree was quite sober. His face was set 
 and white, his voice was dull with suffer 
 ing. He stood erect, clasping the bars in his 
 hands. 
 
 "Standish," he said, "you gave me a chance a 
 while ago, and I refused it. I was rough about 
 h. I'm sorry. It made me hot because I 
 thought you were forcing my hand, blackmailing 
 me into doing something I ought to do as a free 
 agent. Now, I am a free agent. You couldn't 
 give me a chance now, you couldn't let me go 
 now, not if I swore on a thousand Bibles. I 
 
 58
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 don't know what they'll give me Leavenworth 
 for life, or hanging, or just dismissal. But, 
 youve got what you wanted I'm leaving the 
 army!" Between the bars he stretched out 
 his arms and held a hand toward Meehan and 
 Standish. In the same dull, numbed voice he 
 continued. 
 
 "So, now," he went on, "that I've nothing 
 to gain by it, I want to swear to you and to 
 this man here, that whether I hang, or go to 
 jail, or am turned loose, I will never, so help me 
 God, take another drink." 
 
 Standish was holding the hand of the man 
 who once had been his hero. He clutched it 
 tight. 
 
 "Aintree," he cried, "suppose I could work 
 a miracle; suppose I've played a trick on you, 
 to show you your danger, to show you what 
 might come to you any day does that oath 
 still stand?" 
 
 The hand that held his ground the bones to 
 gether. 
 
 "I've given my word!" cried Aintree. "For 
 the love of God, don't torture me. Is the man 
 alive?" 
 
 As Standish swung open the cell door, the 
 hero of Batangas, he who could thrash any man 
 on the isthmus, crumpled up like a child upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 59
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 And Meehan, as he ran for water, shouted 
 joyfully. 
 
 "That nigger," he called to BuIIard, "can go 
 home now. The lieutenant don't want him no 
 
 more." 
 
 60
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 As a rule, the instant the season closed Aline 
 Proctor sailed on the first steamer for London, 
 where awaited her many friends, both English 
 and American and to Paris, where she selected 
 those gowns that on and off the stage helped to 
 make her famous. But this particular summer 
 she had spent with the Endicotts at Bar Har 
 bor, and it was at their house Herbert Nelson 
 met her. After Herbert met her very few 
 other men enjoyed that privilege. This was 
 her wish as well as his. 
 
 They behaved disgracefully. Every morning 
 after breakfast they disappeared and spent the 
 day at opposite ends of a canoe. She, knowing 
 nothing of a canoe, was happy in stabbing the 
 waters with her paddle while he told her how 
 he loved her and at the same time, with anxious 
 eyes on his own paddle, skilfully frustrated her 
 efforts to drown them both. While the affair 
 lasted it was ideal and beautiful, but unfortu 
 nately it lasted only two months. 
 
 Then Lord Albany, temporarily in America 
 as honorary attache to the British embassy, his 
 adoring glances, his accent, and the way he 
 brushed his hair, proved too much for the sus- 
 
 61
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 ceptible heart of Aline, and she chucked Her 
 bert and asked herself how a woman of her age 
 could have seriously considered marrying a 
 youth just out of Harvard ! At that time she 
 was a woman of nineteen; but, as she had been 
 before the public ever since she was eleven, the 
 women declared she was not a day under 
 twenty-six; and the men knew she could not 
 possibly be over sixteen ! 
 
 Aline's own idea of herself was that without 
 some one in love with her she could not exist- 
 that, unless she knew some man cared for her 
 and for her alone, she would wither and die. 
 As a matter of fact, whether any one loved her 
 or not did not in the least interest her. There 
 were several dozen men who could testify to 
 that. They knew ! What she really wanted 
 was to be head over ears in love to adore some 
 one, to worship him, to imagine herself starving 
 for him and making sacrifice hits for him; but 
 when the moment came to make the sacrifice 
 hit and marry the man, she invariably found 
 that a greater, truer love had arisen for some 
 one else. 
 
 This greater and truer love always made her 
 behave abominably to the youth she had just 
 jilted. She wasted no time on post-mortems. 
 She was so eager to show her absolute loyalty 
 to the new monarch that she grudged every 
 
 62
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 thought she ever had given the one she had cast 
 into exile. She resented him bitterly. She 
 could not forgive him for having allowed her 
 to be desperately in love with him. He should 
 have known he was not worthy of such a love 
 as hers. He should have known that the real 
 prince was waiting only just round the corner. 
 
 As a rule the rejected ones behaved well. 
 Each decided Aline was much too wonderful a 
 creature for him, and continued to love her 
 cautiously and from a distance. None of them 
 ever spoke or thought ill of her and would gladly 
 have punched any one who did. It was only 
 the women whose young men Aline had tempo 
 rarily confiscated, and then returned saddened 
 and chastened, who were spiteful. And they 
 dared say no more than that Aline would prob 
 ably have known her mind better if she had 
 had a mother to look after her. This, coming 
 to the ears of Aline, caused her to reply that a 
 girl who could not keep straight herself, but 
 needed a mother to help her, would not keep 
 straight had she a dozen mothers. As she put 
 it cheerfully, a girl who goes wrong and then 
 pleads "no mother to guide her" is like a jockey 
 who pulls a race and then blames the horse. 
 
 Each of the young men Aline rejected mar 
 ried some one else and, except when the name 
 of Aline Proctor in the theatrical advertisements 
 
 63
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 or in electric lights on Broadway gave him a 
 start, forgot that for a month her name and his 
 own had been linked together from Portland 
 to San Francisco. But the girl he married did 
 not forget. She never understood what the 
 public saw in Aline Proctor. That Aline was 
 the queen of musical comedy she attributed to 
 the fact that Aline knew the right people and 
 got herself written about in the right way. 
 But that she could sing, dance, act; that she 
 possessed compelling charm; that she "got 
 across" not only to the tired business man, 
 the wine agent, the college boy, but also to the 
 children and the old ladies, was to her never 
 apparent. 
 
 Just as Aline could not forgive the rejected 
 suitor for allowing her to love him, so the girl 
 he married never forgave Aline for having loved 
 her husband. Least of all could Sally Win- 
 throp, who two years after the summer at Bar 
 Harbor married Herbert Nelson, forgive her. 
 And she let Herbert know it. Herbert was 
 properly in love with Sally Winthrop, but he 
 liked to think that his engagement to Aline, 
 though brief and abruptly terminated, had 
 proved him to be a man fatally attractive to 
 all women. And though he was hypnotizing 
 himself into believing that his feeling for Aline 
 had been the grand passion, the truth was that 
 
 64
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 all that kept her in his thoughts was his own 
 vanity. He was not discontented with his lot 
 his lot being Sally Winthrop, her millions, 
 and her estate of three hundred acres near 
 Westbury. Nor was he still longing for Aline. 
 It was only that his vanity was flattered by the 
 recollection that one of the young women most 
 beloved by the public had once loved him. 
 
 "I once was a king in Babylon," he used to 
 misquote to himself, "and she was a Christian 
 slave." 
 
 He was as young as that. 
 
 Had he been content in secret to assure him 
 self that he once had been a reigning monarch, 
 his vanity would have harmed no one; but, un 
 fortunately, he possessed certain documentary 
 evidence to that fact. And he was sufficiently 
 foolish not to wish to destroy it. The evidence 
 consisted of a dozen photographs he had 
 snapped of Aline during the happy days at 
 Bar Harbor, and on which she had written 
 phrases somewhat exuberant and sentimental. 
 
 From these photographs Nelson was loath to 
 part especially with one that showed Aline 
 seated on a rock that ran into the waters of the 
 harbor, and on which she had written: "As long 
 as this rock lasts !" Each time she was in love 
 Aline believed it would last. That in the past 
 it never had lasted did not discourage her.
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 What to do with these photographs that so 
 vividly recalled the most tumultuous period of 
 his life Nelson could not decide. If he hid 
 them away and Sally found them, he knew she 
 would make his life miserable. If he died and 
 Sally then found them, when he no longer was 
 able to explain that they meant nothing to him, 
 she would believe he always had loved the 
 other woman, and it would make her miserable. 
 He felt he could not safely keep them in his 
 own house; his vanity did not permit him to 
 burn them, and, accordingly, he decided to 
 unload them on some one else. 
 
 The young man to whom he confided his col 
 lection was Charles Cochran. Cochran was a 
 charming person from the West. He had 
 studied in the Beaux Arts and on foot had trav 
 elled over England and Europe, preparing him 
 self to try his fortune in New York as an archi 
 tect. He was now in the office of the archi 
 tects Post & Constant, and lived alone in a 
 tiny farmhouse he had made over for him 
 self near Herbert Nelson, at Westbury, Long 
 Island. 
 
 Post & Constant were a fashionable firm and 
 were responsible for many of the French cha 
 teaux and English country houses that were 
 rising near Westbury, Hempstead, and Roslyn; 
 and it was Cochran's duty to drive over that 
 
 66 '
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 territory in his runabout, keep an eye on the 
 contractors, and dissuade clients from grafting 
 mansard roofs on Italian villas. He had built 
 the summer home of the Herbert Nelsons, and 
 Herbert and Charles were very warm friends. 
 Charles was of the same lack of years as was 
 Herbert, of an enthusiastic and sentimental 
 nature; and, like many other young men, the 
 story of his life also was the lovely and much- 
 desired Aline Proctor. It was this coincidence 
 that had made them friends and that had led 
 Herbert to select Charles as the custodian of 
 his treasure. As a custodian and confidant 
 Charles especially appealed to his new friend, 
 because, except upon the stage and in restau 
 rants, Charles had never seen Aline Proctor, 
 did not know her and considered her so far 
 above him, so unattainable, that he had no wish 
 to seek her out. Unknown, he preferred to 
 worship at a distance. In this determination 
 Herbert strongly encouraged him. 
 
 When he turned over the pictures to Charles, 
 Herbert could not resist showing them to him. 
 They were in many ways charming. They pre 
 sented the queen of musical comedy in several 
 new roles. In one she was in a sailor suit, giv 
 ing an imitation of a girl paddling a canoe. In 
 another she was in a riding-habit mounted upon 
 a pony of which she seemed very much afraid.
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 In some she sat like a siren among the rocks 
 with the waves and seaweed snatching at her 
 feet, and in another she crouched beneath the 
 wheel of Herbert's touring car. All of the 
 photographs were unprofessional and intimate, 
 and the legends scrawled across them were even 
 more intimate. 
 
 "As long as this rock lasts!'" read Herbert. 
 At arm's length he held the picture for Cochran 
 to see, and laughed bitterly and unmirthfully 
 as he had heard leading men laugh in problem 
 plays. 
 
 "That is what she wrote," he mocked "but 
 how long did it last? Until she saw that little 
 red-headed Albany playing polo. That lasted 
 until his mother heard of it. She thought her 
 precious Iamb was in the clutches of a designing 
 actress, and made the Foreign Office cable him 
 home. Then Aline took up one of those army 
 aviators, and chucked him for that fellow who 
 painted her portrait, and threw him over for 
 the lawn-tennis champion. Now she's engaged 
 to Chester Griswold, and Heaven pity her ! Of 
 course he's the greatest catch in America; but 
 he's a prig and a snob, and he's so generous with 
 his money that he'll give you five pennies for a 
 nickel any time you ask him. He's got a heart 
 like the metre of a taxicab, and he's jealous as 
 a cat. Aline will have a fine time with Chester ! 
 
 68
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 I knew him at St. Paul's and at Harvard, and 
 he's got as much red blood in him as an eel !" 
 
 Cochran sprang to the defense of the lady of 
 his dreams. 
 
 "There must be some good in the man," he 
 protested, "or Miss Proctor " 
 
 "Oh, those solemn snobs," declared Herbert, 
 "impress women by just keeping still. Gris- 
 wold pretends the reason he doesn't speak to 
 you is because he's too superior, but the rea! 
 reason is that he knows whenever he opens his 
 mouth he shows he is an ass." 
 
 Reluctantly Herbert turned over to Charles 
 the precious pictures. "It would be a sin to 
 destroy them, wouldn't it?" he prompted. 
 
 Cochran agreed heartily. 
 
 "You might even," suggested Herbert, "leave 
 one or two of them about. You have so many 
 of Aline already that one more wouldn't be 
 noticed. Then when I drop in I could see it." 
 He smiled ingratiatingly. 
 
 "But those I have I bought," Cochran point 
 ed out. "Anybody can buy them, but yours 
 are personal. And they're signed." 
 
 "No one will notice that but me," protested 
 Herbert. "Just one or two," he coaxed 
 "stuck round among the others. They'd give 
 me a heap of melancholy pleasure." 
 
 Charles shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 60
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 "Your wife often comes here with you," he 
 said. "I don't believe they'd give her melan 
 choly pleasure. The question is, are you mar 
 ried to Sally or to Aline Proctor?" 
 
 "Oh, of course," exclaimed Herbert "if you 
 refuse !" 
 
 With suspicious haste Charles surrendered. 
 
 "I don't refuse," he explained; "I only ask if 
 it's wise. Sally knows you were once very fond 
 of Miss Proctor knows you were engaged to 
 her." 
 
 "But," protested Herbert, "Sally sees your 
 photographs of Aline. What difference can a 
 few more make? After she's seen a dozen she 
 gets used to them." 
 
 No sooner had Herbert left him than the cus 
 todian of the treasure himself selected the pho 
 tographs he would display. In them the young 
 woman he had from the front row of the 
 orchestra so ardently admired appeared in a 
 new light. To Cochran they seemed at once to 
 render her more kindly, more approachable; to 
 show her as she really was, the sort of girl any 
 youth would find it extremely difficult not to 
 love. Cochran found it extremely easy. The 
 photographs gave his imagination all the room 
 it wanted. He believed they also gave him an 
 insight into her real character that was denied 
 to anybody else. He had always credited her 
 
 70
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 with all the virtues; he now endowed her with 
 every charm of mind and body. In a week to 
 the two photographs he had selected from the 
 loan collection for purposes of display and to 
 give Herbert melancholy pleasure he had added 
 three more. In two weeks there were half a 
 dozen. In a month, nobly framed in silver, in 
 leather of red, green, and blue, the entire collec 
 tion smiled upon him from every part of his 
 bedroom. For he now kept them where no 
 one but himself could see them. No longer 
 was he of a mind to share his borrowed trea- 
 ure with others not even with the rightful 
 owner. 
 
 Chester Griswold, spurred on by Aline Proc 
 tor, who wanted to build a summer home on 
 Long Island, was motoring with Post, of Post 
 & Constant, in the neighborhood of Westbury. 
 Post had pointed out several houses designed 
 by his firm, which he hoped might assist Gris 
 wold in making up his mind as to the kind of 
 house he wanted; but none they had seen had 
 satisfied his client. 
 
 "What I want is a cheap house," explained 
 the young millionaire. "I don't really want a 
 house at all," he complained. "It's Miss Proc 
 tor's idea. When we are married I intend to 
 move into my mother's town house, but Miss 
 Proctor wants one for herself in the country.
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 Pve agreed to that; but it must be small and 
 it must be cheap." 
 
 "Cheap" was a word that the clients of Post 
 & Constant never used; but Post knew the 
 weaknesses of some of the truly rich, and he 
 knew also that no house ever built cost only 
 what the architect said it would cost. 
 
 "I know the very house you want!" he ex 
 claimed. "One of our young men owns it. 
 He made it over from an old farmhouse. It's 
 very well arranged; weVe used his ground-plan 
 several times and it works out splendidly. If 
 he's not at home, I'll show you over the place 
 myself. And if you like the house he's the man 
 to build you one." 
 
 When they reached Cochran's home he was 
 at Garden City playing golf, but the servant 
 knew Mr. Post, and to him and his client threw 
 open every room in the house. 
 
 "Now, this," exclaimed the architect enthu 
 siastically, "is the master's bedroom. In your 
 case it would probably be your wife's room and 
 you would occupy the one adjoining, which 
 Cochran now uses as a guest-room. As you 
 see, they are entirely cut off from " 
 
 Mr. Griswold did not see. Up to that mo 
 ment he had given every appearance of being 
 both bored and sulky. Now his attention was 
 entirely engaged but not upon the admirable 
 
 72
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 simplicity of Mr. Cochran's ground-plan, as 
 Mr. Post had hoped. Instead, the eyes of the 
 greatest catch in America were intently regard 
 ing a display of photographs that smiled back 
 at him from every corner of the room. Not 
 only did he regard these photographs with a 
 savage glare, but he approached them and care 
 fully studied the inscriptions scrawled across 
 the face of each. 
 
 Post himself cast a glance at the nearest pho 
 tographs, and then hastily manoeuvred his client 
 into the hall and closed the door. 
 
 "We will now," he exclaimed, "visit the but 
 ler's pantry, which opens upon the dining-room 
 and kitchen, thus saving " 
 
 But Griswold did not hear him. Without 
 giving another glance at the house he stamped 
 out of it and, plumping himself down in the 
 motor-car, banged the door. Not until Post 
 had driven him well into New York did he make 
 any comment. 
 
 "What did you say," he then demanded, "is 
 the name of the man who owns that last house 
 we saw?" 
 
 Post told him. 
 
 "I never heard of him!" said Griswold as 
 though he were delivering young Cochran's 
 death sentence. "Who is he?" 
 
 "He's an architect in our office," said Post. 
 73
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 "We think a lot of him. He'll leave us soon, 
 of course. The best ones always do. His work 
 is very popular. So is he." 
 
 "I never heard of him," repeated Griswold. 
 Then, with sudden heat, he added savagely: 
 "But I mean to to-night." 
 
 When Griswold had first persuaded Aline 
 Proctor to engage herself to him he had sug 
 gested that, to avoid embarrassment, she should 
 tell him the names of the other men to whom 
 she had been engaged. 
 
 "What kind of embarrassment would that 
 avoid?" 
 
 "If I am talking to a man," said Griswold, 
 "and he knows the woman I'm going to marry 
 was engaged to him and I don't know that, he 
 has me at a disadvantage." 
 
 "I don't see that he has," said Aline. "If 
 we suppose, for the sake of argument, that to 
 marry me is desirable, I would say that the 
 man who was going to marry me had the ad 
 vantage over the one I had declined to marry." 
 
 "I want to know who those men are," ex 
 plained Griswold, "because I want to avoid 
 them. I don't want to talk to them. I don't 
 want even to know them." 
 
 " I don't see how I can help you," said Aline. 
 " I haven't the slightest objection to telling you 
 the names of the men I have cared for, if I can 
 
 74
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 remember them, but I certainly do not intend 
 to tell you the name of any man who cared for 
 me enough to ask me to marry him. That's 
 his secret, not mine certainly not yours.*' 
 
 Griswold thought he was very proud. He 
 really was very vain; and as jealousy is only 
 vanity in its nastiest development he was ex 
 tremely jealous. So he persisted. 
 
 "Will you do this?" he demanded. "If I 
 ever ask you, * Is that one of the men you cared 
 for?' will you tell me?" 
 
 "If you wish it," said Aline; "but I can't see 
 any health in it. It will only make you un 
 comfortable. So long as you know I have 
 given you the greatest and truest love I am 
 capable of, why should you concern yourself 
 with my mistakes?" 
 
 "So that I can avoid meeting what you 
 call your mistakes," said Griswold "and being 
 friendly with them." 
 
 "I assure you," laughed Aline, "it wouldn't 
 hurt you a bit to be as friendly with them as 
 they'd let you. Maybe they weren't as proud 
 of their families as you are, but they made 
 up for that by being a darned sight prouder of 
 me!" 
 
 Later, undismayed by this and unashamed, 
 on two occasions Griswold actually did demand 
 of Aline if a genial youth she had just greeted 
 
 75
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 joyfully was one of those for whom she once 
 had cared. 
 
 And Aline had replied promptly and truth 
 fully that he was. But in the case of Charles 
 Cochran, Griswold did not ask Aline if he was 
 one of those for whom she once had cared. 
 He considered the affair with Cochran so serious 
 that, in regard to that man, he adopted a differ 
 ent course. 
 
 In digging rivals out of the past his jealousy 
 had made him indefatigable, but in all his 
 researches he never had heard the name of 
 Charles Cochran. That fact and the added 
 circumstance that Aline herself never had men 
 tioned the man was in his eyes so suspicious as 
 to be almost a damning evidence of deception. 
 And he argued that if in the past Aline had 
 deceived him as to Charles Cochran she would 
 continue to do so. Accordingly, instead of ask 
 ing her frankly for the truth he proceeded to 
 lay traps for it. And if there is one thing 
 Truth cannot abide, it is being hunted by 
 traps. 
 
 That evening Aline and he were invited to a 
 supper in her honor, and as he drove her from 
 the theatre to the home of their hostess he told 
 her of his search earlier in the day. 
 
 The electric light in the limousine showed 
 Aline's face as clearly as though it were held in 
 
 76
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 a spotlight, and as he prepared his trap Gris- 
 wold regarded her jealously. 
 
 "Post tells me," he said, "he has the very 
 man you want for your architect. He's sure 
 you'll find him most understanding and and 
 sympathetic. He's a young man who is just 
 coming to the front, and he's very popular, 
 especially with women." 
 
 ** What's his being popular with women," 
 asked Aline, "got to do with his carrying out 
 my ideas of a house?" 
 
 "That's just it," said Griswold " it's the 
 woman who generally has the most to say as to 
 how her house shall be built, and this man 
 understands woman. I have reasons for be 
 lieving he will certainly understand you !" 
 
 "If he understands me well enough to give 
 me all the linen-closets I want," said Aline, 
 "he will be perfectly satisfactory." 
 
 Before delivering his blow Griswold sank back 
 into his corner of the car, drew his hat brim 
 over his forehead, and fixed spying eyes upon 
 the very lovely face of the girl he had asked to 
 marry him. 
 
 "His name," he said in fateful tones, "is 
 Charles Cochran!" 
 
 It was supposed to be a body blow; but, to 
 his distress, Aline neither started nor turned 
 pale. Neither, for trying to trick her, did she 
 
 77
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 turn upon him in reproof and anger. Instead, 
 with alert eyes, she continued to peer out of 
 the window at the electric-light advertisements 
 and her beloved Broadway. 
 
 "Well?" demanded Griswold; his tone was 
 hoarse and heavy with meaning. 
 
 "Well what?" asked Aline pleasantly. 
 
 "How," demanded Griswold, "do you like 
 Charles Cochran for an architect?" 
 
 "How should I know?" asked Aline. "I've 
 not met him yet!" 
 
 She had said it ! And she had said it without 
 the waver of one of her lovely eyelashes. No 
 wonder the public already hailed her as a 
 finished actress ! Griswold felt that his worst 
 fears were justified. She had lied to him. 
 And, as he knew she had never before lied to 
 him, that now she did so proved beyond hope 
 of doubt that the reason for it was vital, im 
 perative, and compelling. But of his suspicions 
 Griswold gave no sign. He would not at once 
 expose her. He had trapped her, but as yet 
 she must not know that. He would wait until 
 he had still further entangled her until she 
 could not escape; and then, with complete proof 
 of her deceit, he would confront and overwhelm 
 her. 
 
 With this amiable purpose in mind he called 
 early the next morning upon Post & Constant 
 and asked to see Mr. Cochran. He wished, he 
 
 78
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 said, to consult him about the new house. 
 Post had not yet reached the office, and of 
 Griswold's visit with Post to his house Cochran 
 was still ignorant. He received Griswold most 
 courteously. He felt that the man who was 
 loved by the girl he also had long and hopelessly 
 worshipped was deserving of the highest con 
 sideration. Griswold was less magnanimous. 
 When he found his rival for as such he beheld 
 him was of charming manners and gallant 
 appearance he considered that fact an additional 
 injury; but he concealed his resentment, for 
 he was going to trap Cochran, too. 
 
 He found the architect at work leaning over 
 a drawing-board, and as they talked Cochran 
 continued to stand. He was in his shirt-sleeves, 
 which were rolled to his shoulders; and the 
 breadth of those shoulders and the muscles of 
 his sunburned arms were much in evidence. 
 Griswold considered it a vulgar exhibition. 
 
 For over ten minutes they talked solely of 
 the proposed house, but not once did Griswold 
 expose the fact that he had seen any more of 
 it than any one might see from the public road. 
 When he rose to take his leave he said: 
 
 "How would it do if I motored out Sunday 
 and showed your house to Miss Proctor? 
 Sunday is the only day she has off, and if it 
 would not inconvenience you " 
 
 The tender heart of Cochran leaped in wild 
 79
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 tumult; he could not conceal his delight, nor 
 did he attempt to do so; and his expression 
 made it entirely unnecessary for him to assure 
 Griswold that such a visit would be entirely 
 welcome and that they might count on finding 
 him at home. As though it were an after 
 thought, Griswold halted at the door and said: 
 
 "I believe you are already acquainted with 
 Miss Proctor." 
 
 Cochran, conscious of five years of devotion, 
 found that he was blushing, and longed to 
 strangle himself. Nor was the blush lost upon 
 Griswold. 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Cochran, "but I've not 
 had that honor. On the stage, of course " 
 
 He shrugged the broad shoulders deprecat- 
 ingly, as though to suggest that not to know 
 Miss Proctor as an artist argues oneself un 
 known. 
 
 Griswold pretended to be puzzled. As though 
 endeavoring to recall a past conversation he 
 frowned. 
 
 "But Aline," he said, "told me she had met 
 you met you at Bar Harbor." In the fatal 
 photographs the familiar landfalls of Bar Har 
 bor had been easily recognized. 
 
 The young architect shook his head. 
 
 " It must be another Cochran," he suggested. 
 "I have never been in Bar Harbor." 
 
 80
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 With the evidence of the photographs before 
 him this last statement was a verdict of guilty, 
 and Griswold, not with the idea of giving Coch- 
 ran a last chance to be honest, but to cause 
 him to dig the pit still deeper, continued to lead 
 him on. "Maybe she meant York Harbor?" 
 
 Again Cochran shook his head and laughed. 
 
 "Believe me/' he said, "if Fd ever met Miss 
 Proctor anywhere I wouldn't forget it!" 
 
 Ten minutes later Griswold was talking to 
 Aline over the telephone. He intended to force 
 matters. He would show Aline she could 
 neither trifle with nor deceive Chester Griswold ; 
 but the thought that he had been deceived was 
 not what most hurt him. What hurt him was 
 to think that Aline had preferred a man who 
 looked like an advertisement for ready-made 
 clothes and who worked in his shirt-sleeves. 
 
 Griswold took it for granted that any woman 
 would be glad to marry him. So many had 
 been willing to do so that he was convinced, 
 when one of them was not, it was not because 
 there was anything wrong with him, but because 
 the girl herself lacked taste and perception. 
 
 That the others had been in any degree 
 moved by his many millions had never sug 
 gested itself. He was convinced each had loved 
 him for himself alone; and if Aline, after meet 
 ing him, would still consider any one else, it 
 
 81
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 was evident something was very wrong with 
 Aline. He was determined that she must be 
 chastened must be brought to a proper appre 
 ciation of her good fortune and of his conde 
 scension. 
 
 On being called to the telephone at ten in the 
 morning, Aline demanded to know what could 
 excuse Griswold for rousing her in the middle of 
 the night ! 
 
 Griswold replied that, though the day was 
 young, it also was charming; that on Sunday 
 there might be rain; and that if she desired to 
 see the house he and Post thought would most 
 suit her, he and his car would be delighted to 
 convey her to it. They could make the run in 
 an hour, lunch with friends at Westbury, and 
 return in plenty of time for the theatre. Aline 
 was delighted at the sudden interest Griswold 
 was showing in the new house. Without a 
 moment's hesitation she walked into the trap. 
 She would go, she declared, with pleasure. In 
 an hour he should call for her. 
 
 Exactly an hour later Post arrived at his 
 office. He went directly to Cochran. 
 
 "Charles," he said, "I'm afraid I got you 
 into trouble yesterday. I took a client to see 
 your house. You have often let us do it before; 
 but since I was there last you've made some 
 changes. In your bedroom " Post stopped. 
 
 82
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 Cochran's naive habit of blushing told him it 
 was not necessary to proceed. In tones of rage 
 and mortification Cochran swore explosively; 
 Post was relieved to find he was swearing at 
 himself. 
 
 "I ought to be horsewhipped!" roared Coch 
 ran. "I'll never forgive myself! Who," he 
 demanded, "saw the pictures? Was it a man 
 or a woman?" 
 
 Post laughed unhappily. 
 
 " It was Chester Griswold." 
 
 A remarkable change came over Cochran. 
 Instead of sobering him, as Post supposed it 
 would, the information made him even more 
 angry only now his anger was transferred from 
 himself to Griswold. 
 
 "The blankety-blank bounder!" yelled Coch 
 ran. "That was what he wanted! That's 
 why he came here!" 
 
 "Here!" demanded Post. 
 
 "Not an hour ago," cried Cochran. "He 
 asked me about Bar Harbor. He saw those 
 pictures were taken at Bar Harbor!" 
 
 "I think," said Post soothingly, "he'd a 
 right to ask questions. There were so many 
 pictures, and they were very well very!" 
 
 "I'd have answered his questions," roared 
 Cochran, "if he'd asked them like a man, but 
 he came snooping down here to spy on me. 
 
 83
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 He tried to trick me. He insulted me! He 
 insulted her!" He emitted a howl of dismay. 
 "And I told him I'd never been to Bar Harbor 
 that I'd never met Aline Proctor!" 
 
 Cochran seized his coat and hat. He shouted 
 to one of the office boys to telephone the garage 
 for his car. 
 
 "What are you where are you going?" de 
 manded Post. 
 
 "I'm going home first," cried Cochran, "to 
 put those pictures in a safe, as I should have 
 done three months ago. And then I'm going 
 to find Chester Griswold and tell him he's an 
 ass and a puppy !" 
 
 "If you do that," protested Post, "you're 
 likely to lose us a very valuable client." 
 
 "And your client," roared Charles, "is likely 
 to lose some very valuable teeth !" 
 
 As Charles whirled into the country road in 
 which stood his house he saw drawn up in front 
 of h the long gray car in which, that morning, 
 Chester Griswold had called at the office. 
 Cochran emitted a howl of anger. Was his 
 home again to be invaded? And again while 
 he was absent? To what extreme would Gris- 
 wold's jealousy next lead him? He fell out of 
 his own car while it still moved, and leaped up 
 the garden walk. The front rooms of the house 
 were empty, but from his bedroom he heard, 
 
 84
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 raised in excited tones, the voice of Griswold. 
 The audacity of the man was so surprising, and 
 his own delight at catching him red-handed so 
 satisfying, that no longer was Cochran angry. 
 The Lord had delivered his enemy into his 
 hands ! And, as he advanced toward his bed 
 room, not only was he calm, but, at the thought 
 of his revenge, distinctly jubilant. In the pas 
 sageway a frightened maid servant, who, at 
 his unexpected arrival, was now even more 
 frightened, endeavored to give him an explana 
 tion; but he waved her hi to silence, and, strid 
 ing before her, entered his bedroom. 
 
 He found confronting him a tall and beautiful 
 young woman. It was not the Aline Proctor he 
 knew. It was not the well-poised, gracious, 
 and distinguished beauty he had seen gliding 
 among the tables at Sherry's or throwing smiles 
 over the footlights. This Aline Proctor was a 
 very indignant young person, with flashing 
 eyes, tossing head, and a stamping foot. Ex 
 tended from her at arm's length, she held a 
 photograph of herself in a heavy silver frame; 
 and, as though it were a weapon, she was bran 
 dishing it in the face of Chester Griswold. As 
 Cochran, in amazement, halted in the doorway 
 she was exclaiming: 
 
 " I told you I didn't know Charles Cochran ! 
 I tell you so now ! If you can't believe me "
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 Out of the corner of her flashing eyes the 
 angry lady caught sight of Cochran in the 
 doorway. She turned upon the intruder as 
 though she meant forcibly to eject him. 
 
 "Who are you?" she demanded. Her man 
 ner and tone seemed to add: "And what the 
 deuce are you doing here?" 
 
 Charles answered her tone. 
 
 "I am Charles Cochran," he said. "I live 
 here. This is my house!" 
 
 These words had no other effect upon Miss 
 Proctor than to switch her indignation down 
 another track. She now turned upon Charles. 
 
 "Then, if this is your house," cried that an 
 gry young person, "why have you filled k with 
 photographs of me that belong to some one 
 else?" 
 
 Charles saw that his hour had come. His sin 
 had found him out. He felt that to prevaricate 
 would be only stupid. 
 
 Griswold had tried devious methods and 
 look where his devious methods had dumped 
 him ! Griswold certainly was in wrong. Charles 
 quickly determined to adopt a course directly 
 opposite. Griswold had shown an utter lack of 
 confidence in Aline. Charles decided that he 
 would give her his entire confidence, would 
 throw himself upon the mercy of the court. 
 
 " I have those photographs in my house, Miss 
 86
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 Proctor," he said, "because I have admired you 
 a long time. They were more like you than 
 those I could buy. Having them here has 
 helped me a lot, and it hasn't done you any 
 harm. You know very well you have anony 
 mous admirers all over this country. I'm only 
 one of them. If I have offended, I have offended 
 with many, many thousands." 
 
 Already it has been related that Cochran was 
 very good to look upon. At the present mo 
 ment, as he spoke in respectful, even soulful ac 
 cents, meekly and penitently proclaiming his 
 long-concealed admiration, Miss Proctor found 
 her indignation melting like an icicle in the sun. 
 
 Still, she did not hold herself cheaply. She 
 was accustomed to such open flattery; She 
 would not at once capitulate. 
 
 "But these pictures," she protested, "I gave 
 to a man I knew. You have no right to them. 
 They are not at all the sort of picture I would 
 give to an utter stranger!" With anxiety the 
 lovely lady paused for a reply. She hoped that 
 the reply the tall young man with appealing 
 eyes would make would be such as to make it 
 possible for her to forgive him. 
 
 He was not given time to reply. With a 
 mocking snort Griswold interrupted. Aline and 
 Charles had entirely forgotten him. 
 
 "An utter stranger!" mimicked Griswold. 
 
 87
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 "Oh, yes; he's an utter stranger ! You're pretty 
 good actors, both of you; but you can't keep 
 that up long, and you'd better stop it now." 
 
 "Stop what?" asked Miss Proctor. Her tone 
 was cold and calm, but in her eyes was a strange 
 light. It should have warned Griswold that he 
 would have been safer under the bed. 
 
 "Stop pretending !" cried Griswold. "I won't 
 have it!" 
 
 "I don't understand," said Miss Proctor. 
 She spoke in the same cold voice, only now it 
 had dropped several degrees nearer freezing. 
 "I don't think you understand yourself. You 
 won't have what?" 
 
 Griswold now was frightened, and that made 
 him reckless. Instead of withdrawing he 
 plunged deeper. 
 
 "I won't have you two pretending you don't 
 know each other," he blustered. "I won't 
 stand being fooled ! If you're going to deceive 
 me before we're married, what will you do after 
 we're married?" 
 
 Charles emitted a howl. It was made up of 
 disgust, amazement, and rage. Fiercely he 
 turned upon Miss Proctor. 
 
 "Let me have him!" he begged. 
 
 "No!" almost shouted Miss Proctor. Her 
 tone was no longer cold it was volcanic. Her 
 eyes, flashing beautifully, were fixed upon
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 Griswold. She made a gesture as though to 
 sweep Charles out of the room. "Please go!" 
 she demanded. "This does not concern you." 
 
 Her tone was one not lightly to be disre 
 garded. Charles disregarded it. 
 
 "It does concern me," he said briskly. "No 
 body can insult a woman in my house you, 
 least of all!" He turned upon the greatest 
 catch in America. "Griswold," he said, "I 
 never met this lady until I came into this room; 
 but I know her, understand her, value her bet 
 ter than you'd understand her if you knew her 
 a thousand years !" 
 
 Griswold allowed him to go no farther. 
 
 "I know this much," he roared: "she was in 
 love with the man who took those photographs, 
 and that man was in love with her! And 
 you're that man !" 
 
 "What if I am!" roared back Charles. 
 "Men always have loved her; men always will 
 because she's a fine, big, wonderful woman! 
 You can't see that, and you never will. You 
 insulted her ! Now I'll give you time to apolo 
 gize for that, and then I'll order you out of 
 this house ! And if Miss Proctor is the sort of 
 girl I think she is, she'll order you out of it, 
 too!" 
 
 Both men swung toward Miss Proctor. Her 
 eyes were now smiling excitedly. She first
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 turned them upon Charles, blushing most 
 comingly. 
 
 "Miss Proctor," she said, "hopes she is the 
 sort of girl Mr. Cochran thinks she is." She 
 then turned upon the greatest catch in America. 
 "You needn't wait, Chester," she said, "not 
 even to apologize." 
 
 Chester Griswold, alone in his car, was driven 
 back to New York. On the way he invented 
 a story to explain why, at the eleventh hour, 
 he had jilted Aline Proctor; but when his 
 thoughts reverted to the young man he had 
 seen working with his sleeves rolled up he de 
 cided it would be safer to let Miss Proctor tell 
 of the broken engagement in her own way. 
 
 Charles would not consent to drive his fair 
 guest back to New York until she had first 
 honored him with her presence at luncheon. It 
 was served for two, on his veranda, under the 
 climbing honeysuckles. During the luncheon he 
 told her all. 
 
 Miss Proctor, in the light of his five years of 
 devotion, magnanimously forgave him. 
 
 "Such a pretty house!" she exclaimed as 
 they drove away from it. "When Griswold 
 selected it for our honeymoon he showed his 
 first appreciation of what I really like." 
 
 "It is still at your service!" said Charles. 
 
 Miss Proctor's eyes smiled with a strange 
 
 90
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 light, but she did not speak. It was a happy 
 ride; but when Charles left her at the door of 
 her apartment-house he regarded sadly and 
 with regret the bundle of retrieved photographs 
 that she carried away. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked kindly. 
 
 " I'm thinking of going back to those empty 
 frames," said Charles, and blushed deeply. 
 Miss Proctor blushed also. With delighted and 
 guilty eyes she hastily scanned the photographs. 
 Snatching one from the collection, she gave it 
 to him and then ran up the steps. 
 
 In the light of the spring sunset the eyes of 
 Charles devoured the photograph of which, at 
 last, he was the rightful owner. On it was 
 written: "As long as this rock lasts !" 
 
 As Charles walked to his car his expression 
 was distinctly thoughtful.
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 WHEN his hunting trip in Uganda was over, 
 Hemingway shipped his specimens and weapons 
 direct from Mombasa to New York, but he 
 himself journeyed south over the few miles that 
 stretched to Zanzibar. 
 
 On the outward trip the steamer had touched 
 there, and the little he saw of the place had so 
 charmed him that all the time he was on safari 
 he promised himself he would not return home 
 without revisiting it. On the morning he ar 
 rived he had called upon Harris, his consul, to 
 inquire about the hotel; and that evening Har 
 ris had returned his call and introduced him 
 at the club. 
 
 One of the men there asked Hemingway what 
 brought him to Africa, and when he answered 
 simply and truthfully that he had come to 
 shoot big game, it was as though he had said 
 something clever, and every one smiled. On 
 the way back to the hotel, as they felt their 
 way through the narrow slits in the wall that 
 served as streets, he asked the consul why 
 evesy one had smiled. 
 
 The consul laughed evasively. 
 92
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 "It's a local joke," he explained. "A lot of 
 men come here for reasons best kept to them 
 selves, and they all say what you said, that 
 they've come to shoot big game. It's grown to 
 be a polite way of telling a man it is none of 
 his business." 
 
 "But I didn't mean it that way," protested 
 Hemingway. "I really have been after big 
 game for the last eight months." 
 
 In the tone one uses to quiet a drunken man 
 or a child, the consul answered soothingly. 
 
 "Of course," he assented "of course you 
 have." But to show he was not hopelessly 
 credulous, and to keep Hemingway from involv 
 ing himself deeper, he hinted tactfully: "Maybe 
 they noticed you came ashore with only one 
 steamer trunk and no gun-cases." 
 
 "Oh, that's easily explained," laughed Hem 
 ingway. "My heavy luggage " 
 
 The consul had reached his house and his 
 "boy" was pounding upon it with his heavy 
 staff. 
 
 "Please don't explain to me," he begged. 
 "It's quite unnecessary. Down here we're so 
 darned glad to see any white man that we don't 
 ask anything of him except that he won't hurry 
 away. We judge them as they behave them 
 selves here; we don't care what they are at 
 home or why they left it." 
 
 93
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 Hemingway was highly amused. To find 
 that he, a respectable, sport-loving Hemingway 
 of Massachusetts, should be mistaken for a 
 gun-runner, slave-dealer, or escaping cashier 
 greatly delighted him. 
 
 "All right !" he exclaimed. "I'll promise not 
 to bore you with my past, and I agree to be 
 judged by Zanzibar standards. I only hope I 
 can live up to them, for I see I am going to like 
 the place very much." 
 
 Hemingway kept his promise. He bored no 
 one with confidences as to his ancestors. Of 
 his past he made a point never to speak. He 
 preferred that the little community into which 
 he had dropped should remain unenlightened, 
 should take him as they found him. Of the 
 fact that a college was named after his grand 
 father and that on his father's railroad he could 
 travel through many States, he was discreetly 
 silent. 
 
 The men of Zanzibar asked no questions. 
 That Hemingway could play a stiff game :5 
 tennis, a stiffer game of poker, and, on the 
 piano, songs from home was to them sufficient 
 recommendation. In a week he had become 
 one of the most popular members of Zanzibar 
 society. It was as though he had lived there 
 always. Hemingway found himself reaching 
 out to grasp the warmth of the place as a flower 
 
 94
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 turns to the sun. He discovered that for thirty 
 years something in him had been cheated. For 
 thirty years he had believed that completely to 
 satisfy his soul all he needed was the gray stone 
 walls and the gray-shingled cabins under the 
 gray skies of New England, that what in nature 
 he most loved was the pine forests and the fields 
 of goldenrod on the rock-bound coast of the 
 North Shore. But now, like a man escaped 
 from prison, he leaped and danced in the glaring 
 sunlight of the equator, he revelled in the reck 
 less generosity of nature, in the glorious con 
 fusion of colors, in the "blooming blue" of the 
 Indian Ocean, in the Arabian nights spent upon 
 the housetops under the purple sky, and be 
 neath silver stars so near that he could touch 
 them with his hand. 
 
 He found it like being perpetually in a comic 
 opera and playing a part in one. For only the 
 scenic artist would dare to paint houses in such 
 yellow, pink, and cobalt-blue; only a "producer" 
 who had never ventured farther from Broadway 
 than the Atlantic City boardwalk would have 
 conceived costumes so mad and so magnificent. 
 Instinctively he cast the people of Zanzibar in 
 the conventional roles of musical comedy. 
 
 His choruses were already in waiting. There 
 was the Sultan's body-guard in gold-laced tur 
 bans, the merchants of the bazaars in red fezzes 
 
 95
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 and gowns of flowing silk, the Malay sailors in 
 blue, the black native police in scarlet, the 
 ladies of the harems closely veiled and cloaked, 
 the market women in a single garment of 
 orange, or scarlet, or purple, or of all three, 
 and the happy, hilarious Zanzibar! boys in the 
 color God gave them. 
 
 For hours he would sit under the yellow-and- 
 green awning of the Greek hotel and watch the 
 procession pass, or he would lie under an um 
 brella on the beach and laugh as the boatmen 
 lifted their passengers to their shoulders and 
 with them splash through the breakers, or in 
 the bazaars for hours he would bargain with 
 the Indian merchants, or in the great mahogany 
 hall of the Ivory House, to the whisper of a 
 punka and the tinkle of ice in a tall glass, listen 
 to tales of Arab raids, of elephant poachers, of 
 the trade in white and black ivory, of the great 
 explorers who had sat in that same room o\ 
 Emin Pasha, of Livingstone, of Stanley. His 
 comic opera lacked only a heroine and the love 
 interest. 
 
 When he met Mrs. Adair he found both. 
 Polly Adair, as every one who dared to do so 
 preferred to call her, was, like himself, an Ameri 
 can and, though absurdly young, a widow. In 
 the States she would have been called an ex 
 tremely pretty girl. In a community where the 
 
 96
 
 He found it like being perpetually in a comic opera.
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 few dozen white women had wilted and faded 
 in the fierce sun of the equator, and where the 
 rest of the women were jet black except their 
 teeth, which were dyed an alluring purple, Polly 
 Adair was as beautiful as a June morning. At 
 least, so Hemingway thought the first time he 
 saw her, and each succeeding time he thought 
 her more beautiful, more lovely, more to be 
 loved. 
 
 He met her, three days after his arrival, at 
 the residence of the British agent and consul- 
 general, where Lady Firth was giving tea to the 
 six nurses from the English hospital and to all 
 the other respectable members of Zanzibar 
 society. 
 
 "My husband's typist," said her ladyship as 
 she helped Hemingway to tea, " is a copatriot of 
 yours. She's such a nice gell; not a bit like an 
 American. I don't know what I'd do in this 
 awful place without her. Promise me," she 
 begged tragically, "you will not ask her to 
 marry you." 
 
 Unconscious of his fate, Hemingway promised. 
 
 "Because all the men do," sighed Lady Firth, 
 "and I never know what morning one of the 
 wretches won't carry her off to a home of her 
 own. And then what would become of me? 
 Men are so selfish ! If you must fall in love," 
 suggested her ladyship, "promise me you will 
 
 97
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 fall in love with" she paused innocently and 
 raised baby-blue eyes, in a baby-like stare 
 "with some one else." 
 
 Again Hemingway promised. He bowed gal 
 lantly. "That will be quite easy," he said. 
 
 Her ladyship smiled, but Hemingway did 
 not see the smile. He was looking past her at 
 a girl from home, who came across the terrace 
 carrying in her hand a stenographer's note 
 book. 
 
 Lady Firth followed the direction of his eyes 
 and saw the look in them. She exclaimed with 
 dismay : 
 
 "Already! Already he deserts me, even be 
 fore the ink is dry on the paper." 
 
 She drew the note-book from Mrs. Adair's 
 fingers and dropped it under the tea-table. 
 
 "Letters must wait, my child," she declared. 
 
 "But Sir George " protested the girl. 
 
 "Sir George must wait, too," continued his 
 wife; "the Foreign Office must wait, the British 
 Empire must wait until you have had your 
 
 tea/ 1 
 
 The girl laughed helplessly. As though as 
 sured her fellow countryman would comprehend, 
 she turned to him. 
 
 "They're so exactly like what you want them 
 to be," she said "I mean about their tea !" 
 
 Hemingway smiled back with such intimate 
 
 98
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 understanding that Lady Firth glanced up in 
 quiringly. 
 
 "Have you met Mrs. Adair already?*' she 
 asked. 
 
 "No," said Hemingway, "but I have been 
 trying to meet her for thirty years." 
 
 Perplexed, the Englishwoman frowned, and 
 then, with delight at her own perspicuity, 
 laughed aloud. 
 
 "I know," she cried, "in your country you 
 are what they call a * hustler* ! Is that right?" 
 She waved them away. "Take Mrs. Adair 
 over there," she commanded, "and tell her all 
 the news from home. Tell her about the rail 
 road accidents and 'washouts' and the latest 
 thing in lynching." 
 
 The young people stretched out in long 
 wicker chairs in the shade of a tree covered 
 with purple flowers. On a perch at one side 
 of them an orang-outang in a steel belt was 
 combing the whiskers of her infant daughter; 
 at their feet what looked like two chow puppies, 
 but which happened to be Lady Firth's pet 
 lions, were chewing each other's toothless gums; 
 and in the immediate foreground the hospital 
 nurses were defying the sun at tennis while the 
 Sultan's band played selections from a Gaiety 
 success of many years in the past. With these 
 surroundings it was difficult to talk of home. 
 
 99
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 Nor on any later occasions, except through in 
 advertence, did they talk of home. 
 
 For the reasons already stated, it amused 
 Hemingway to volunteer no confidences. On 
 account of what that same evening Harris told 
 him of Mrs. Adair, he asked none. 
 
 Harris himself was a young man in no way 
 inclined to withhold confidences. He enjoyed 
 giving out information. He enjoyed talking 
 about himself, his duties, the other consuls, the 
 Zanzibaris, and his native State of Iowa. So 
 long as he was permitted to talk, the listener 
 could select the subject. But, combined with 
 his loquacity, Hemingway had found him kind- 
 hearted, intelligent, observing, and the call of 
 a common country had got them quickly to 
 gether. 
 
 Hemingway was quite conscious that the girl 
 he had seen but once had impressed him out of 
 all proportion to what he knew of her. She 
 seemed too good to be true. And he tried to 
 persuade himself that after eight months in the 
 hinterland among hippos and zebras any reason 
 ably attractive girl would have proved equally 
 disturbing. 
 
 But he was not convinced. He did not wish 
 to be convinced. He assured himself that had 
 he met Mrs. Adair at home among hundreds of 
 others he would have recognized her as a woman 
 
 100
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 of exceptional character, as one especially charm 
 ing. He wanted to justify this idea of her; he 
 wanted to talk of Mrs. Adair to Harris, not to 
 learn more concerning her, but just for the 
 pleasure of speaking her name. 
 
 He was much upset at that, and the discovery 
 that on meeting a woman for the first time he 
 still could be so boyishly and ingenuously moved 
 greatly pleased him. It was a most delightful 
 secret. So he acted on the principle that when 
 a man immensely admires a woman and wishes 
 to conceal that fact from every one else he can 
 best do so by declaring his admiration in the 
 frankest and most open manner. After the 
 tea-party, as Harris and himself sat in the con 
 sulate, he so expressed himself. 
 
 "What an extraordinary nice girl," he ex 
 claimed, "is that Mrs. Adair! I had a long 
 talk with her. She is most charming. How 
 ever did a woman like that come to be in a 
 place like this?" 
 
 Judging from his manner, it seemed to Hem 
 ingway that at the mention of Mrs. Adair's 
 name he had found Harris mentally on guard, 
 as though the consul had guessed the question 
 would come and had prepared for it. 
 
 "She just dropped in here one day," said 
 Harris, "from no place in particular. Person 
 ally, I always have thought from heaven." 
 
 101
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 "It's a good address," said Hemingway. 
 
 "It seems to suit her," the consul agreed. 
 "Anyway, if she doesn't come from there, that's 
 where she's going just on account of the good 
 she's done us while she's been here. She ar 
 rived four months ago with a typewriting- 
 machine and letters to me from our consuls in 
 Cape Town and Durban. She had done some 
 typewriting for them. It seems that after her 
 husband died, which was a few months after 
 they were married, she learned to make her 
 living by typewriting. She worked too hard 
 and broke down, and the doctor said she must 
 go to hot countries, the * hotter the better.' So 
 she's worked her way half around the world 
 typewriting. She worked chiefly for her own 
 consuls or for the American commission houses. 
 Sometimes she stayed a month, sometimes only 
 over one steamer day. But when she got here 
 Lady Firth took such a fancy to her that she 
 made Sir George engage her as his private 
 secretary, and she's been here ever since." 
 
 In a community so small as was that of Zan 
 zibar the white residents saw one another every 
 day, and within a week Hemingway had met 
 Mrs. Adair many times. He met her at dinner, 
 at the British agency; he met her in the country 
 club, where the white exiles gathered for tea 
 and tennis. He hired a launch and in her 
 
 102
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 honor gave a picnic on the north coast of the 
 island, and on three glorious and memorable 
 nights, after different dinner-parties had as 
 cended to the roof, he sat at her side and across 
 the white level of the housetops looked down 
 into the moonlit harbor. 
 
 What interest the two young people felt in 
 each other was in no way discouraged by then* 
 surroundings. In the tropics the tender emo 
 tions are not winter killed. Had they met at 
 home, the conventions, his own work, her social 
 duties would have kept the progress of their 
 interest within a certain speed limit. But they 
 were in a place free of conventions, and the 
 preceding eight months which Hemingway had 
 spent in the jungle and on the plain had made 
 the society of his fellow man, and of Mrs. Adair 
 in particular, especially attractive. 
 
 Hemingway had no work to occupy his time, 
 and he placed it unreservedly at the disposition 
 of his countrywoman. In doing so it could not 
 be said that Mrs. Adair encouraged him. Hem 
 ingway himself would have been the first to 
 acknowledge this. From the day he met her 
 he was conscious that always there was an in 
 tangible barrier between them. Even before 
 she possibly could have guessed that his inter 
 est in her was more than even she, attractive 
 as she was, had the right to expect, she had
 
 THE iMEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 wrapped around herself an invisible mantle of 
 defense. 
 
 There were certain speeches of his which she 
 never heard, certain tones to which she never 
 responded. At moments when he was compli 
 menting himself that at last she was content to 
 be in his company, she would suddenly rise and 
 join the others, and he would be left wondering 
 in what way he could possibly have offended. 
 
 He assured himself that a woman, young and 
 attractive, in a strange land in her dependent 
 position must of necessity be discreet, but in his 
 conduct there certainly had been nothing that 
 was not considerate, courteous, and straightfor 
 ward. 
 
 When he appreciated that he cared for her 
 seriously, that he was gloriously happy in car 
 ing, and proud of the way in which he cared, the 
 fact that she persistently held him at arm's 
 length puzzled and hurt. At first when he had 
 deliberately set to work to make her like him 
 he was glad to think that, owing to his reticence 
 about himself, if she did like him it would be 
 for himself alone and not for his worldly goods. 
 But when he knew her better he understood 
 that if once Mrs. Adair made up her mind to 
 take a second husband, the fact that he was a 
 social and financial somebody, and not, as many 
 in Zanzibar supposed Hemingway to be, a social 
 outcast, would make but little difference. 
 
 104
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 Nor was her manner to be explained by the 
 fact that the majority of women found him un 
 attractive. As to that, the pleasant burden of 
 his experience was to the contrary. He at last 
 wondered if there was some one else, if he had 
 come into her life too late. He set about look 
 ing for the man and so, he believed, he soon 
 found him. 
 
 Of the little colony, Arthur Fearing was the 
 man of whom Hemingway had seen the least. 
 That was so because Fearing wished it. Like 
 himself, Fearing was an American, young, and 
 a bachelor, but, very much unlike Hemingway, 
 a hermit and a recluse. 
 
 Two years before he had come to Zanzibar 
 looking for an investment for his money. In 
 Zanzibar there were gentlemen adventurers of 
 every country, who were welcome to live in any 
 country save their own. 
 
 To them Mr. Fearing seemed a heaven-sent 
 victim. But to him their alluring tales of the 
 fortunes that were to rise from buried treasures, 
 lost mines, and pearl beds did not appeal. In 
 stead he conferred with the consuls, the respon 
 sible merchants, the partners in the prosperous 
 trading houses. After a month of "looking 
 around" he had purchased outright the good 
 will and stock of one of the oldest of the com 
 mission houses, and soon showed himself to be 
 a most capable man of business. But, except 
 
 105
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 as a man of business, no one knew him. From 
 the dim recesses of his warehouse he passed 
 each day to the seclusion of his bungalow in 
 the country. And, although every one was 
 friendly to him, he made no friends. 
 
 It was only after the arrival of Mrs. Adair 
 that he consented to show himself, and it was 
 soon noted that it was only when she was in 
 vited that he would appear, and that on these 
 occasions he devoted himself entirely to her. 
 In the presence of others, he still was shy, 
 gravely polite, and speaking but little, and 
 never of himself; but with Mrs. Adair his shy 
 ness seemed to leave him, and when with her 
 he was seen to talk easily and eagerly. And, 
 on her part, to what he said, Polly Adair lis 
 tened with serious interest. 
 
 Lady Firth, who, at home, was a trained and 
 successful match-maker, and who, in Zanzibar, 
 had found but a limited field for her activities, 
 decided that if her companion and protegee 
 must marry, she should marry Fearing. 
 
 Fearing was no gentleman adventurer, remit 
 tance-man, or humble clerk serving his appren 
 ticeship to a steamship line or an ivory house. 
 He was one of the pillars of Zanzibar society. 
 The trading house he had purchased had had 
 its beginnings in the slave-trade, and now under 
 his alert direction was making a turnover equal 
 
 106
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 to that of any of its ancient rivals. Personally, 
 Fearing was a most desirable catch. He was 
 well-mannered, well-read, of good appearance, 
 steady, and, in a latitude only six degrees re 
 moved from the equator, of impeccable morals. 
 
 It is said that it is the person who is in love 
 who always is the first to discover his successful 
 rival. It is either an instinct or because his 
 concern is deeper than that of others. 
 
 And so, when Hemingway sought for the in 
 fluence that separated him from Polly Adair, 
 the trail led to Fearing. To find that the ob 
 stacle in the path of his true love was a man 
 greatly relieved him. He had feared that what 
 was in the thoughts of Mrs. Adair was the 
 memory of her dead husband. He had no de 
 sire to cross swords with a ghost. But to a 
 living rival he could afford to be generous. 
 
 For he was sure no one could care for Polly 
 Adair as he cared, and, like every other man in 
 love, he believed that he alone had discovered 
 in her beauties of soul and character that to 
 the rest of mankind were hidden. This knowl 
 edge, he assured himself, had aroused in him a 
 depth of devotion no one else could hope to 
 imitate, and this depth of devotion would in 
 time so impress her, would become so necessary 
 to her existence, that it would force her at last 
 into the arms of the only man who could offer it. 
 
 107
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 Having satisfied himself in this fashion, he 
 continued cheerfully on his way, and the pres 
 ence of a rival in no way discouraged him. It 
 only was Polly Adair who discouraged him. 
 And this, in spite of the fact that every hour of 
 the day he tried to bring himself pleasantly to 
 her notice. All that an idle young man in love, 
 aided and abetted by imagination and an un 
 limited letter of credit, could do, Hemingway 
 did. But to no end. 
 
 The treasures he dug out of the bazaars and 
 presented to her, under false pretenses as trin 
 kets he happened at that moment to find in his 
 pockets, were admired by her at their own 
 great value, and returned also under false pre 
 tenses, as having been offered her only to 
 examine. 
 
 "It is for your sister at home, I suppose/* 
 she prompted. " It's quite lovely. Thank you 
 for letting me see it." 
 
 After having been several times severely 
 snubbed in this fashion, Hemingway remarked 
 grimly as he put a black pearl back into his 
 pocket: 
 
 "At this rate sister will be mighty glad to 
 see me when I get home. It seems almost a 
 pity I haven't got a sister." 
 
 The girl answered this only with a grave 
 smile. 
 
 108
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 On another occasion she admired a polo pony 
 that had been imported for the stable of the 
 boy Sultan. But next morning Hemingway, 
 after much diplomacy, became the owner of it 
 and proudly rode it to the agency. Lady Firth 
 and Polly Adair walked out to meet him arm 
 in arm, but at sight of the pony there came into 
 the eyes of the secretary a look that caused 
 Hemingway to wish himself and his mount 
 many miles in the jungle. He saw that before 
 it had been proffered, his gift-horse had been 
 rejected. He acted promptly. 
 
 "Lady Firth," he said, "you've been so aw 
 fully kind to me, made this place so like a home 
 to me, that I want you to put this mare in 
 your stable. The Sultan wanted her, but when 
 he learned I meant to turn her over to you, 
 he let her go. We both hope you'll accept." 
 
 Lady Firth had no scruples. In five minutes 
 she had accepted, had clapped a side-saddle on 
 her rich gift, and was cantering joyously down 
 the Pearl Road. 
 
 Polly Adair looked after her with an expres 
 sion that was distinctly wistful. Thus encour 
 aged, Hemingway said: 
 
 "I'm glad you are sorry. I hope every time 
 you see that pony you'll be sorry." 
 
 "Why should I be sorry?" asked the girl. 
 
 "Because you have been unkind," said Hem- 
 109
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 ingway, "and it is not your character to be un 
 kind. And that you have shown lack of char 
 acter ought to make you sorry." 
 
 "But you know perfectly well," said Mrs. 
 Adair, "that if I were to take any one of these 
 wonderful things you bring me, I wouldn't have 
 any character left." 
 
 She smiled at him reassuringly. "And you 
 know," she added, "that that is not why I do 
 not take them. It isn't because I can't afford 
 to, or because I don't want them, because I 
 do; but it's because I don't deserve them, be 
 cause I can give you nothing in return." 
 
 "As the copy-book says," returned Heming 
 way, "'the pleasure is in the giving.' If the 
 copy-book don't say that, I do. And to pretend 
 that you give me nothing, that is ridiculous!" 
 
 It was so ridiculous that he rushed on vehe 
 mently. "Why, every minute you give me 
 something," he exclaimed. "Just to see you, 
 just to know you are alive, just to be certain 
 when I turn in at night that when the world 
 wakes up again you will still be a part of it; 
 that is what you give me. And its name is 
 Happiness!" 
 
 He had begun quite innocently; he had had 
 no idea that it would come. But he had said 
 it. As clearly as though he had dropped upon 
 one knee, laid his hand over his heart and ex- 
 
 110
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 claimed: "Most beautiful of your sex, I love 
 you ! Will you marry me?" His eyes and the 
 tone of his voice had said it. And he knew 
 that he had said it, and that she knew. 
 
 Her eyes were filled with sudden tears, and 
 so wonderful was the light in them that for 
 one mad moment Hemingway thought they 
 were tears of happiness. But the light died, 
 and what had been tears became only wet drops 
 of water, and he saw to his dismay that she 
 was most miserable. 
 
 The girl moved ahead of him to the cliff on 
 which the agency stood, and which overhung 
 the harbor and the Indian Ocean. Her eyes 
 were filled with trouble. As she raised them to 
 his they begged of him to be kind. 
 
 "I am glad you told me," she said. "I have 
 been afraid it was coming. But until you told 
 me I could not say anything. I tried to stop 
 you. I was rude and unkind " 
 
 "You certainly were," Hemingway agreed 
 cheerfully. "And the more you would have 
 nothing to do with me, the more I admired you. 
 And then I learned to admire you more, and 
 then to love you. It seems now as though I 
 had always known and always loved you. And 
 now this is what we are going to do." 
 
 He wouldn't let her speak; he rushed on pre 
 cipitately. 
 
 in
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 "We are first going up to the house to get 
 your typewriting-machine, and we will bring it 
 back here and hurl it as far as we can off this 
 cliff. I want to see the splash ! I want to hear 
 it smash when it hits that rock. It has been 
 my worst enemy, because it helped you to be 
 independent of me, because it kept you from 
 me. Time after time, on the veranda, when I 
 was pretending to listen to Lady Firth, I was 
 listening to that damned machine banging and 
 complaining and tiring your pretty fingers and 
 your dear eyes. So first it has got to go. You 
 have been its slave, now I am going to be your 
 slave. You have only to rub the lamp and 
 things will happen. And because I've told you 
 nothing about myself, you mustn't think that 
 the money that helps to make them happen is 
 'tainted.' It isn't. Nor am I, nor my father, 
 nor my father's father. I am asking you to 
 marry a perfectly respectable young man. 
 And, when you do " 
 
 Again he gave her no opportunity to inter 
 rupt, but rushed on impetuously: "We will sail 
 away across that ocean to wherever you will 
 take me. To Ceylon and Tokio and San Fran 
 cisco, to Naples and New York, to Greece and 
 Athens. They are all near. They are all 
 yours. Will you accept them and me?" He 
 smiled appealingly, but most miserably. For 
 though he had spoken lightly and with confi- 
 
 112
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 dence, it was to conceal the fact that he was 
 not at all confident. As he had read in her 
 eyes her refusal of his pony, he had read, even 
 as he spoke, her refusal of himself. When he 
 ceased speaking the girl answered: 
 
 "If I say that what you tell me makes me 
 proud, I am saying too little." She shook her 
 head firmly, with an air of finality that fright 
 ened Hemingway. "But what you ask what 
 you suggest is impossible." 
 
 "You don't like me?" said Hemingway. 
 
 "I like you very much," returned the girl, 
 "and, if I don't seem unhappy that it can't be, 
 it is because I always have known it can't 
 
 i 
 
 "Why can't it be?" rebelled Hemingway. 
 "I don't mean that I can't understand your 
 not wanting to marry me, but if I knew your 
 objection, maybe, I could beat it down." 
 
 Again, with the same air of finality, the girl 
 moved her head slowly, as though considering 
 each word; she began cautiously. 
 
 "I cannot tell you the reason," she said, "be 
 cause it does not concern only myself." 
 
 "If you mean you care for some one else," 
 pleaded Hemingway, "that does not frighten 
 me at all." It did frighten him extremely, but, 
 believing that a faint heart never won any 
 thing, he pretended to be brave. 
 
 "For you," he boasted, "I would go down
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 into the grave as deep as any man. He that 
 hath more let him give. I know what I offer. 
 I know I love you as no other man " 
 
 The girl backed away from him as though he 
 had struck her. "You must not say that," 
 she commanded. 
 
 For the first time he saw that she was moved, 
 that the fingers she laced and unlaced were 
 trembling. "It is final!" exclaimed the girl. 
 "I cannot marry you, or any one. I I have 
 promised. I am not free." 
 
 "Nothing in the world is final," returned 
 Hemingway sharply, "except death." He raised 
 his hat and, as though to leave her, moved 
 away. Not because he admitted defeat, but 
 because he felt that for the present to con 
 tinue might lose him the chance to fight again. 
 But, to deliver an ultimatum, he turned 
 back. 
 
 "As long as you are alive, and I am alive," 
 he told her, "all things are possible. I don't 
 give up hope. I don't give up you." 
 
 The girl exclaimed with a gesture of despair. 
 "He won't understand!" she cried. 
 
 Hemingway advanced eagerly. 
 
 "Help me to understand," he begged. 
 
 "You won't understand," explained the girl, 
 "that I am speaking the truth. You are right 
 that things can change in the future, but noth- 
 
 114
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 ing can change the past. Can't you understand 
 that?" 
 
 "What do I care for the past?" cried the 
 young man scornfully. "I know you as well 
 as though I had known you for a thousand 
 years and I love you." 
 
 The girl flushed crimson. 
 
 "Not my past," she gasped. "I meant " 
 
 "I don't care what you meant," said Hem 
 ingway. "I'm not prying into your little se 
 crets. I know only one thing two things, that 
 I love you and that, until you love me, I am 
 going to make your life hell !" 
 
 He caught at her hands, and for an instant 
 she let him clasp them in both of his, while she 
 looked at him. 
 
 Something in her face, other than distress 
 and pity, caused his heart to leap. But he 
 was too wise to speak, and, that she might not 
 read the hope in his eyes, turned quickly and 
 left her. He had not crossed the grounds of 
 the agency before he had made up his mind as 
 to the reason for her repelling him. 
 
 "She is engaged to Fearing !" he told himself. 
 "She has promised to marry Fearing! She 
 thinks that it is too late to consider another 
 man!" The prospect of a fight for the woman 
 he loved thrilled him greatly. His lower jaw 
 set pugnaciously. 
 
 115
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 "I'll show her it's not too late," he promised 
 himself. " I'll show her which of us is the man 
 to make her happy. And, if I am not the man, 
 I'll take the first outbound steamer and trouble 
 them no more. But before that happens," he 
 also promised himself, "Fearing must show he 
 is the better man." 
 
 In spite of his brave words, in spite of his 
 determination, within the day Hemingway had 
 withdrawn in favor of his rival, and, on the 
 Crown Prince Eitel, bound for Genoa and New 
 York, had booked his passage home. 
 
 On the afternoon of the same day he had 
 spoken to Polly Adair, Hemingway at the sun 
 set hour betook himself to the consulate. At 
 that hour it had become his custom to visit his 
 fellow countryman and with him share the gos 
 sip of the day and such a cocktail as only a 
 fellow countryman could compose. Later he 
 was to dine at the house of the Ivory Company 
 and, as his heart never ceased telling him, Mrs. 
 Adair also was to be present. 
 
 " It will be a very pleasant party," said Har 
 ris. "They gave me a bid, too, but it's steamer 
 day to-morrow, and I've got to get my mail 
 ready for the Crown Prince Eitel. Mrs. Adair 
 is to be there." 
 
 Hemingway nodded, and with pleasant an 
 ticipation waited. Of Mrs. Adair, Harris al- 
 
 116
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 ways spoke with reverent enthusiasm, and the 
 man who loved her delighted to listen. But 
 this time Harris disappointed him. 
 
 "And Fearing, too,'* he added. 
 
 Again Hemingway nodded. The conjunction 
 of the two names surprised him, but he made 
 no sign. Loquacious as he knew Harris to be, 
 he never before had heard his friend even sug 
 gest the subject that to Zanzibar had become 
 of acute interest. 
 
 Harris filled the two glasses, and began to 
 pace the room. When he spoke it was in the 
 aggrieved tone of one who feels himself placed 
 in a false position. 
 
 "There's no one," he complained suddenly, 
 "so popularly unpopular as the man who butts 
 in. I know that, but still I've always taken 
 his side. I've always been for him." He 
 halted, straddling with legs apart and hands 
 deep in his trousers pockets, and frowned down 
 upon his guest. 
 
 "Suppose," he began aggressively, "I see a 
 man driving his car over a cliff. If I tell him 
 that road will take him over a cliff, the worst 
 that can happen to me is to be told to mind 
 my own business, and I can always answer 
 back: 'I was only trying to help you.' If I 
 dont speak, the man breaks his neck. Between 
 the two, it seems to me, sooner than have any 
 
 117
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 one's life on my hands, I'd rather be told to 
 mind my own business." 
 
 Hemingway stared into his glass. His ex 
 pression was distinctly disapproving, but, un 
 dismayed, the consul continued. 
 
 "Now, we all know that this morning you 
 gave that polo pony to Lady Firth, and one of 
 us guesses that you first oflered it to some one 
 else, who refused it. One of us thinks that 
 very soon, to-morrow, or even to-night, at this 
 party you may offer that same person some 
 thing else, something worth more than a polo 
 pony, and that if she refuses that, it is going to 
 break you all up, is going to hurt you for the 
 rest of your life." 
 
 Lifting his eyes from his glass, Hemingway 
 shot at his friend a glance of warning. In haste, 
 Harris continued: 
 
 "I know," he protested, answering the look, 
 "I know that this is where Mr. Buttinsky is 
 told to mind his business. But I'm going right 
 on. I'm going to state a hypothetical case with 
 no names mentioned and no questions asked, 
 or answered. I'm going to state a theory, and 
 let you draw your own deductions." 
 
 He slid into a chair, and across the table 
 fastened his eyes on those of his friend. Con 
 fidently and undisturbed, but with a wry smile 
 of dislike, Hemingway stared fixedly back at him. 
 
 118
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 "What/* demanded Harris, "is the first rule 
 in detective work?" 
 
 Hemingway started. He was prepared for 
 something unpleasant, but not for that par 
 ticular form of unpleasantness. But his faith 
 was unshaken, and he smiled confidently. He 
 let the consul answer his own question. 
 
 " It is to follow the woman," declared Harris. 
 "And, accordingly, what should be the first 
 precaution of a man making his get-away? To 
 see that the woman does not follow. But sup 
 pose we are dealing with a fugitive of especial 
 intelligence, with a criminal who has imagina 
 tion and brains? He might fix it so that the 
 woman could follow him without giving him 
 away, he might plan it so that no one would 
 suspect. She might arrive at his hiding-place 
 only after many months, only after each had 
 made separately a long circuit of the globe, 
 only after a journey with a plausible and legiti 
 mate object. She would arrive disguised in 
 every way, and they would meet as total 
 strangers. And, as strangers under the eyes of 
 others, they would become acquainted, would 
 gradually grow more friendly, would be seen 
 more frequently together, until at last people 
 would say: * Those two mean to make a match 
 of it.' And then, one day, openly, in the sight 
 of all men, with the aid of the law and the 
 
 119
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 church, they would resume those relations that 
 existed before the man ran away and the woman 
 followed." 
 
 There was a short silence. 
 
 Hemingway broke it in a tone that would ac 
 cept no denial. 
 
 "You can't talk like that to me," he cried. 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 Without resentment, the consul regarded him 
 with grave solicitude. His look was one of real 
 affection, and, although his tone held the abso 
 lute finality of the family physician who delivers 
 a sentence of death, he spoke with gentleness 
 and regret. 
 
 "I mean," he said, "that Mrs. Adair is not a 
 widow, that the man she speaks of as her late 
 husband is not dead; that that man is Fearing I" 
 
 Hemingway felt afraid. A month before a 
 rhinoceros had charged him and had dropped 
 at his feet. At another time a wounded lioness 
 had leaped into his path and crouched to spring. 
 Then he had not been afraid. Then he had 
 aimed as confidently as though he were firing at 
 a straw target. But now he felt real fear: fear 
 of something he did not comprehend, of a situ 
 ation he could not master, of an adversary as 
 strong as Fate. By a word something had 
 been snatched from him that he now knew was 
 as dear to him as life, that was life, that was 
 
 120
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 what made it worth continuing. And he could 
 do nothing to prevent it; he could not help him 
 self. He was as impotent as the prisoner who 
 hears the judge banish him into exile. He tried 
 to adjust his mind to the calamity. But his 
 mind refused. As easily as with his finger a 
 man can block the swing of a pendulum and 
 halt the progress of the clock, Harris with a 
 word had brought the entire world to a full stop. 
 
 And then, above his head, Hemingway heard 
 the lazy whisper of the punka, and from the 
 harbor the raucous whistle of the Crown Prince 
 Eitel, signalling her entrance. The world had 
 not stopped; for the punka-boy, for the captain 
 of the German steamer, for Harris seated with 
 face averted, the world was still going gayly 
 and busily forward. Only for him had it 
 stopped. 
 
 In spite of the confident tone in which Harris 
 had spoken, in spite of the fact that unless he 
 knew it was the truth, he would not have spo 
 ken, Hemingway tried to urge himself to believe 
 there had been some hideous, absurd error. 
 But in answer came back to him snatches of 
 talk or phrases the girl had last addressed to 
 him: "You can command the future, but you 
 cannot change the past. I cannot marry you, 
 or any one! I am not free!" 
 
 And then to comfort himself, he called up 
 121
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 the look he had surprised in her eyes when he 
 stood holding her hands in his. He clung to it, 
 as a drowning man will clutch even at a piece 
 of floating seaweed. 
 
 When he tried to speak he found his voice 
 choked and stifled, and that his distress was 
 evident, he knew from the pity he read in the 
 eyes of Harris. 
 
 In a voice strange to him, he heard himself 
 saying: "Why do you think that? You've got 
 to tell me. I have a right to know. This 
 morning I asked Mrs. Adair to marry me." 
 
 The consul exclaimed with dismay and 
 squirmed unhappily. "I didn't know," he 
 protested. "I thought I was in time. I ought 
 to have told you days ago, but " 
 
 "Tell me now," commanded Hemingway. 
 
 "I know it in a thousand ways," began 
 Harris. 
 
 Hemingway raised his eyes hopefully. 
 
 But the consul shook his head. "But to 
 convince you," he went on, "I need tell you 
 only one. The thousand other proofs are looks 
 they have exchanged, sentences I have chanced 
 to overhear, and that each of them unknown to 
 the other has told me of little happenings and 
 incidents which I found were common to both. 
 Each has described the house in which he or 
 she lived, and it was the same house. They 
 
 122
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 claim to come from different cities in New Eng 
 land, they came from the same city. They 
 claim " 
 
 "That is no proof," cried Hemingway, "either 
 that they are married, or that the man is a 
 criminal." 
 
 For a moment Harris regarded the other in 
 silence. Then he said: "You're making it very 
 hard for me. I see I've got to show you. It's 
 kindest, after all, to cut quick." He leaned 
 farther forward, and his voice dropped. Speak 
 ing quickly, he said: 
 
 "Last summer I lived outside the town in a 
 bungalow on the Pearl Road. Fearing's house 
 was next to mine. This was before Mrs. Adair 
 went to live at the agency, and while she was 
 alone in another bungalow farther down the 
 road. I was ill that summer; my nerves went 
 back on me. I couldn't sleep. I used to sit 
 all night on my veranda and pray for the sun 
 to rise. From where I sat it was dark and no 
 one could see me, but I could see the veranda 
 of Fearing's house and into his garden. And 
 night after night I saw Mrs. Adair creep out of 
 Fearing's house, saw him walk with her to the 
 gate, saw him in the shadow of the bushes take 
 her in his arms, and saw them kiss." The 
 voice of the consul rose sharply. "No one 
 knows that but you and I, and," he cried de- 
 
 123
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 fiantly, "it is impossible for us to believe ill 
 of Polly Adair. The easy explanation we re 
 fuse. It is intolerable. And so you must be 
 lieve as I believe; that when she visited Fearing 
 by night she went to him because she had the 
 right to go to him, because already she was his 
 wife. And now when every one here believes 
 they met for the first time in Zanzibar, when no 
 one will be surprised if they should marry, they 
 will go through the ceremony again, and live 
 as man and wife, as they are, as they were 
 before he fled from America!" 
 
 Hemingway was seated with his elbows on 
 the table and his face in his hands. He was so 
 long silent that Harris struck the table roughly 
 with his palm. 
 
 "Well," he demanded, "why don't you 
 speak? Do you doubt her? Don't you believe 
 she is his wife?" 
 
 "I refuse to believe anything else!" said 
 Hemingway. He rose, and slowly and heavily 
 moved toward the door. "And I will not 
 trouble them any more," he added. "I'll leave 
 at sunrise on the Eitel." 
 
 Harris exclaimed in dismay, but Hemingway 
 did not hear him. In the doorway he halted 
 and turned back. From his voice all trace of 
 emotion had departed. "Why," he asked dully, 
 "do you think Fearing is a fugitive? Not that 
 
 124
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 it matters to her, since she loves him, or that it 
 matters to me. Only I would like to think you 
 were wrong. I want her to have only the best." 
 
 Again the consul moved unhappily. 
 
 "I oughtn't to tell you," he protested, "and 
 if I do I ought to tell the State Department, and 
 a detective agency first. They have the call. 
 They want him, or a man damned like him." 
 His voice dropped to a whisper. "The man 
 wanted is Henry Brownell, a cashier of a bank 
 in Waltham, Mass., thirty-five years of age, 
 smooth-shaven, college-bred, speaking with a 
 marked New England accent, and and with 
 other marks that fit Fearing like the cover on 
 a book. The department and the Pinkertons 
 have been devilling the life out of me about it 
 for nine months. They are positive he is on 
 the coast of Africa. I put them off. I wasn't 
 sure." 
 
 " You've been protecting them," said Hem 
 ingway. 
 
 "I wasn't sure," reiterated Harris. "And if 
 I were, the Pinkertons can do their own sleuth 
 ing. The man's living honestly now, anyway, 
 isn't he?" he demanded; "and she loves him. 
 At least she's stuck by him. Why should I 
 punish er?" 
 
 His tone seemed to challenge and upbraid. 
 
 "Good God!" cried the other, "I'm not
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 blaming you ! I'd be proud of the chance to 
 do as much. I asked because I'd like to go 
 away thinking she's content, thinking she's 
 happy with him." 
 
 "Doesn't it look as though she were?" Harris 
 protested. "She's followed him followed him 
 half around the globe. If she'd been happier 
 away from him, she'd have stayed away from 
 him." 
 
 So intent had been the men upon their talk 
 that neither had noted the passing of the min 
 utes or, what at other times was an event of 
 moment, that the mail steamer had distributed 
 her mail and passengers; and when a servant 
 entered bearing lamps, and from the office the 
 consul's clerk appeared with a bundle of letters 
 from the Eitel, both were taken by surprise. 
 
 "So late?" exclaimed Hemingway. "I must 
 go. If I'm to sail with the Eitel at daybreak, 
 I've little time!" 
 
 But he did not go. 
 
 As he advanced toward Harris with his hand 
 outstretched in adieu, the face of the consul 
 halted him. With the letters, the clerk had 
 placed upon the table a visiting-card, and as it 
 lay in the circle of light from the lamp the con 
 sul, as though it were alive and menacing, 
 stared at it in fascination. Moving stiffly, he 
 turned it so that Hemingway could see. On it 
 
 126
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 Hemingway read, "George S. Sheyer," and, on 
 a lower line, "Representing William L. Pinker- 
 ton." 
 
 To the woman he loved the calamity they 
 dreaded had come, and Hemingway, with a 
 groan of dismay, exclaimed aloud: 
 
 "It is the end!" 
 
 From the darkness of the outer office a man 
 stepped softly into the circle of the lamp. 
 They could see his figure only from the waist 
 down; the rest of him was blurred in shadows. 
 
 "It is the end'?" he repeated inquiringly. 
 He spoke the phrase with peculiar emphasis, as 
 though to impress it upon the memory of the 
 two others. His voice was cool, alert, authori 
 tative. "The end of what?" he demanded 
 sharply. 
 
 The question was most difficult. In the si 
 lence the detective moved into the light. He 
 was tall and strongly built, his face was shrewd 
 and intelligent. He might have been a pros 
 perous man of business. 
 
 "Which of you is the consul?" he asked. 
 But he did not take his eyes from Hemingway. 
 
 " I am the consul," said Harris. But still the 
 detective did not turn from Hemingway. 
 
 "Why," he asked, "did this gentleman, when 
 he read my card, say, 'It is the end'? The 
 end of what? Has anything been going on 
 
 127
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 here that came to an end when he saw my 
 card?" 
 
 Disconcerted, in deep embarrassment, Harris 
 struggled for a word. But his distress was not 
 observed by the detective. His eyes, suspicious 
 and accusing, still were fixed upon Hemingway, 
 and under their scrutiny Harris saw his friend 
 slowly retreat, slowly crumple up into a chair, 
 slowly raise his hands to cover his face. As 
 though in a nightmare, he heard him saying 
 savagely : 
 
 " It is the end of two years of hell, it is the 
 end of two years of fear and agony! Now I 
 shall have peace. Now I shall sleep ! I thank 
 God you've come! I thank God I can go 
 back!" 
 
 Harris broke the spell by leaping to his feet. 
 He sprang between the two men. 
 
 "What does this mean?" he commanded. 
 
 Hemingway raised his eyes and surveyed him 
 steadily. 
 
 "It means," he said, "that I have deceived 
 you, Harris that I am the man you told me 
 of, I am the man they want." He turned to 
 the officer. 
 
 "I fooled him for four months," he said. "I 
 couldn't fool you for five minutes." 
 
 The eyes of the detective danced with sud 
 den excitement, joy, and triumph. He shot an 
 eager glance from Hemingway to the consul. 
 
 128
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 "This man," he demanded; "who is he?" 
 
 With an impatient gesture Hemingway signi 
 fied Harris. 
 
 "He doesn't know who I am," he said. "He 
 knows me as Hemingway. I am Henry Brown- 
 ell, of Waltham, Mass." Again his face sank 
 into the palms of his hands. "And I'm tired 
 tired," he moaned. "I am sick of not know 
 ing, sick of running away. I give myself 
 up." 
 
 The detective breathed a sigh of relief that 
 seemed to issue from his soul. 
 
 "My God," he sighed, "you've given me a 
 long chase! I've had eleven months of you, 
 and I'm as sick of this as you are." He recov 
 ered himself sharply. As though reciting an 
 incantation, he addressed Hemingway in crisp, 
 emotionless notes. 
 
 "Henry Brownell," he chanted, "I arrest you 
 in the name of the commonwealth of Massa 
 chusetts for the robbery, on October the elev 
 enth, nineteen hundred and nine, of the Wal 
 tham Title and Trust Company. I under 
 stand," he added, "you waive extradition and 
 return with me of your own free will?" 
 
 With his face still in his hands, Heming 
 way murmured assent. The detective stepped 
 briskly and uninvited to the table and seated 
 himself. He was beaming with triumph, with 
 pleasurable excitement. 
 
 129
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 "I want to send a message home, Mr. 
 Consul," he said. "May I use your cable 
 blanks?" 
 
 Harris was still standing in the centre of the 
 room looking down upon the bowed head and 
 shoulders of Hemingway. Since, in amaze 
 ment, he had sprung toward him, he had not 
 spoken. And he was still silent. 
 
 Inside the skull of Wilbur Harris, of Iowa, 
 U. S. A., American consul to Zanzibar, East 
 Africa, there was going forward a mighty strug 
 gle that was not fit to put into words. For 
 Harris and his conscience had met and were at 
 odds. One way or the other the fight must be 
 settled at once, and whatever he decided must 
 be for all time. This he understood, and as 
 his sympathies and conscience struggled for the 
 mastery the pen of the detective, scratching at 
 racing speed across the paper, warned him that 
 only a few seconds were left him in which to 
 protest or else to forever after hold his peace. 
 
 So realistic had been the acting of Hemingway 
 that for an instant Harris himself had been de 
 ceived. But only for an instant. With his 
 knowledge of the circumstances he saw that 
 Hemingway was not confessing to a crime of 
 his own, but drawing across the trail of the real 
 criminal the convenient and useful red herring. 
 He knew that already Hemingway had deter- 
 
 130
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 mined to sail the next morning. In leaving 
 Zanzibar he was making no sacrifice. He merely 
 was carrying out his original plan, and by tak 
 ing away with him the detective was giving 
 Brownell and his wife at least a month in which 
 to again lose themselves. 
 
 What was his own duty he could not deter 
 mine. That of Hemingway he knew nothing, 
 he could truthfully testify. And if now Hem 
 ingway claimed to be Henry Brownell, he had 
 no certain knowledge to the contrary. That 
 through his adventure Hemingway would come 
 to harm did not greatly disturb him. He fore 
 saw that his friend need only send a wireless 
 from Nantucket and at the wharf witnesses 
 would swarm to establish his identity and make 
 it evident the detective had blundered. And 
 in the meanwhile Brownell and his wife, in 
 some settlement still further removed from ob 
 servation, would for the second time have for 
 tified themselves against pursuit and capture. 
 He saw the eyes of Hemingway fixed upon him 
 in appeal and warning. 
 
 The brisk voice of the detective broke the 
 silence. 
 
 " You will testify, if need be, Mr. Consul," he 
 said, "that you heard the prisoner admit he 
 was Henry Brownell and that he surrendered 
 himself of his own free will?"
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 For an instant the consul hesitated, then he 
 nodded stiffly. 
 
 " I heard him," he said. 
 
 Three hours later, at ten o'clock of the same 
 evening, the detective and Hemingway leaned 
 together on the rail of the Crown Prince Eitel. 
 Forward, in the glare of her cargo lights, to the 
 puffing and creaking of derricks and donkey 
 engines, bundles of beeswax, of rawhides, and 
 precious tusks of ivory were being hurled into 
 the hold; from the shore-boats clinging to the 
 ship's sides came the shrieks of the Zanzibar 
 boys, from the smoking-room the blare of the 
 steward's band and the clink of glasses. Those 
 of the youth of Zanzibar who were on board, 
 the German and English clerks and agents, saw 
 in the presence of Hemingway only a purpose 
 similar to their own; the desire of a homesick 
 exile to gaze upon the mirrored glories of the 
 Eitel's saloon, at the faces of white men and 
 women, to listen to home-made music, to drink 
 home-brewed beer. As he passed the smoking- 
 room they called to him, and to the stranger at 
 his elbow, but he only nodded smiling and, 
 avoiding them, ascended to the shadow of the 
 deserted boat-deck. 
 
 "You are sure," he said, "you told no one?" 
 
 "No one," the detective answered. "Of 
 course your hotel proprietor knows you're sail- 
 
 132
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 ing, but he doesn't know why. And, by sun 
 rise, we'll be well out at sea." 
 
 The words caught Hemingway by the throat. 
 He turned his eyes to the town lying like a field 
 of snow in the moonlight. Somewhere on one 
 of its flat roofs a merry dinner-party was laugh 
 ing, drinking, perhaps regretting his absence, 
 wondering at his excuse of sudden illness. She 
 was there, and he with the detective like a 
 shadow at his elbow, was sailing out of her life 
 forever. He had seen her for the last time : that 
 morning for the last time had looked into her 
 eyes, had held her hands in his. He saw the 
 white beach, the white fortress-like walls, the 
 hanging gardens, the courtesying palms, dimly. 
 It was among those that he who had thought 
 himself content, had found happiness, and had 
 then seen it desert him and take out of his life 
 pleasure in all other things. With a pain that 
 seemed impossible to support, he turned his 
 back upon Zanzibar and all it meant to him. 
 And, as he turned, he faced, coming toward 
 him, across the moonlit deck, Fearing. 
 
 His instinct was to cry out to the man in 
 warning, but his second thought showed him 
 that through his very effort to protect the other, 
 he might bring about his undoing. So, helpless 
 to prevent, in agitation and alarm, he waited 
 in silence. Of the two men, Fearing appeared 
 
 133
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 the least disturbed. With a polite but author 
 itative gesture he turned to the detective. "I 
 have something to say to this gentleman before 
 he sails," he said; "would you kindly stand 
 over there?" 
 
 He pointed across the empty deck at the 
 other rail. 
 
 In the alert, confident young man in the 
 English mess-jacket, clean-shaven and bronzed 
 by the suns of the equator, the detective saw 
 no likeness to the pale, bearded bank clerk of 
 the New England city. This, he guessed, must 
 be some English official, some friend of Brown- 
 ell's who generously had come to bid the un 
 fortunate fugitive Godspeed. 
 
 Assured of this, the detective also bowed po 
 litely, and, out of hearing, but with his prisoner 
 in full view, took up a position against the rail 
 opposite. 
 
 Turning his back upon the detective, and 
 facing Hemingway with his eyes close to his, 
 Fearing began abruptly. His voice was sunk 
 to a whisper, but he spoke without the slightest 
 sign of trepidation, without the hesitation of an 
 instant. 
 
 "Two years ago, when I was indicted," he 
 whispered, "and ran away, Polly paid back 
 half of the sum I stole. That left her without 
 a penny; that's why she took to this typewrite 
 
 134
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 ing. Since then, I have paid back nearly all 
 the rest. But Polly was not satisfied. She 
 wanted me to take my punishment and start 
 fresh. She knew they were watching her so 
 she couldn't write this to me, but she came to 
 me by a roundabout way, taking a year to get 
 here. And all the time she's been here, she's 
 been begging me to go back and give myself up. 
 I couldn't see it. I knew in a few months I'd 
 have paid back all I took, and I thought that 
 was enough. I wanted to keep out of jail. 
 But she said I must take my medicine in our 
 own country, and start square with a clean 
 slate. She's done a lot for me, and whether I'd 
 have done that for her or not, I don't know. 
 But now, I must ! What you did to-night to 
 save me, leaves me no choice. So, I'll sail " 
 
 With an exclamation of anger, Hemingway 
 caught the other by the shoulder and dragged 
 him closer. 
 
 "To save you!' 9 he whispered. "No one's 
 thinking of you. I didn't do it for you. I did 
 it, that you both could escape together, to give 
 you time " 
 
 "But I tell you," protested Fearing, "she 
 doesn't want me to escape. And maybe she's 
 right. Anyway, we're sailing with you at " 
 
 "We?" echoed Hemingway. 
 
 That again he was to see the woman he loved, 
 135
 
 TOE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 that for six weeks through summer seas he 
 would travel in her company, filled him with 
 alarm, with distress, with a wonderful happi 
 
 ness. 
 
 
 We?" he whispered, steadying his voice. 
 "Then then your wife is going with you?" 
 
 Fearing gazed at him as though the other had 
 suddenly gone mad. 
 
 "My wife!" he exclaimed. "I haven't got a 
 wife!" If you mean Polly Mrs. Adair, she 
 is my sister! And she wants to thank you. 
 She's below " 
 
 He was not allowed to finish. Hemingway 
 had flung him to one side, and was racing down 
 the deck. 
 
 The detective sprang in pursuit. 
 
 "One moment, there I" he shouted. 
 
 But the man in the white mess-jacket barred 
 his way. 
 
 In the moonlight the detective saw that the 
 alert, bronzed young man was smiling. 
 
 "That's all right," said Fearing. "He'll be 
 back in a minute. Besides, you don't want 
 him. I'm the man you want." 
 
 136
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 THE safe was an old one that opened with a 
 key. As adjutant, Captain Swanson had charge 
 of certain funds of the regiment and kept in 
 the safe about five thousand dollars. No one 
 but himself and Rueff, his first sergeant, had 
 access to it. And as Rueff proved an alibi, the 
 money might have been removed by an out 
 sider. The court-martial gave Swanson the 
 benefit of the doubt, and a reprimand for not 
 taking greater care of the keys, and Swanson 
 made good the five thousand. 
 
 Swanson did not think it was a burglar who 
 had robbed the safe. He thought Rueff had 
 robbed it, but he could not possibly prove that. 
 At the time of the robbery Rueff was outside 
 the Presidio, in uniform, at a moving-picture 
 show in San Francisco. A dozen people savr 
 him there. Besides, Rueff held an excellent 
 record. He was a silent, clerk-like young man, 
 better at "paper work" than campaigning, but 
 even as a soldier he had never come upon the 
 books. And he had seen service in two cam 
 paigns, and was supposed to cherish ambitions 
 toward a commission. But, as he kept much 
 
 137
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 to himself, his fellow non-coms could only guess 
 that. 
 
 On his captain's account he was loyally dis 
 tressed over the court-martial, and in his testi 
 mony tried to shield Swanson, by agreeing heart 
 ily that through his own carelessness the keys 
 might have fallen into the hands of some one 
 outside the post. But his loyalty could not 
 save his superior officer from what was a ver 
 dict virtually of "not proven." 
 
 It was a most distressing affair, and, on ac 
 count of the social prominence of Swanson's 
 people, his own popularity, and the name he 
 had made at Batangas and in the Boxer busi 
 ness, was much commented upon, not only in 
 the services, but by the newspapers all over the 
 United States. 
 
 Every one who knew Swanson knew the 
 court-martial was only a matter of form. Even 
 his enemies ventured only to suggest that over 
 night he might have borrowed the money, mean-, 
 ing to replace it the next morning. And the 
 only reason for considering this explanation was 
 that Swanson was known to be in debt. For 
 he was a persistent gambler. Just as at Pekin 
 he had gambled with death for his number, in 
 times of peace he gambled for money. It was 
 always his own money. 
 
 From the start Swanson's own attitude to-
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 ward the affair was one of blind, unreasoning 
 rage. In it he saw no necessary routine of dis 
 cipline, only crass, ignorant stupidity. That 
 any one should suspect him was so preposter 
 ous, so unintelligent, as to be nearly comic. 
 And when, instantly, he demanded a court of 
 inquiry, he could not believe it when he was 
 summoned before a court-martial. It sickened, 
 wounded, deeply affronted him; turned him 
 quite savage. 
 
 On his stand his attitude and answers were 
 so insolent that his old friend and classmate, 
 Captain Copley, who was acting as his counsel, 
 would gladly have kicked him. The findings of 
 the court-martial, that neither cleared nor con 
 demned, and the reprimand, were an intolerable 
 insult to his feelings, and, in a fit of bitter dis 
 gust with the service and every one in it, Swan- 
 son resigned. Of course, the moment he had 
 done so he was sorry. Swanson's thought was 
 that he could no longer associate with any one 
 who could believe him capable of theft. It was 
 his idea of showing his own opinion of himself 
 and the army. 
 
 But no one saw it in that light. On the con 
 trary, people said: "Swanson has been allowed 
 to resign." In the army, voluntarily resigning 
 and being "allowed to resign" lest greater evils 
 befall, are two vastly different things. And 
 
 139
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 when it was too late no one than Swanson saw 
 that more clearly. His anger gave way to ex 
 treme morbidness. He believed that in resign 
 ing he had assured every one of his guilt. In 
 every friend and stranger he saw a man who 
 doubted him. He imagined snubs, rebuffs, and 
 coldnesses. His morbidness fastened upon his 
 mind like a parasite upon a tree, and the brain 
 sickened. When men and women glanced at 
 his alert, well-set-up figure and shoulders, that 
 even when he wore "cits" seemed to support 
 epaulets, and smiled approvingly, Swanson 
 thought they sneered. In a week he longed to 
 be back in the army with a homesickness that 
 made every one who belonged to it his enemy. 
 
 He left San Francisco, where he was known 
 to all, and travelled south through Texas, and 
 then to New Orleans and Florida. He never 
 could recall this period with clearness. He re 
 membered changing from one train to another, 
 from one hotel to the next. Nothing impressed 
 itself upon him. For what he had lost nothing 
 could give consolation. Without honor life held 
 no charm. And he believed that in the eyes of 
 all men he was a thief, a pariah, and an outcast. 
 
 He had been in Cuba with the Army of Occu 
 pation, and of that beautiful island had grown 
 foolishly fond. He was familiar with every part 
 of it, and he believed in one or another of its 
 
 140
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 pretty ports he could so completely hide himself 
 that no one could intrude upon his misery. In 
 the States, in the newspapers he seemed to read 
 only of those places where he had seen service, 
 of those places and friends and associates he 
 most loved. In the little Cuban village in which 
 he would bury himself he would cut himself off 
 from all newspapers, from all who knew him; 
 from those who had been his friends, and those 
 who knew his name only to connect it with a 
 scandal. 
 
 On his way from Port Tampa to Cuba the 
 boat stopped at Key West, and for the hour in 
 which she discharged cargo Swanson went 
 ashore and wandered aimlessly. The little 
 town, reared on a flat island of coral and lime 
 stone, did not long detain him. The main 
 street of shops, eating-houses, and saloons, the 
 pretty residences with overhanging balconies, 
 set among gardens and magnolia-trees, were 
 soon explored, and he was returning to the boat 
 when the martial music of a band caused him 
 to halt. A side street led to a great gateway 
 surmounted by an anchor. Beyond it Swanson 
 saw lawns of well-kept grass, regular paths, 
 pretty cottages, the two-starred flag of an ad 
 miral, and, rising high above these, like four 
 Eiffel towers, the gigantic masts of a wireless. 
 He recognized that he was at the entrance to 
 
 141
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 the Key West naval station, and turned quickly 
 away. 
 
 He walked a few feet, the music of the band 
 still in his ears. In an hour he would be steam 
 ing toward Cuba, and, should he hold to his 
 present purpose, in many years this would be 
 the last time he would stand on American soil, 
 would see the uniform of his country, would 
 hear a military band lull the sun to sleep. It 
 would hurt, but he wondered if it were not 
 worth the hurt. A smart sergeant of marines, 
 in passing, cast one glance at the man who 
 seemed always to wear epaulets, and brought 
 his hand sharply to salute. The act determined 
 Swanson. He had obtained the salute under 
 false pretenses, but it had pleased, not hurt 
 him. He turned back and passed into the gate 
 of the naval station. 
 
 From the gate a grass-lined carriage drive led 
 to the waters of the harbor and the wharfs. 
 At its extreme end was the band-stand, flanked 
 on one side by the cottage of the admiral, on 
 the other by a sail-loft with iron-barred windows 
 and whitewashed walls. Upon the turf were 
 pyramids of cannon-balls and, laid out in rows 
 as though awaiting burial, old-time muzzle- 
 loading guns. Across the harbor the sun was 
 sinking into the coral reefs, and the spring air, 
 still warm from its caresses, was stirred by the 
 
 142
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 music of the band into gentle, rhythmic waves. 
 The scene was one of peace, order, and content. 
 
 But as Swanson advanced, the measure of the 
 music was instantly shattered by a fierce volley 
 of explosions. They came so suddenly and 
 sharply as to make him start. It was as though 
 from his flank a quick-firing gun in ambush had 
 opened upon him. Swanson smiled at having 
 been taken unawares. For in San Francisco he 
 often had heard the roar and rattle of the wire 
 less. But never before had he listened to an 
 attack like this. 
 
 From a tiny white-and-green cottage, squat 
 ting among the four giant masts, came the roar 
 of a forest fire. One could hear the crackle of 
 the flames, the crash of the falling tree-trunks. 
 The air about the cottage was torn into threads; 
 beneath the shocks of the electricity the lawn 
 seemed to heave and tremble. It was like some 
 giant monster, bound and fettered, struggling 
 to be free. Now it growled sullenly, now in 
 impotent rage it spat and spluttered, now it 
 lashed about with crashing, stunning blows. It 
 seemed as though the wooden walls of the sta 
 tion could not contain it. 
 
 From the road Swanson watched, through the 
 open windows of the cottage, the electric bolts 
 flash and flare and disappear. The thing ap 
 pealed to his imagination. Its power, its capa- 
 
 143
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 bilfties fascinated him. In it he saw a hungry 
 monster reaching out to every corner of the 
 continent and devouring the news of the world; 
 feeding upon tales of shipwreck and disaster, 
 lingering over some dainty morsel of scandal, 
 snatching from ships and cities two thousand 
 miles away the thrice-told tale of a conflagra 
 tion, the score of a baseball match, the fall of a 
 cabinet, the assassination of a king. 
 
 In a sudden access of fierceness, as though in 
 an ecstasy over some fresh horror just received, 
 it shrieked and chortled. And then, as sud 
 denly as it had broken forth, it sank to silence, 
 and from the end of the carriage drive again 
 rose, undisturbed, the music of the band. 
 
 The musicians were playing to a select audi 
 ence. On benches around the band-stand sat 
 a half dozen nurse-maids with knitting in their 
 hands, the baby-carriages within arm's length. 
 On the turf older children of the officers were at 
 play, and up and down the paths bareheaded 
 girls, and matrons, and officers in uniform 
 strolled leisurely. From the vine-covered cot 
 tage of Admiral Preble, set in a garden of flow 
 ering plants and bending palmettos, came the 
 tinkle of tea-cups and the ripple of laughter, and 
 at a respectful distance, seated on the disman 
 tled cannon, were marines in khaki and blue 
 jackets in glistening white. 
 
 144
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 It was a family group, and had not Swanson 
 recognized among the little audience others of 
 the passengers from the steamer and natives of 
 the town who, like himself, had been attracted 
 by the music, he would have felt that he in 
 truded. He now wished to remain. He want 
 ed to carry with him into his exile a memory 
 of the men in uniform, of the music, and pretty 
 women, of the gorgeous crimson sunset. But, 
 though he wished to remain, he did not wish to 
 be recognized. 
 
 From the glances already turned toward him, 
 he saw that in this little family gathering the 
 presence of a stranger was an event, and he was 
 aware that during the trial the newspapers had 
 made his face conspicuous. Also it might be 
 that stationed at the post was some officer or 
 enlisted man who had served with him in Cuba, 
 China, or the Philippines, and who might point 
 him out to others. Fearing this, Swanson made 
 a detour and approached the band-stand from 
 the wharf, and with his back to a hawser-post 
 seated himself upon the string-piece. 
 
 He was overcome with an intolerable melan 
 choly. From where he sat he could see, soft 
 ened into shadows by the wire screens of the 
 veranda, Admiral Preble and his wife and their 
 guests at tea. A month before, he would have 
 reported to the admiral as the commandant of 
 
 145
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 the station, and paid his respects. Now he 
 could not do that; at least not without inviting 
 a rebuff. A month before, he need only have 
 shown his card to the admiral's orderly, and the 
 orderly and the guard and the officers' mess 
 and the admiral himself would have turned the 
 post upside down to do him honor. But of 
 what avail now was his record in three cam 
 paigns? Of what avail now was his medal of 
 honor? They now knew him as Swanson, who 
 had been court-martialled, who had been al 
 lowed to resign, who had left the army for the 
 army's good; they knew him as a civilian with 
 out rank or authority, as an ex-officer who had 
 robbed his brother officers, as an outcast. 
 
 His position, as his morbid mind thus dis 
 torted it, tempted Swanson no longer. For 
 being in this plight he did not feel that in any 
 way he was to blame. But with a flaming 
 anger he still blamed his brother officers of the 
 court-martial who had not cleared his name 
 and with a clean bill of health restored him to 
 duty. Those were the men he blamed; not 
 Rueff, the sergeant, who he believed had robbed 
 him, nor himself, who, in a passion of wounded 
 pride, had resigned and so had given reason for 
 gossip; but the men who had not in tones like 
 a bugle-call proclaimed his innocence, who, 
 when they had handed him back his sword, had 
 given it grudgingly, not with congratulation. 
 
 146
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 As he saw it, he stood in a perpetual pillory. 
 When they had robbed him of his honor they 
 had left him naked, and life without honor had 
 lost its flavor. He could eat, he could drink, he 
 could exist. He knew that in many corners of 
 the world white arms would reach out to him 
 and men would beckon him to a place at table. 
 
 But he could not cross that little strip of turf 
 between him and the chattering group on the 
 veranda and hand his card to the admiral's 
 orderly. Swanson loved life. He loved it so 
 that without help, money, or affection he could 
 each morning have greeted it with a smile. 
 But life without honor ! He felt a sudden hot 
 nausea of disgust. Why was he still clinging to 
 what had lost its purpose, to what lacked the 
 one thing needful? 
 
 " If life be an ill thing," he thought, " I can 
 lay it down !" 
 
 The thought was not new to him, and during 
 the two past weeks of aimless wandering he had 
 carried with him his service automatic. To 
 reassure himself he laid his fingers on its cold 
 smooth surface. He would wait, he determined, 
 until the musicians had finished their concert 
 and the women and children had departed, and 
 then 
 
 Then the orderly would find him where he 
 was now seated, sunken against the hawser-post 
 with a hole through his heart. To his disor- 
 
 147
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 dered brain his decision appeared quite sane. 
 He was sure he never had been more calm. 
 And as he prepared himself for death he assured 
 himself that for one of his standard no other 
 choice was possible. Thoughts of the active 
 past, or of what distress in the future his act 
 would bring to others, did not disturb him. 
 The thing had to be, no one lost more heavily 
 than himself, and regrets were cowardly. 
 
 He counted the money he had on his person 
 and was pleased to find there was enough to 
 pay for what services others soon must render 
 him. In his pockets were letters, cards, a cig 
 arette-case, each of which would tell his iden 
 tity. He had no wish to conceal it, for of what 
 he was about to do he was not ashamed. It 
 was not his act. He would not have died "by 
 his own hand." To his unbalanced brain the 
 officers of the court-martial were responsible. 
 It was they who had killed him. As he saw it, 
 they had made his death as inevitable as though 
 they had sentenced him to be shot at sunrise. 
 
 A line from "The Drums of the Fore and 
 Aft" came back to him. Often he had quoted 
 it, when some one in the service had suffered 
 through the fault of others. It was the death- 
 cry of the boy officer, Devlin. The knives of 
 the Ghazi had cut him down, but it was his 
 own people's abandoning him in terror that had 
 
 148
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 killed him. And so, with a sob, he flung the 
 line at the retreating backs of his comrades: 
 "You've killed me, you cowards!" 
 
 Swanson, nursing his anger, repeated this 
 savagely. He wished he could bring it home 
 to those men of the court-martial. He wished 
 he could make them know that his death lay 
 at their door. He determined that they should 
 know. On one of his visiting-cards he pen 
 cilled: 
 
 "To the Officers of my Court-Martial : 
 'You've killed me, you cowards!" 
 
 He placed the card in the pocket of his waist 
 coat. They would find it just above the place 
 where the bullet would burn the cloth. 
 
 The band was playing "Auf Wiedersehen," 
 and the waltz carried with it the sadness that 
 had made people call the man who wrote it the 
 waltz king. Swanson listened gratefully. He 
 was glad that before he went out, his last mood 
 had been of regret and gentleness. The sting 
 of his anger had departed, the music soothed 
 and sobered him. It had been a very good 
 world. Until he had broken the spine of things 
 it had treated him well, far better, he admitted, 
 than he deserved. There were many in it who 
 had been kind, to whom he was grateful. He 
 wished there was some way by which he could 
 let them know that. As though in answer to 
 
 149
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 his wish, from across the parade-ground the 
 wireless again began to crash and crackle; but 
 now Swanson was at a greater distance from it, 
 and the sighing rhythm of the waltz was not 
 interrupted. 
 
 Swanson considered to whom he might send 
 a farewell message, but as in his mind he passed 
 from one friend to another, he saw that to each 
 such a greeting could bring only distress. He 
 decided it was the music that had led him 
 astray. This was no moment for false senti 
 ment. He let his hand close upon the pistol. 
 
 The audience now was dispersing. The 
 nurse-maids had collected their charges, the 
 musicians were taking apart their music-racks, 
 and from the steps of the vine-covered veranda 
 Admiral Preble was bidding the friends of his 
 wife adieu. At his side his aide, young, alert, 
 confident, with ill-concealed impatience awaited 
 their departure. Swanson found that he re 
 sented the aide. He resented the manner in 
 which he speeded the parting guests. Even if 
 there were matters of importance he was anxious 
 to communicate to his chief, he need not make 
 it plain to the women folk that they were hi 
 the way. 
 
 When, a month before, he had been adjutant, 
 in a like situation he would have shown more 
 self-command. He disapproved of the aide en- 
 
 150
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 tirely. He resented the fact that he was as 
 young as himself, that he was in uniform, that 
 he was an aide. Swanson certainly hoped that 
 when be was in uniform he had not looked so 
 much the conquering hero, so self-satisfied, so 
 supercilious. With a smile he wondered why, 
 at such a moment, a man he had never seen 
 before, and never would see again, should so 
 disturb him. 
 
 In his heart he knew. The aide was going 
 forward just where he was leaving off. The 
 ribbons on the tunic of the aide, the straps on 
 his shoulders, told Swanson that 'they had 
 served in the same campaigns, that they were 
 of the same relative rank, and that when he 
 himself, had he remained in the service, would 
 have been a brigadier-general the aide would 
 command a battle-ship. The possible future of 
 the young sailor filled Swanson with honorable 
 envy and bitter regret. With all his soul he 
 envied him the right to look his fellow man in 
 the eye, his right to die for his country, to 
 give his life, should it be required of him, for 
 ninety million people, for a flag. Swanson saw 
 the two officers dimly, with eyes of bitter self- 
 pity. He was dying, but he was not dying 
 gloriously for a flag. He had lost the right to 
 die for it, and he was dying because he had 
 lost that right. 
 
 151
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 The sun had sunk and the evening had grown 
 chill. At the wharf where the steamer lay on 
 which he had arrived, but on which he was not 
 to depart, the electric cargo lights were already 
 burning. But for what Swanson had to do 
 there still was light enough. From his breast 
 pocket he took the card on which he had writ 
 ten his message to his brother officers, read and 
 reread it, and replaced it. 
 
 Save for the admiral and his aide at the steps 
 of the cottage, and a bareheaded bluejacket 
 who was reporting to them, and the admiral's 
 orderly, who was walking toward Swanson, no 
 one was in sight. Still seated upon the string- 
 piece of the wharf, Swanson so moved that his 
 back was toward the four men. The moment 
 seemed propitious, almost as though it had been 
 prearranged. For with such an audience, for 
 his taking off no other person could be blamed. 
 There would be no question but that death had 
 been self-inflicted. 
 
 Approaching from behind him Swanson heard 
 the brisk steps of the orderly drawing rapidly 
 nearer. He wondered if the wharf were govern 
 ment property, if he were trespassing, and if 
 for that reason the man had been sent to order 
 him away. He considered bitterly that the 
 government grudged him a place even in which 
 to die. Well, he would not for long be a tres- 
 
 152
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 passer. His hand slipped into his pocket, with 
 his thumb he lowered the safety-catch of the 
 pistol. 
 
 But the hand with the pistol in it did not 
 leave his pocket. The steps of the orderly had 
 come to a sudden silence. Raising his head 
 heavily, Swanson saw the man, with his eyes 
 fixed upon him, standing at salute. They had 
 first made his life unsupportable, Swanson 
 thought, now they would not let him leave it. 
 
 "Captain Swanson, sir?" asked the orderly. 
 
 Swanson did not speak or move. 
 
 "The admiral's compliments, sir," snapped 
 the orderly, "and will the captain please speak 
 with him?" 
 
 Still Swanson did not move. 
 
 He felt that the breaking-point of his self- 
 control had come. This impertinent interrup 
 tion, this thrusting into the last few seconds of 
 his life of a reminder of all that he had lost, this 
 futile postponement of his end, was cruel, un- 
 human, unthinkable. The pistol was still in 
 his hand. He had but to draw it and press it 
 close, and before the marine could leap upon 
 him he would have escaped. 
 
 From behind, approaching hurriedly, came 
 the sound of impatient footsteps. 
 
 The orderly stiffened to attention. "The 
 admiral!" he warned. 
 
 153
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 Twelve years of discipline, twelve years of 
 recognition of authority, twelve years of defer 
 ence to superior officers, dragged Swanson's 
 hand from his pistol and lifted him to his feet. 
 As he turned, Admiral Preble, the aide, and the 
 bareheaded bluejacket were close upon him. 
 The admiral's face beamed, his eyes were young 
 with pleasurable excitement; with the eager 
 ness of a boy he waved aside formal greetings. 
 
 "My dear Swanson," he cried, "I assure you 
 it's a most astonishing, most curious coinci 
 dence! See this man?" He flung out his arm 
 at the bluejacket. "He's my wireless chief. 
 He was wireless operator on the transport that 
 took you to Manila. When you came in here 
 this afternoon he recognized you. Half an hour 
 later he picks up a message picks it up two 
 thousand miles from here from San Francisco 
 Associated Press news it concerns you; that 
 is, not really concerns you, but I thought, we 
 thought" as though signalling for help, the 
 admiral glanced unhappily at his aide "we 
 thought you'd like to know. Of course, to us," 
 he added hastily, "it's quite superfluous quite 
 superfluous, but " 
 
 The aide coughed apologetically. "You 
 might read, sir," he suggested. 
 
 "What? Exactly! Quite so!" cried the 
 admiral. 
 
 154
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 In the fading light he held close to his eyes a 
 piece of paper. 
 
 "San Francisco, April 20," he read. "Rueff, 
 first sergeant, shot himself here to-day, leaving 
 written confession theft of regimental funds for 
 which Swanson, captain, lately court-martialled. 
 Money found intact in RuefFs mattress. Inno 
 cence of Swanson never questioned, but dissat 
 isfied with findings of court-martial has left 
 army. Brother officers making every effort to 
 find him and persuade return." 
 
 The admiral sighed happily. "And my wife," 
 he added, with an impressiveness that was in 
 tended to show he had at last arrived at the 
 important part of his message, "says you are 
 to stay to dinner." 
 
 Abruptly, rudely, Swanson swung upon his 
 heel and turned his face from the admiral. His 
 head was thrown back, his arms held rigid at 
 his sides. In slow, deep breaths, like one who 
 had been dragged from drowning, he drank in 
 the salt, chill air. After one glance the four 
 men also turned, and in the falling darkness 
 stood staring at nothing, and no one spoke. 
 
 The aide was the first to break the silence. 
 In a polite tone, as though he were continuing 
 a conversation which had not been interrupted, 
 he addressed the admiral. "Of course, Rueff's 
 written confession was not needed," he said. 
 
 155
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 "His shooting himself proved that he was 
 guilty." 
 
 Swanson started as though across his naked 
 shoulders the aide had drawn a whip. 
 
 In penitence and gratitude he raised his eyes 
 to the stars. High above his head the strands 
 of the wireless, swinging from the towering 
 masts like the strings of a giant ^Eolian harp, 
 were swept by the wind from the ocean. To 
 Swanson the sighing and whispering wires sang 
 in praise and thanksgiving. 
 
 156
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 THE God of Coincidence is fortunate in pos 
 sessing innumerable press agents. They have 
 made the length of his arm a proverb. How at 
 exactly the right moment he extends it across 
 continents and drags two and two together, thus 
 causing four to result where but for him sixes 
 and sevens would have obtained, they have 
 made known to the readers of all of our best 
 magazines. For instance, Holworthy is leaving 
 for the Congo to find a cure for the sleeping 
 sickness, and for himself any sickness from 
 which one is warranted never to wake up. This 
 is his condition because the beautiful million- 
 heiress who is wintering at the Alexander Young 
 Hotel in Honolulu has refused to answer his 
 letters, cables, and appeals. 
 
 He is leaning upon the rail taking his last 
 neck-breaking look at the Woolworth Building. 
 The going-ashore bugle has sounded, pocket- 
 handkerchiefs are waving; and Joe Hutton, the 
 last visitor to leave the ship, is at the gangway. 
 
 "Good-by, Holworthy!" he calls. "Where 
 do you keep yourself? Haven't seen you at 
 the club in a year!" 
 
 157
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 "Haven't been there in a year nor mean 
 to I" is the ungracious reply of our hero. 
 
 "Then, for Heaven's sake," exclaims Hutton, 
 "send some one to take your mail out of the H 
 box ! Every time I look for letters I wade 
 through yours." 
 
 "Tear them up !" calls Holworthy. "They're 
 bills." 
 
 Hutton now is half-way down the gangplank. 
 
 "Then your creditors," he shouts back, "must 
 all live at the Alexander Young Hotel in Hono 
 lulu!" 
 
 That night an express train shrieking through 
 the darkness carried with it toward San Fran 
 
 cisco 
 
 In this how evident is the fine Italian hand of 
 the God of Coincidence ! 
 
 Had Hutton's name begun with an M; had 
 the H in Hutton been silent; had he not carried 
 to the Mauretania a steamer basket for his rich 
 aunt; had he not resented the fact that since 
 Holworthy 's election to the Van Sturtevant 
 Club he had ceased to visit the Grill Club a 
 cure for sleeping sickness might have been dis 
 covered; but two loving hearts never would have 
 been reunited and that story would not have 
 been written. 
 
 Or, Mrs. Montclair, with a suit-case, is leav 
 ing her home forever to join handsome Harry 
 
 158
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 Bellairs, who is at the corner with a racing-car 
 and all the money of the bank of which he has 
 been cashier. As the guilty woman places the 
 farewell letter against the pin-cushion where her 
 husband will be sure to find it, her infant son 
 turns in his sleep and jabs himself with a pin. 
 His howl of anguish resembles that of a puppy 
 on a moonlight night. The mother recognizes 
 her master's voice. She believes her child dy 
 ing, flies to the bedside, tears up the letter, 
 unpacks the suit-case. The next morning at 
 breakfast her husband, reading the newspaper, 
 exclaims aloud: 
 
 "Harry Bellairs," he cries, "has skipped with 
 the bank's money ! I always told you he was 
 not a man you ought to know." 
 
 "His manner to me," she says severely, "al 
 ways was that of a perfect gentleman." 
 
 Again coincidence gets the credit. Had not 
 the child tossed had not at the critical mo 
 ment the safety pin proved untrue to the man 
 who invented it that happy family reunion 
 would have been impossible. 
 
 Or, it might be told this way : 
 
 Old Man McCurdy, the Pig-Iron King, for 
 bids his daughter Gwendolyn even to think of 
 marrying poor but honest Beef Walters, the 
 baseball pitcher, and denies him his house. The 
 lovers plan an elopement. At midnight Beef is 
 
 159
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 to stand at the tradesman's entrance and whistle 
 "Waiting at the Church"; and down the silent 
 stairs Gwendolyn is to steal into his arms. At 
 the very same hour the butler has planned with 
 the policeman on fixed post to steal Mother 
 McCurdy's diamonds and pass them to a brother 
 of the policeman, who is to wait at the trades 
 man's entrance and whistle "Waiting for the 
 Robert E. Lee." 
 
 This sounds improbable especially that the 
 policeman would allow even his brother to get 
 the diamonds before he did; but, with the God 
 of Coincidence on the job, you shall see that it 
 will all come out right. Beef is first at the door. 
 He whistles. The butler an English butler 
 with no ear for music, shoves into his hands 
 tiaras and sunbursts. Honest Beef hands over 
 the butler to the policeman and the tiaras to 
 Mother McCurdy. 
 
 "How can I reward you?" exclaims the 
 grateful woman. 
 
 "Your daughter's hand!" 
 
 Again the God of Coincidence scores and 
 Beef Walters is credited with an assist. And 
 for preventing the robbery McCurdy has the 
 peg-post cop made a captain; thus enabling him 
 to wear diamonds of his own and raising him 
 above the need of taking them from others. 
 
 These examples of what the god can do are 
 1 60
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 mere fiction; the story that comes now really 
 happened. It also is a story of coincidence. 
 It shows how this time the long arm was 
 stretched out to make two young people happy; 
 it again illustrates that, in the instruments he 
 chooses, the God of Coincidence works in a 
 mysterious way his wonders to perform. This 
 time the tool he used was a hat of green felt. 
 
 The story really should be called "The Man 
 in the Green Hat." 
 
 At St. James's Palace the plenipotentiaries of 
 the Allies and of Turkey were trying to bring 
 peace to Europe; in Russell Square, Blooms- 
 bury, Sam Lowell was trying to arrange a peace 
 with Mrs. Wroxton, his landlady. The ultima 
 tum of the Allies was: "Adrianople or fight!" 
 The last words of Mrs. Wroxton were: "Five 
 pounds or move out I" 
 
 Sam did not have five pounds. He was a 
 stranger in London; he had lost his position in 
 New York and that very morning had refused 
 to marry the girl he loved Polly Seward, the 
 young woman the Sunday papers called "The 
 Richest Girl in America." 
 
 For any man for one day that would seem 
 to be trouble enough; but to the Sultan of Tur 
 key that day brought troubles far more serious. 
 And, as his losses were Sam's gain, we must 
 follow the troubles of the Sultan. Until, with 
 
 161
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 the aid of a green felt hat, the God of Coinci 
 dence turns the misfortunes of the Sultan into 
 a fortune for Sam, Sam must wait. 
 
 From the first days of the peace conference it 
 was evident there was a leak. The negotiations 
 had been opened under a most solemn oath of 
 secrecy. As to the progress of the conference, 
 only such information or misinformation if the 
 diplomats considered it better as was mutually 
 agreed upon by the plenipotentiaries was given 
 to a waiting world. But each morning, in addi 
 tion to the official report of the proceedings of 
 the day previous, one newspaper, the Times, 
 published an account which differed from that 
 in every other paper, and which undoubtedly 
 came from the inside. In details it was far 
 more generous than the official report; it gave 
 names, speeches, arguments; it described the 
 wordy battles of the diplomats, the concessions, 
 bluffs, bargains. 
 
 After three days the matter became public 
 scandal. At first, the plenipotentiaries declared 
 the events described in the Times were invented 
 each evening in the office of the Times; but the 
 proceedings of the day following showed the 
 public this was not so. 
 
 Some one actually present at the conference 
 was telling tales out of school. These tales 
 were cabled to Belgrade, Sofia, Athens, Con- 
 
 162
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 stantinople; and hourly from those capitals the 
 plenipotentiaries were assailed by advice, abuse, 
 and threats. The whole world began to take 
 part in their negotiations; from every side they 
 were attacked; from home by the Young Turks, 
 or the On to Constantinople Party; and from 
 abroad by peace societies, religious bodies, and 
 chambers of commerce. Even the armies in 
 the field, instead of waiting for the result of 
 their deliberations, told them what to do, and 
 that unless they did it they would better remain 
 in exile. To make matters worse, in every stock 
 exchange gambling on the news furnished by 
 the Times threatened the financial peace of 
 Europe. To work under such conditions of 
 publicity was impossible. The delegates ap 
 pealed to their hosts of the British Foreign Office. 
 Unless the chiel amang them takin* notes 
 was discovered and the leak stopped, they de 
 clared the conference must end. Spurred on by 
 questions in Parliament, by appeals from the 
 great banking world, by criticisms not altogether 
 unselfish from the other newspapers, the For 
 eign Office surrounded St. James's Palace and 
 the office of the Times with an army of spies. 
 Every secretary, stenographer, and attendant 
 at the conference was under surveillance, his 
 past record looked into, his present comings and 
 goings noted. Even the plenipotentiaries them- 
 
 163
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 selves were watched; and employees of the 
 Times were secretly urged to sell the govern 
 ment the man who was selling secrets to them. 
 But those who were willing to be "urged 5 * did 
 not know the man; those who did know him 
 refused to be bought. 
 
 By a process of elimination suspicion finally 
 rested upon one Adolf Hertz, a young Hun 
 garian scholar who spoke and wrote all the 
 mongrel languages of the Balkans; who for 
 years, as a copying clerk and translator, had 
 been employed by the Foreign Office, and who 
 now by it had been lent to the conference. For 
 the reason that when he lived in Budapest he 
 was a correspondent of the Times, the police, in 
 seeking for the leak, centred their attention 
 upon Hertz. But, though every moment he 
 was watched, and though Hertz knew he was 
 watched, no present link between him and the 
 Times had been established and this in spite 
 of the fact that the hours during which it was 
 necessary to keep him under closest observation 
 were few. Those were the hours between the 
 closing of the conference, and midnight, when 
 the provincial edition of the Times went to 
 press. For the remainder of the day, so far as 
 the police cared, Hertz could go to the devil ! 
 But for those hours, except when on his return 
 from the conference he locked himself in his 
 
 164
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 lodgings in Jermyn Street, detectives were al 
 ways at his elbow. 
 
 It was supposed that it was during this brief 
 period when he was locked in his room that he 
 wrote his report; but how, later, he conveyed it 
 to the Times no one could discover. In his 
 rooms there was no telephone; his doors and 
 windows were openly watched; and after leaving 
 his rooms his movements were as they always 
 had been methodical, following a routine open 
 to observation. His programme was invariably 
 the same. Each night at seven from his front 
 door he walked west. At Regent Street he 
 stopped to buy an evening paper from the aged 
 news- vender at the corner; he then crossed Pic 
 cadilly Circus into Coventry Street, skirted 
 Leicester Square, and at the end of Green 
 Street entered Pavoni's Italian restaurant. 
 There he took his seat always at the same table, 
 hung his hat always on the same brass peg, 
 ordered the same Hungarian wine, and read the 
 same evening paper. He spoke to no one; no 
 one spoke to him. 
 
 When he had finished his coffee and his cig 
 arette he returned to his lodgings, and there he 
 remained until he rang for breakfast. From 
 the time at which he left his home until his 
 return to it he spoke to only two persons the 
 news-vender to whom he handed a halfpenny; 
 
 165
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 the waiter who served him the regular table 
 d'hote dinner between whom and Hertz noth 
 ing passed but three and six for the dinner and 
 sixpence for the waiter himself. 
 
 Each evening, the moment he moved into the 
 street a plain-clothes man fell into step beside 
 him; another followed at his heels; and from 
 across the street more plain-clothes men kept 
 their eyes on every one approaching him in 
 front or from the rear. When he bought his 
 evening paper six pairs of eyes watched him 
 place a halfpenny in the hand of the news- 
 vender, and during the entire time of his stay 
 in Pavoni's every mouthful he ate was noted 
 every direction he gave the waiter was over 
 heard. 
 
 Of this surveillance Hertz was well aware. 
 To have been ignorant of it would have argued 
 him blind and imbecile. But he showed no 
 resentment. With eyes grave and untroubled, 
 he steadily regarded his escort; but not by the 
 hastening of a footstep or the acceleration of a 
 gesture did he admit that by his audience he 
 was either distressed or embarrassed. That was 
 the situation on the morning when the Treaty 
 of London was to be signed and sealed. 
 
 In spite of the publicity given to the confer 
 ence by the Times, however, what the terms of 
 the treaty might be no one knew. If Adriano- 
 
 166
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 pie were surrendered; if Salonika were given to 
 Greece; if Servia obtained a right-of-way to 
 the Adriatic peace was assured; but, should 
 the Young Turks refuse should Austria prove 
 obstinate not only would the war continue, 
 but the Powers would be involved, and that 
 greater, more awful war the war dreaded by 
 all the Christian world might turn Europe 
 into a slaughter-house. 
 
 -Would Turkey and Austria consent and peace 
 ensue? Would they refuse and war follow? 
 That morning those were the questions on the 
 lips of every man in London save one. He was 
 Sam Lowell; and he was asking himself another 
 and more r ^rsonal question: "How can I find 
 five pounds and pacify Mrs. Wroxton?" 
 
 He had friends in New York who would cable 
 him money to pay his passage home; but he 
 did not want to go home. He preferred to 
 starve in London than be vulgarly rich any 
 where else. That was not because he loved 
 London, but because above everything in life 
 he loved Polly Seward and Polly Seward was 
 in London. He had begun to love her on class 
 day of his senior year; and, after his father died 
 and left him with no one else to care for, every 
 day he had loved her more. 
 
 Until a month before he had been in the office 
 of Wetmore & Hastings, a smart brokers' firm 
 
 167
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 in Wall Street. He had obtained the position 
 not because he was of any use to Wetmore & 
 Hastings, but because the firm was the one 
 through which his father had gambled the 
 money that would otherwise have gone to 
 Sam. In giving Sam a job the firm thought it 
 was making restitution. Sam thought it was 
 making the punishment fit the crime; for he 
 knew nothing of the ways of Wall Street, and 
 having to learn them bored him extremely. 
 He wanted to write stories for the magazines. 
 He wanted to bind them in a book and dedicate 
 them to Polly. And in this wish editors hu 
 mored him but not so many editors or with 
 such enthusiasm as to warrant his turning his 
 back on Wall Street. 
 
 That he did later when, after a tour of the 
 world that had begun from the San Francisco 
 side, Polly Seward and her mother and Senator 
 Seward reached Naples. There Senator Sew 
 ard bought old Italian furniture for his office 
 on the twenty-fifth floor of the perfectly new 
 Seward building. Mrs. Seward tried to buy for 
 Polly a prince nearly as old as the furniture, 
 and Polly bought picture post-cards which she 
 sent to Sam. 
 
 Polly had been absent six months, and Sam's 
 endurance had been so timed as just to last 
 out the half-year. It was not guaranteed to 
 
 1 68
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 withstand any change of schedule, and the two 
 months' delay in Italy broke his heart. It 
 could not run overtime on a starvation diet of 
 post-cards; so when he received a cable reading, 
 "Address London, Claridge's," his heart told 
 him it could no longer wait and he resigned 
 his position and sailed. 
 
 On her trip round the world Polly had learned 
 many things. She was observant, alert, intent 
 on asking questions, hungering for facts. And 
 a charming young woman who seeks facts rather 
 than attention will never lack either. But of 
 all the facts Polly collected, the one of surpass 
 ing interest, and which gave her the greatest 
 happiness, was that she could not live, without 
 Sam Lowell. She had suspected this, and it 
 was partly to make sure that she had consented 
 to the trip round the world. Now that she had 
 made sure, she could not too soon make up for 
 the days lost. Sam had spent his money, and 
 he either must return to New York and earn 
 more or remain near Polly and starve. It was 
 an embarrassing choice. Polly herself made the 
 choice even more difficult. 
 
 One morning when they walked in St. James's 
 Park to feed the ducks she said to him : 
 
 "Sam, when are we to be married?" 
 
 When for three years a man has been begging 
 a girl to marry him, and she consents at the 
 
 169
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 exact moment when, without capitulation to 
 all that he holds honorable, he cannot marry 
 anybody, his position deserves sympathy. 
 
 "My dear one," exclaimed the unhappy 
 youth, "you make me the most miserable of 
 men ! I can't marry ! I'm in an awful place ! 
 If I married you now I'd be a crook! It isn't 
 a question of love in a cottage, with bread and 
 cheese. If cottages were renting for a dollar a 
 year I couldn't rent one for ten minutes. I 
 haven't cheese enough to bait a mouse-trap. 
 It's terrible ! But we have got to wait." 
 
 "Wait!" cried Polly. "I thought you had 
 been waiting! Have I been away too long? 
 Do you love some one else?" 
 
 "Don't be ridiculous!" said Sam crossly. 
 "Look at me," he commanded, "and tell me 
 whom I love!" 
 
 Polly did not take time to look. 
 
 "But I," she protested, "have so much 
 money!" 
 
 "It's not your money," explained Sam. "It's 
 your mother's money or your father's, and 
 both of them dislike me. They even have told 
 me so. Your mother wants you to marry that 
 Italian; and your father, having half the money 
 in America, naturally wants to marry you to 
 the other half. If I were selfish and married 
 you I'd be all the things they think I am." 
 
 170
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 "You are selfish!" cried Polly. "You're 
 thinking of yourself and of what people will 
 say, instead of how to make me happy. What's 
 the use of money if you can't buy what you 
 want?" 
 
 "Are you suggesting you can buy me?" de 
 manded Sam. 
 
 "Surely," said Polly "if I can't get you any 
 other way. And you may name your own 
 price, too." 
 
 "When I am making enough to support my 
 self without sponging on you," explained Sam, 
 "you can have as many millions as you like; 
 but I must first make enough to keep me alive. 
 A man who can't do that isn't fit to marry." 
 
 "How much," demanded Polly, "do you need 
 
 to keep you alive? Maybe I could lend it to 
 
 
 you. 
 
 Sam was entirely serious. 
 
 "Three thousand a year," he said. 
 
 Polly exclaimed indignantly. 
 
 "I call that extremely extravagant!" she 
 cried. "If we wait until you earn three thou 
 sand a year we may be dead. Do you expect 
 to earn that writing stories?" 
 
 "I can try," said Sam "or I will rob a 
 bank." 
 
 Polly smiled upon him appealingly. 
 
 "You know how I love your stories," she 
 171
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 said, "and I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the 
 world; but, Sam dear, I think you had better 
 rob a bank!" 
 
 Addressing an imaginary audience, suppos 
 edly of men, Sam exclaimed: 
 
 "Isn't that just like a woman? She wouldn't 
 care," he protested, "how I got the money!" 
 
 Polly smiled cheerfully. 
 
 "Not if I got you!" she said. In extenua 
 tion, also, she addressed an imaginary audience, 
 presumably of women. "That's how I love 
 him!" she exclaimed. "And he asks me to 
 wait! Isn't that just like a man? Seriously," 
 she went on, "if we just go ahead and get mar 
 ried father would have to help us. He'd make 
 you a vice-president or something." 
 
 At this suggestion Sam expressed his extreme 
 displeasure. 
 
 "The last time I talked to your father," he 
 said, "I was in a position to marry, and I told 
 him I wanted to marry you. What he said to 
 that was: * Don't be an ass!' Then I told him 
 he was unintelligent and I told him why. 
 First, because he could not see that a man 
 might want to marry his daughter in spite of 
 her money; and second, because he couldn't see 
 that her money wouldn't make up to a man for 
 having him for a father-in-law." 
 
 "Did you have to tell him that?" asked Polly. 
 172
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 "Some one had to tell him," said Sam gloom 
 ily. "Anyway, as a source of revenue father 
 is eliminated. I have still one chance in Lon 
 don. If that fails I must go home. I've been 
 promised a job in New York reporting for a 
 Wall Street paper and I'll write stories on the 
 side. I've cabled for money, and if the Lon 
 don job falls through I shall sail Wednesday." 
 
 "Wednesday!" cried Polly. "When you say 
 things like * Wednesday' you make the world so 
 dark ! You must stay here ! It has been such 
 a long six months; and before you earn three 
 thousand dollars I shall be an old, old maid. 
 But if you get work here we could see each 
 other every day." 
 
 They were in the Sewards' sitting-room at 
 Claridge's. Sam took up the desk telephone. 
 
 "In London," he said, "my one best and 
 only bet is a man named Forsythe, who helps 
 edit the Pall Mall. I'll telephone him now. 
 If he can promise me even a shilling a day I'll 
 stay on and starve but I'll be near you. If 
 Forsythe fails me I shall sail Wednesday." 
 
 The telephone call found Forsythe at the Pall 
 Mall office. He would be charmed to advise 
 Mr. Lowell on a matter of business. Would he 
 that night dine with Mr. Lowell? He would. 
 And might he suggest that they dine at Pa- 
 voni's? He had a special reason for going 
 
 173
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 there, and the dinner would cost only three and 
 six. 
 
 "That's reason enough!" Sam told him. 
 
 "And don't forget," said Polly when, for the 
 fifth time, Sam rose to go, "that after your 
 dinner you are to look for me at the Duchess 
 of Deptford's dance. I asked her for a card 
 and you will find it at your lodgings. Every 
 body will be there; but it is a big place full of 
 dark corners where we can hide." 
 
 "Don't hide until I arrive," said Sam. "I 
 shall be very late, as I shall have to walk. 
 After I pay for Forsythe's dinner and for white 
 gloves for your dance I shall not be in a posi 
 tion to hire a taxi. But maybe I shall bring 
 good news. Maybe Forsythe will give me the 
 job. If he does we will celebrate in cham 
 pagne." 
 
 "You will let me at least pay for the cham 
 pagne?" begged Polly. 
 
 "No," said Sam firmly "the duchess will 
 furnish that." 
 
 When Sam reached his lodgings in Russell 
 Square, which he approached with considerable 
 trepidation, he found Mrs. Wroxton awaiting 
 him. But her attitude no longer was hostile. 
 On the contrary, as she handed him a large, 
 square envelope, decorated with the strawberry 
 leaves of a duke, her manner was humble. 
 
 174
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 Sam opened the envelope and, with apparent 
 carelessness, stuck it over the fireplace. 
 
 "About that back rent," he said; "I have 
 cabled for money, and as soon " 
 
 "I know," said Mrs. Wroxton. "I read the 
 cable." She was reading the card of invitation 
 also. "There's no hurry, sir," protested Mrs. 
 Wroxton. "Any of my young gentlemen who 
 is made welcome at Deptford House is made 
 welcome here!" 
 
 "Credit, Mrs. Wroxton," observed Sam, "is 
 better than cash. If you have only cash you 
 spend it and nothing remains. But with credit 
 you can continue indefinitely to to " 
 
 "So you can!" exclaimed Mrs. Wroxton en 
 thusiastically. "Stay as long as you like, Mr. 
 Lowell." 
 
 At Pavoni's Sam found Forsythe already 
 seated and, with evident interest, observing the 
 scene of gayety before him. The place was 
 new to Sam, and after the darkness and snow 
 of the streets it appeared both cheerful and 
 resplendent. It was brilliantly lighted; a ceil 
 ing of gay panels picked out with gold, and red 
 plush sofas, backed against walls hung with 
 mirrors and faced by rows of marble-topped 
 tables, gave it an air of the Continent. 
 
 Sam surrendered his hat and coat to the 
 waiter. The hat was a soft Alpine one of green 
 
 175
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 felt. The waiter hung it where Sam could see 
 rt, on one of many hooks that encircled a gilded 
 pillar. 
 
 After two courses had been served Forsythe 
 said: 
 
 "I hope you don't object to this place. I 
 had a special reason for wishing to be here on 
 this particular night. I wanted to be in at the 
 death!" 
 
 "Whose death?" asked Sam. "Is the din 
 ner as bad as that?" 
 
 Forsythe leaned back against the mirror be 
 hind them and, bringing his shoulder close to 
 Sam's, spoke in a whisper. 
 
 "As you know," he said, "to-day the dele 
 gates sign the Treaty of London. It still must 
 receive the signatures of the Sultan and the 
 three kings; and they will sign it. But until 
 they do, what the terms of the treaty are no 
 one can find out." 
 
 "I'll bet the Times finds out!" said Sam. 
 
 "That's it !" returned Forsythe. "Hertz, the 
 man who is supposed to be selling the secrets 
 of the conference to the Times, dines here. 
 To-night is his last chance. If to-night he can 
 slip the Times a copy of the Treaty of London 
 without being caught, and the Times has the 
 courage to publish it, it will be the biggest news 
 paper sensation of modern times; and it will 
 
 176
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 either cause a financial panic all over Europe 
 or prevent one. The man they suspect is fac 
 ing us. Don't look now, but in a minute you 
 will see him sitting alone at a table on the right 
 of the middle pillar. The people at the tables 
 nearest him even the women are detectives. 
 His waiter is in the employ of Scotland Yard. 
 The maftre d' hotel, whom you will see always 
 hovering round his table, is a police agent lent 
 by Bulgaria. For the Allies are even more 
 anxious to stop the leak than we are. We are 
 interested only as their hosts; with them it is 
 a matter of national life or death. A week ago 
 one of our own inspectors tipped me off to 
 what is going on, and every night since then 
 I've dined here, hoping to see something sus 
 picious." 
 
 "Have you?" asked Sam. 
 
 "Only this," whispered Forsythe "on four 
 different nights I've recognized men I know are 
 on the staff of the Times, and on the other 
 nights men I don't know may have been here. 
 But after all that proves nothing, for this place 
 is a resort of newspaper writers and editors 
 and the Times men's being here may have been 
 only a coincidence." 
 
 "And Hertz?" asked Sam "what does he 
 do?" 
 
 The Englishman exclaimed with irritation. 
 177
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 "Just what you see him doing now I" he pro 
 tested. "He eats his dinner! Look at him!" 
 he commanded. "Of all in the room he's the 
 least concerned." 
 
 Sam looked and saw the suspected Adolf 
 Hertz dangling a mass of macaroni on the end 
 of his fork. Sam watched him until it disap 
 peared. 
 
 "Maybe that's a signal!" suggested Sam. 
 "Maybe everything he does is part of a cipher 
 code ! He gives the signals and the Times men 
 read them and write them down." 
 
 "A man would have a fine chance to write 
 anything down in this room!" said Forsythe. 
 
 "But maybe," persisted Sam, "when he 
 makes those strange movements with his lips 
 he is talking to a confederate who can read the 
 lip language. The confederate writes it down 
 at the office and " 
 
 "Fantastic and extremely improbable!" com 
 mented Forsythe. "But, nevertheless, the fact 
 remains, the fellow does communicate with 
 some one from the Times; and the police are 
 positive he does it here and that he is doing 
 it now!" 
 
 The problem that so greatly disturbed his 
 friend would have more deeply interested Sam 
 had the solving of his own trouble been less 
 imperative. That alone filled his mind. And
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 when the coffee was served and the cigars lit, 
 without beating about the bush Sam asked 
 Forsythe bluntly if on his paper a rising and 
 impecunious genius could find a place. With 
 even less beating about the bush Forsythe as 
 sured him he could not. The answer was final, 
 and the disappointment was so keen that Sam 
 soon begged his friend to excuse him, paid his 
 bill, and rose to depart. 
 
 " Better wart ! " urged Forsythe. " You'll find 
 nothing so good out at a music-hall. This is 
 Houdini getting out of his handcuffs before an 
 audience entirely composed of policemen." 
 
 Sam shook his head gloomily. 
 
 " I have a few handcuffs of my own to get rid 
 of," he said, "and it makes me poor company." 
 
 He bade his friend good night and, picking 
 his way among the tables, moved toward the 
 pillar on which the waiter had hung his hat. 
 The pillar was the one beside which Hertz was 
 sitting, and as Sam approached the man he 
 satisfied his curiosity by a long look. Under 
 the glance Hertz lowered his eyes and fixed 
 them upon his newspaper. Sam retrieved his 
 hat and left the restaurant. 
 
 His mind immediately was overcast. He 
 remembered his disappointment and that the 
 parting between himself and Polly was now 
 inevitable. Without considering his direction 
 
 179
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 he turned toward Charing Cross Road. But he 
 was not long allowed to meditate undisturbed. 
 
 He had only crossed the little street that 
 runs beside the restaurant and passed into the 
 shadow of the National Gallery when, at the 
 base of the Irving Memorial, from each side he 
 was fiercely attacked. A young man of emi 
 nently respectable appearance kicked his legs 
 from under him, and another of equally impec 
 cable exterior made an honest effort to knock 
 off his head. 
 
 Sam plunged heavily to the sidewalk. As he 
 sprawled forward his hat fell under him and 
 in his struggle to rise was hidden by the skirts 
 of his greatcoat. That, also, he had fallen 
 heavily upon his hat with both knees Sam did 
 not know. The strange actions of his assailants 
 enlightened him. To his surprise, instead of 
 continuing their assault or attempting a raid 
 upon his pockets, he found them engaged solely 
 in tugging at the hat. And so preoccupied 
 were they in this that, though still on his knees, 
 Sam was able to land some lusty blows before 
 a rush of feet caused the young men to leap to 
 their own and, pursued by several burly forms, 
 disappear in the heart of the traffic. 
 
 Sam rose and stood unsteadily. He found 
 himself surrounded by all of those who but a 
 moment before he had left contentedly dining 
 
 1 80
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 at Pavoni's. In an excited circle waiters and 
 patrons of the restaurant, both men and women, 
 stood in the falling snow, bareheaded, coatless, 
 and cloakless, staring at him. Forsythe pushed 
 them aside and took Sam by the arm. 
 
 "What happened?" demanded Sam. 
 
 "You ought to know," protested Forsythe. 
 "You started it! The moment you left the 
 restaurant two men grabbed their hats and 
 jumped after you; a dozen other men, without 
 waiting for hats, jumped after them. The rest 
 of us got out just as the two men and the detec 
 tives dived into the traffic." 
 
 A big man, with an air of authority, drew 
 Sam to one side. 
 
 "Did they take anything from you, sir?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I've nothing they could take," said Sam. 
 "And they didn't try to find out. They just 
 knocked me down." 
 
 Forsythe turned to the big man. 
 
 "This gentleman is a friend of mine, in 
 spector," he said. "He is a stranger in town 
 and was at Pavoni's only by accident." 
 
 "We might need his testimony," suggested 
 the official. 
 
 Sam gave his card to the inspector and then 
 sought refuge in a taxicab. For the second time 
 he bade his friend good night. 
 
 181
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 "And when next we dine," he called to him 
 in parting, "choose a restaurant where the de 
 tective service is quicker ! " 
 
 Three hours later, brushed and repaired by 
 Mrs. Wroxton, and again resplendent, Sam sat 
 in a secluded corner of Deptford House and 
 bade Polly a long farewell. It was especially 
 long, owing to the unusual number of inter 
 ruptions ; for it was evident that Polly had many 
 friends in London, and that not to know the 
 Richest One in America and her absurd mother, 
 and the pompous, self-satisfied father, argued 
 oneself nobody. But finally the duchess car 
 ried Polly off to sup with her; and as the duchess 
 did not include Sam in her invitation at least 
 not in such a way that any one could notice it 
 Sam said good-night but not before he had 
 arranged a meeting with Polly for eleven that 
 same morning. If it was clear, the meeting 
 was to be at the duck pond in St. James's Park; 
 if it snowed, at the National Gallery in front of 
 the "Age of Innocence." 
 
 After robbing the duchess of three suppers, 
 Sam descended to the hall and from an atten 
 dant received his coat and hat, which latter the 
 attendant offered him with the inside of the 
 hat showing. Sam saw in it the trademark of 
 a foreign maker. 
 
 "That's not my hat," said Sam. 
 182
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 The man expressed polite disbelief. 
 
 " I found it rolled up in the pocket of your 
 greatcoat, sir," he protested. 
 
 The words reminded Sam that on arriving at 
 Deptford House he had twisted the hat into a 
 roll and stuffed it into his overcoat pocket. 
 
 "Quite right," said Sam. But it was not his 
 hat; and with some hope of still recovering his 
 property he made way for other departing 
 guests and at one side waited. 
 
 For some clew to the person he believed was 
 now wearing his hat, Sam examined the one in 
 his hand. Just showing above the inside band 
 was something white. Thinking it might be 
 the card of the owner, Sam removed it. It 
 was not a card, but a long sheet of thin paper, 
 covered with typewriting, and many times 
 folded. Sam read the opening paragraph. 
 Then he backed suddenly toward a great chair 
 of gold and velvet, and fell into it. 
 
 He was conscious the attendants in pink 
 stockings were regarding him askance; that, as 
 they waited in the drafty hall for cars and 
 taxis, the noble lords in stars and ribbons, the 
 noble ladies in tiaras and showing much-fur-Iined 
 galoshes, were discussing his strange appearance. 
 They might well believe the youth was ill; they 
 might easily have considered him intoxicated. 
 Outside rose the voices of servants and police 
 
 183
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 calling the carriages. Inside other servants 
 echoed them. 
 
 "The Duchess of Sutherland's car!" they 
 chanted. "Mrs. Trevor Hill's carriage! The 
 French ambassador's carriage! Baron Hauss- 
 mann's car!" 
 
 Like one emerging from a trance, Sam sprang 
 upright. A little fat man, with mild blue eyes 
 and curly red hair, was shyly and with mur 
 mured apologies pushing toward the exit. Be 
 fore he gained it Sam had wriggled a way to 
 his elbow. 
 
 "Baron Haussmann!" he stammered. "I 
 must speak to you. It's a matter of gravest 
 importance. Send away your car," he begged, 
 "and give me five minutes." 
 
 The eyes of the little fat man opened wide in 
 surprise, almost in alarm. He stared at Sam 
 reprovingly. 
 
 "Impossible!" he murmured. "I I do not 
 know you." 
 
 "This is a letter of introduction," said Sam. 
 Into the unwilling fingers of the banker he 
 thrust the folded paper. Bending over him, he 
 whispered in his ear. "That," said Sam, "is 
 the Treaty of London !" 
 
 The alarm of Baron Haussmann increased to 
 a panic. 
 
 "Impossible!" he gasped. And, with re- 
 184
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 proach, he repeated : " I do not know you, sir ! 
 I do not know you I" 
 
 At that moment, towering above the crush, 
 appeared the tall figure of Senator Seward. 
 The rich man of the New World and the rich 
 man of Europe knew each other only by sight. 
 But, upon seeing Sam in earnest converse with 
 the great banker, the senator believed that 
 without appearing to seek it he might through 
 Sam effect a meeting. With a hearty slap on 
 the shoulder he greeted his fellow countryman. 
 
 "Halloo, Sam!" he cried genially. "You 
 walking home with me?" 
 
 Sam did not even turn his head. 
 
 "No !" he snapped. " I'm busy. Go 'way !" 
 
 Crimson, the senator disappeared. Baron 
 Haussmann regarded the young stranger with 
 amazed interest. 
 
 "You know him I" he protested. "He called 
 you Sam !" 
 
 "Know him?" cried Sam impatiently. "I've 
 got to know him ! He's going to be my father- 
 in-law." 
 
 The fingers of the rich man clutched the 
 folded paper as the claws of a parrot cling to 
 the bars of his cage. He let his sable coat slip 
 into the hands of a servant; he turned back 
 toward the marble staircase. 
 
 "Come!" he commanded.
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 Sam led him to the secluded corner Polly and 
 he had left vacant and told his story. 
 
 "So, it is evident," concluded Sam, "that 
 each night some one in the service of the Times 
 dined at Pavoni's, and that his hat was the 
 same sort of hat as the one worn by Hertz; 
 and each night, inside the lining of his hat, 
 Hertz hid the report of that day's proceed 
 ings. And when the Times man left the res 
 taurant he exchanged hats with Hertz. But 
 to-night I got Hertz's hat and with it the 
 treaty!" 
 
 In perplexity the blue eyes of the little great 
 man frowned. 
 
 "It is a remarkable story," he said. 
 
 "You mean you don't believe me!" retorted 
 Sam. "If I had financial standing if I had 
 credit if I were not a stranger you would not 
 hesitate." 
 
 Baron Haussmann neither agreed nor con 
 tradicted. He made a polite and deprecatory 
 gesture. Still in doubt, he stared at the piece 
 of white paper. Still deep in thought, he 
 twisted and creased between his fingers the 
 Treaty of London ! 
 
 Returning with the duchess from supper, 
 Polly caught sight of Sam and, with a happy 
 laugh, ran toward him. Seeing he was not 
 alone, she halted and waved her hand. 
 
 1 86
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 " Don't forget ! " she called. "At eleven ! " 
 
 She made a sweet and lovely picture. Sam 
 rose and bowed. 
 
 " PII be there at ten," he answered. 
 
 With his mild blue eyes the baron followed 
 Polly until she had disappeared. Then he 
 turned and smiled at Sam. 
 
 "Permit me," he said, "to offer you my 
 felicitations. Your young lady is very beautiful 
 and very good." Sam bowed his head. "If 
 she trusts you," murmured the baron, "I think 
 I can trust you too." 
 
 "How wonderful is credit!" exclaimed Sam. 
 " I was just saying so to my landlady. If you 
 have only cash you spend it and nothing re 
 mains. But with credit you can " 
 
 "How much," interrupted the banker, "do 
 you want for this?" 
 
 Sanntfeturned briskly to the business of the 
 moment. 
 
 "To be your partner," he said "to get half 
 of what you make out of it." 
 
 The astonished eyes of the baron were large 
 with wonder. Again he reproved Sam. 
 
 "What I shall make out of it?" he demanded 
 incredulously. "Do you know how much I 
 shall make out of it?" 
 
 "I cannot even guess," said Sam; "but I 
 want half." 
 
 187
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 The baron smiled tolerantly. 
 
 "And how," he asked, "could you possibly 
 know what I give you is really half?" 
 
 In his turn, Sam made a deprecatory gesture. 
 
 "Your credit," said Sam, "is good!" 
 
 That morning, after the walk in St. James's 
 Park, when Sam returned with Polly to Clar- 
 idge's, they encountered her father in the hall. 
 Mindful of the affront of the night before, he 
 greeted Sam only with a scowl. 
 
 "Senator," cried Sam happily, "you must be 
 the first to hear the news! Polly and I are 
 going into partnership. We are to be married." 
 
 This time Senator Seward did not trouble 
 himself even to tell Sam he was an ass. He 
 merely grinned cynically. 
 
 "Is that all your news?" he demanded with 
 sarcasm. 
 
 "No," said Sam "I am going into partner 
 ship with Baron Haussmann too!" 
 
 188
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF 
 COBRE 
 
 YOUNG EVERETT at last was a minister pleni 
 potentiary. In London as third secretary he 
 had splashed around in the rain to find the am 
 bassador's carriage. In Rome as a second sec 
 retary he had served as a clearing-house for 
 the Embassy's visiting-cards; and in Madrid as 
 first secretary he had acted as interpreter for a 
 minister who, though valuable as a national 
 chairman, had much to learn of even his own 
 language. But although surrounded by all the 
 wonders and delights of Europe, although he 
 walked, talked, wined, and dined with states 
 men and court beauties, Everett was not happy. 
 He was never his own master. Always he an 
 swered the button pressed by the man higher 
 up. Always over him loomed his chief; always, 
 for his diligence and zeal, his chief received 
 credit. 
 
 As His Majesty's naval attache put it sym 
 pathetically, "Better be a top-side man on a 
 sampan than First Luff on the Dreadnought. 
 Don't be another man's right hand. Be your 
 own right hand." Accordingly when the State 
 Department offered to make him minister to 
 
 189
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 the Republic of Amapala, Everett gladly de 
 serted the flesh-pots of Europe, and, on mule- 
 back over trails in the living rock, through 
 mountain torrents that had never known the 
 shadow of a bridge, through swamp and jungle, 
 rode sunburnt and saddle-sore into his inheri 
 tance. 
 
 When giving him his farewell instructions, the 
 Secretary of State had not attempted to deceive 
 him. 
 
 "Of all the smaller republics of Central Amer 
 ica," he frankly told him, "Amapala is the least 
 desirable, least civilized, least acceptable. It 
 offers an ambitious young diplomat no chance. 
 But once a minister, always a minister. Having 
 lifted you out of the secretary class we can't 
 demote you. Your days of deciphering cable 
 grams are over, and if you don't die of fever, 
 of boredom, or brandy, call us up in a year or 
 two and we will see what we can do." 
 
 Everett regarded the Secretary blankly. 
 
 "Has the department no interest in Ama 
 pala?" he begged. "Is there nothing you want 
 there?" 
 
 "There is one thing we very much want," 
 returned the Secretary, "but we can't get it. 
 We want a treaty to extradite criminals." 
 
 The young minister laughed confidently. 
 
 "Why !" he exclaimed, "that should be easy." 
 190
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE' 
 
 The Secretary smiled. 
 
 "You have our full permission to get it," he 
 said. "This department," he explained, "under 
 three administrations has instructed four minis 
 ters to arrange such a treaty. The Bankers' 
 Association wants it; the Merchants' Protective 
 Alliance wants it. Amapala is the only place 
 within striking distance of our country where a 
 fugitive is safe. It is the only place where a 
 dishonest cashier, swindler, or felon can find 
 refuge. Sometimes it seems almost as though 
 when a man planned a crime he timed it exactly 
 so as to catch the boat for Amapala. And, 
 once there, we can't lay our hands on him; and, 
 what's more, we can't lay our hands on the 
 money he takes with him. I have no right to 
 make a promise," said the great man, "but the 
 day that treaty is signed you can sail for a lega 
 tion in Europe. Do I make myself clear?" 
 
 "So clear, sir," cried Everett, laughing, 
 "that if I don't arrange that treaty I will re 
 main in Amapala until I do." 
 
 "Four of your predecessors," remarked the 
 Secretary, "made exactly the same promise, but 
 none of them got us the treaty." 
 
 "Probably none of them remained in Ama 
 pala, either," retorted Everett. 
 
 "Two did," corrected the Secretary; "as you 
 ride into Camaguay you see their tombstones." 
 
 191
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 Everett found the nine-day mule-ride from 
 the coast to the capital arduous, but full of in 
 terest. After a week at his post he appreciated 
 that until he left it and made the return journey 
 nothing of equal interest was again likely to 
 occur. For life in Camaguay, the capital of 
 Amapala, proved to be one long, dreamless 
 slumber. In the morning each of the inhabi 
 tants engaged in a struggle to get awake; after 
 the second breakfast he ceased struggling, and 
 for a siesta sank into his hammock. After din 
 ner, at nine o'clock, he was prepared to sleep 
 in earnest, and went to bed. The official life as 
 explained to Everett by Garland, the American 
 consul, was equally monotonous. When Presi 
 dent Mendoza was not in the mountains deer- 
 hunting, or suppressing a revolution, each Sun 
 day he invited the American minister to dine. 
 at the palace. In return His Excellency ex 
 pected once a week to be invited to breakfast 
 with the minister. He preferred that the activ 
 ities of that gentleman should go no further. 
 Life in the diplomatic circle was even less 
 strenuous. Everett was the doyen of the diplo 
 matic corps because he was the only diplomat. 
 All other countries were represented by consuls 
 who were commission merchants and shopkeep 
 ers. They were delighted at having among 
 them a minister plenipotentiary. When he 
 
 192
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 took pity on them and invited them to tea, 
 which invitations he delivered in person to each 
 consul at the door of each shop, the entire 
 diplomatic corps, as the consuls were pleased 
 to describe themselves, put up the shutters, put 
 on their official full-dress uniforms and arrived 
 in a body. 
 
 The first week at his post Everett spent in 
 reading the archives of the legation. They 
 were most discouraging. He found that for the 
 sixteen years prior to his arrival the only events 
 reported to the department by his predecessors 
 were revolutions and the refusals of successive 
 presidents to consent to a treaty of extradition. 
 On that point all Amapalans were in accord. 
 Though overnight the government changed 
 hands, though presidents gave way to dictators, 
 and dictators to military governors, the national 
 policy of Amapala continued to be "No extra 
 dition!" The ill success of those who had 
 preceded him appalled Everett. He had prom 
 ised himself by a brilliant assault to secure the 
 treaty and claim the legation in Europe. But 
 the record of sixteen years of failure caused 
 him to alter his strategy. Instead of an attack 
 he prepared for a siege. He unpacked his 
 books, placed the portrait of his own President 
 over the office desk, and proceeded to make 
 friends with his fellow exiles. 
 
 193
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 Of the foreign colony in Camaguav some fifty 
 were Americans, and from the rest of the world 
 they were as hopelessly separated as the crew 
 of a light-ship. From the Pacific they were cut 
 off by the Cordilleras, from the Caribbean by a 
 nine-day mule-ride. To the north and south, 
 jungle, forests, swamp-lands, and mountains 
 hemmed them in. 
 
 Of the fifty Americans, one-half were con 
 stantly on the trail; riding to the coast to visit 
 their plantations, or into the mountains to in 
 spect their mines. When Everett arrived, of 
 those absent the two most important were 
 Chester Ward and Colonel Goddard. Indeed, 
 so important were these gentlemen that Ever 
 ett was made to understand that, until they 
 approved, his recognition as the American min 
 ister was in a manner temporary. 
 
 Chester Ward, or "Chet," as the exiles re 
 ferred to him, was one of the richest men in 
 Amapala, and was engaged in exploring the 
 ruins of the lost city of Cobre, which was a one- 
 hour ride from the capital. Ward possessed the 
 exclusive right to excavate that buried city and 
 had held it against all comers. The offers of 
 American universities, of archaeological and geo 
 graphical societies that also wished to dig up 
 the ancient city and decipher the hieroglyphs 
 on her walls, were met with a curt rebuff. That 
 work, the government of Amapala would reply, 
 
 194
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 was in the trained hands of Senor Chester Ward. 
 In his chosen effort the government would not 
 disturb him, nor would it permit others com 
 ing in at the eleventh hour to rob him of his 
 glory. This Everett learned from the consul, 
 Garland. 
 
 "Ward and Colonel Goddard," the consul ex 
 plained, "are two of five countrymen of ours 
 who run the American colony, and, some say, 
 run the government. The others are Mellen, 
 who has the asphalt monopoly; Jackson, who is 
 building the railroads, and Major Feiberger, of 
 the San Jose silver-mines. They hold monopo 
 lies and pay President Mendoza ten per cent of 
 the earnings, and, on the side, help him run 
 the country. Of the five, the Amapalans love 
 Goddard best, because he's not trying to rob 
 them. Instead, he wants to boost Amapala. 
 His ideas are perfectly impracticable, but he 
 doesn't know that, and neither do they. He's 
 a kind of Colonel Mulberry Sellers and a South 
 erner. Not the professional sort, that fight 
 elevator-boys because they're colored, and let 
 off rebel yells in rathskellers when a Hungarian 
 band plays 'Dixie,' but the sort you read about 
 and so seldom see. He was once State Trea 
 surer of Alabama." 
 
 "What's he doing down here?" asked the 
 minister. 
 
 "Never the same thing two months together," 
 195
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 the consul told him; "railroads, mines, rubber. 
 He says all Amapala needs is developing." 
 
 As men who can see a joke even when it is 
 against themselves, the two exiles smiled rue- 
 fully. 
 
 "That's all it needs," said Everett. 
 
 For a moment the consul regarded him 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "I might as well tell you," he said, "you'll 
 learn it soon enough anyway, that the men who 
 will keep you from getting your treaty are these 
 five, especially old man Goddard and Ward," 
 
 Everett exclaimed indignantly: 
 
 "Why should they interfere?" 
 
 "Because," explained the consul, "they are 
 fugitives from justice, and they don't want to 
 go home. Ward is wanted for forgery or some 
 polite crime, I don't know which. And Colonel 
 Goddard for appropriating the State funds of 
 Alabama. Ward knew what he was doing and 
 made a lot out of it. He's still rich. No one's 
 weeping over him. Goddard's case is different. 
 He was imposed on and made a catspaw. When 
 he was State treasurer the men who appointed 
 him came to him one night and said they must 
 have some of the State's funds to show a bank 
 examiner hi the morning. They appealed to 
 him on the ground of friendship, as the men 
 who'd given him his job. They would return 
 
 196
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 the money the next evening. Goddard believed 
 they would. They didn't, and when some one 
 called for a show-down the colonel was shy 
 about fifty thousand dollars of the State's 
 money. He lost his head, took the boat out of 
 Mobile to Porto Cortez, and hid here. He's 
 been here twenty years and all the Amapalans 
 love him. He's the adopted father of their 
 country. They're so afraid he'll be taken back 
 arxd punished that they'll never consent to an 
 extradition treaty even if the other Americans, 
 Mellen, Jackson, and Feiberger, weren't paying 
 them big money not to consent. President 
 Mendoza himself told me that as long as Colonel 
 Goddard honored his country by remaining in 
 it, he was his guest, and he would never agree 
 to extradition. *I could as soon,' he said, 'sign 
 his death-warrant." 
 
 Everett grinned dismally. 
 
 "That's rather nice of them," he said, "but 
 it's hard on me. But," he demanded, "why 
 Ward? What has he done for Amapala? Is it 
 because of Cobre, because of his services as an 
 archaeologist?" 
 
 The consul glanced around the patio and 
 dragged his chair nearer to Everett. 
 
 "This is my own dope," he whispered; "it 
 may be wrong. Anyway, it's only for your 
 private information." 
 
 197
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 He waited until, with a smile, Everett agreed 
 to secrecy. 
 
 "Chet Ward," protested the consul, "is no 
 more an archaeologist than I am ! He talks well 
 about Cobre, and he ought to, because every 
 word he speaks is cribbed straight from Haupt- 
 mann's monograph, published in 1855. And he 
 bos dug up something at Cobre; something 
 worth a darned sight more than stone monkeys 
 and carved altars. But his explorations are a 
 bluff. They're a blind to cover up what he's 
 really after; what I think he's found!" 
 
 As though wishing to be urged, the young 
 man paused, and Everett nodded for him to 
 continue. He was wondering whether life in 
 Amapala might not turn out to be more inter 
 esting than at first it had appeared, or whether 
 Garland was not a most charming liar. 
 
 "Ward visits the ruins every month," con 
 tinued Garland. "But he takes with him only 
 two mule-drivers to cook and look after the 
 pack-train, and he doesn't let even the drivers 
 inside the ruins. He remains at Cobre three or 
 four days and, to make a show, fills his saddle 
 bags with broken tiles and copper ornaments. 
 He turns them over to the government, and it 
 dumps them in the back yard of the palace. 
 You can't persuade me that he holds his con 
 cession with that junk. He's found something 
 
 198
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 else at Cobre and he shares it with Mendoza, 
 and I believe it's gold." 
 
 The minister smiled delightedly. 
 
 "What kind of gold? 
 
 "Maybe in the rough," said the consul. 
 "But I prefer to think it's treasure. The place 
 is full of secret chambers, tombs, and passage 
 ways cut through the rock, deep under the sur 
 face. I believe Ward has stumbled on some 
 vault where the priests used to hide their loot. 
 I believe he's getting it out bit by bit and going 
 shares with Mendoza." 
 
 "If that were so," ventured Everett, "why 
 wouldn't Mendoza take it all?" 
 
 "Because Ward," explained the consul, "is 
 the only one who knows where it is. The ruins 
 cover two square miles. You might search for 
 years. They tried to follow and spy on him, 
 but Ward was too clever for them. He turned 
 back at once. If they don't take what he 
 gives, they get nothing. So they protect him 
 from real explorers and from extradition. The 
 whole thing is unfair. A real archaeologist 
 turned up here a month ago. He had letters 
 from the Smithsonian Institute and several big 
 officials at Washington, but do you suppose 
 they would let him so much as smell of Cobre? 
 Not they ! Not even when I spoke for him as 
 consul. Then he appealed to Ward, and Ward 
 
 199
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 turned him down hard. You were arriving, so 
 he's hung on here hoping you may have more 
 influence. His name is Peabody; he's a pro 
 fessor, but he's young and full of 'get there,' 
 and he knows more about the ruins of Cobre 
 now than Ward does after having them all to 
 himself for two years. He's good people and 
 I hope you'll help him." 
 
 Everett shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 " If the government has given the concession 
 to him," he pointed out, "no matter who Ward 
 may be, or what its motives were for giving it 
 to him, I can't ask it to break its promise. As 
 an American citizen Ward is as much entitled 
 to my help officially as Professor Peabody, 
 whatever his standing." 
 
 "Ward's a forger," protested Garland, "a 
 fugitive from justice; and Peabody is a scholar 
 and a gentleman. I'm not keen about dead 
 cities myself this one we're in now is dead 
 enough for me but if civilization is demanding 
 to know what Cobre was like eight hundred 
 years ago, civilization is entitled to find out, 
 and Peabody seems the man for the job. It's a 
 shame to turn him down for a gang of grafters." 
 
 "Tell him to come and talk to me," said the 
 minister. 
 
 "He rode over to the ruins of Copan last 
 week," explained Garland, "where the Harvard 
 
 200
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 expedition is. But he's coming back to-morrow 
 on purpose to see you." 
 
 The consul had started toward the door when 
 he suddenly returned. 
 
 "And there's some one else coming to see 
 you," he said. "Some one," he added anx 
 iously, " you want to treat right. That's Monica 
 Ward. She's Chester Ward's sister, and you 
 mustn't get her mixed up with anything I 
 told you about her brother. She's coming to 
 ask you to help start a Red Cross Society. 
 She was a volunteer nurse in the hospital in the 
 last two revolutions, and what she saw makes 
 her want to be sure she won't see it again. 
 She's taught the native ladies the * first aid' 
 drill, and they expect you to be honorary pres 
 ident of the society. You'd better accept." 
 
 Shaking his head, Garland smiled pityingly 
 upon the new minister. 
 
 "You've got a swell chance to get your 
 treaty," he declared. "Monica is another one 
 who will prevent it." 
 
 Everett sighed patiently. 
 
 "What," he demanded, "might her particular 
 crime be; murder, shoplifting, treason " 
 
 "If her brother had to leave this country," 
 interrupted Garland, "she'd leave with him. 
 And the people don't want that. Her pull is 
 the same as old man Goddard's. Everybody 
 
 201
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 loves him and everybody loves her. I love her," 
 exclaimed the consul cheerfully; "the President 
 loves her, the sisters in the hospital, the chain- 
 gang in the street, the washerwomen in the 
 river, the palace guard, everybody in this flea-v 
 bitten, God-forsaken country loves Monica 
 Ward and when you meet her you will, too." 
 
 Garland had again reached the door to the 
 outer hall before Everett called him back. 
 
 "If it is not a leading question," asked the 
 minister, "what little indiscretion in your life 
 brought you to Amapala?" 
 
 Garland grinned appreciatively. 
 
 "I know they sound a queer lot," he assented, 
 "but when you get to know 'em, you like 'em. 
 My own trouble," he added, "was a horse. I 
 never could see why they made such a fuss 
 about him. He was lame when I took him." 
 
 Disregarding Garland's pleasantry, for some 
 time His Excellency sat with his hands clasped 
 behind his head, frowning up from the open 
 patio into the hot, cloudless sky. On the ridge 
 of his tiled roof a foul buzzard blinked at him 
 from red-rimmed eyes, across the yellow wall a 
 lizard ran for shelter, at his elbow a macaw 
 compassing the circle of its tin prison muttered 
 dreadful oaths. Outside, as the washerwomen 
 beat their linen clubs upon the flat rocks of the 
 river, the hot, stale air was spanked with sharp 
 
 202
 
 'You mustn't get her mixed up with anything I told you 
 about her brother."
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 reports. In Camaguay theirs was the only 
 industry, the only sign of cleanliness; and recog 
 nizing that another shirt had been thrashed 
 into subjection and rags, Everett winced. No 
 less visibly did his own thoughts cause him to 
 wince. Garland he had forgotten, and he was 
 sunk deep in self-pity. His thoughts were of 
 London, with its world politics, its splendid tra 
 ditions, its great and gracious ladies; of Paris in 
 the spring sunshine, when he cantered through 
 the Bois; of Madrid, with its pomp and royalty, 
 and the gray walls of its galleries proclaiming 
 Murillo and Velasquez. These things he had 
 forsaken because he believed he was ambitious; 
 and behold into what a cul-de-sac his ambition 
 had led him ! A comic-opera country that was 
 not comic, but dead and buried from the world; 
 a savage people, unread, unenlightened, un 
 clean; and for society of his countrymen, pitiful 
 derelicts in hiding from the law. In his soul he 
 rebelled. In words he exploded bitterly. 
 
 "This is one hell of a hole, Garland," cried 
 the diplomat. His jaws and his eyes hardened. 
 " I'm going back to Europe. And the only way 
 I can go is to get that treaty. I was sent here 
 to get it. Those were my orders. And I'll 
 get it if I have to bribe them out of my own 
 pocket; if I have to outbid Mr. Ward, and 
 send him and your good Colonel Goddard and 
 
 203
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COB RE 
 
 all the rest of the crew to the jails where they 
 belong!" 
 
 Garland heard him without emotion. From 
 long residence near the equator he diagnosed 
 the outbreak as a case of tropic choler, aggra 
 vated by nostalgia and fleas. 
 
 "I'll bet you don't," he said. 
 
 "I'll bet you your passage-money home," 
 shouted Everett, "against my passage-money 
 to Europe." 
 
 "Done!" said Garland. "How much time 
 do you want two years?" 
 
 The diplomat exclaimed mockingly: 
 
 "Two months!" 
 
 "I win now," said the consul. " I'll go home 
 and pack." 
 
 The next morning his clerk told Everett that 
 in the outer office Monica Ward awaited him. 
 
 Overnight Everett had developed a prejudice 
 against Miss Ward. What Garland had said in 
 her favor had only driven him the wrong way. 
 Her universal popularity he disliked. He ar 
 gued that to gain popularity one must con 
 cede and capitulate. He felt that the sister 
 of an acknowledged crook, no matter how inno 
 cent she might be, were she a sensitive woman, 
 would wish to efface herself. And he had 
 found that, as a rule, women who worked in 
 hospitals and organized societies bored him. 
 
 204
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 He did not admire the militant, executive sis 
 ter. He pictured Miss Ward as probably 
 pretty, but with the coquettish effrontery of 
 the village belle and with the pushing, "good- 
 fellow" manners of the new school. He was 
 prepared either to have her slap him on the 
 back or, from behind tilted eye-glasses, make 
 eyes at him. He was sure she wore eye-glasses, 
 and was large, plump, and Junoesque. With 
 reluctance he entered the outer office. He saw, 
 all in white, a girl so young that she was hardly 
 more than a child, but with the tall, slim figure 
 of a boy. Her face was lovely as the face of a 
 violet, and her eyes were as shy. But shy not 
 through lack of confidence in Everett, nor in 
 any human being, but in herself. They seemed 
 to say, "I am a very unworthy, somewhat 
 frightened young person; but you, who are so 
 big and generous, will overlook that, and you 
 are going to be my friend. Indeed, I see you 
 are my friend." 
 
 Everett stood quite still. He nodded gloomily. 
 
 "Garland was right," he exclaimed; "I do!" 
 
 The young lady was plainly distressed. 
 
 "Do what?" she stammered. 
 
 "Some day I will tell you," said the young 
 man. "Yes," he added, without shame, "I am 
 afraid I will." He bowed her into the inner 
 office. 
 
 205
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 "I am sorry," apologized Monica, "but I am 
 come to ask a favor two favors; one of you 
 and one of the American minister." 
 
 Everett drew his armchair from his desk and 
 waved Monica into it. 
 
 "I was sent here," he said, "to do exactly 
 what you want. The last words the President 
 addressed to me were, 'On arriving at your post 
 report to Miss Monica Ward.' ' 
 
 Fearfully, Monica perched herself on the edge 
 of the armchair; as though for protection she 
 clasped the broad table before her. 
 
 "The favor I want," she hastily assured him, 
 "is not for myself." 
 
 "I am sorry," said Everett, "for it is already 
 granted." 
 
 "You are very good," protested Monica. 
 
 "No," replied Everett, "I am only powerful. 
 I represent ninety-five million Americans, and 
 they are all entirely at your service. So is the 
 army and navy." 
 
 Monica smiled and shook her head. The 
 awe she felt was due an American minister was 
 rapidly disappearing, and in Mr. Everett him 
 self her confidence was increasing. The other 
 ministers plenipotentiary she had seen at Cama- 
 guay had been old, with beards like mountain- 
 goats, and had worn linen dusters. They al 
 ways were very red in the face and very damp. 
 
 206
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 Monica decided Mr. Everett also was old; she 
 was sure he must be at least thirty-five; but in 
 his silk pongee and pipe-clayed tennis-shoes he 
 was a refreshing spectacle. Just to look at him 
 turned one quite cool. 
 
 " We have a very fine line of battle-ships this 
 morning at Guantanamo," urged Everett; "if 
 you want one I'll cable for it." 
 
 Monica laughed softly. It was good to hear 
 nonsense spoken. The Amapalans had never 
 learned it, and her brother said just what he 
 meant and no more. 
 
 "Our sailors were here once," Monica volun 
 teered. She wanted Mr. Everett to know he 
 was not entirely cut off from the world. "Dur 
 ing the revolution," she explained. "We were 
 so glad to see them; they made us all feel nearer 
 home. They set up our flag in the plaza, and 
 the color-guard let me photograph it, with them 
 guarding it. And when they marched away 
 the archbishop stood on the cathedral steps and 
 blessed them, and we rode out along the trail to 
 where it comes to the jungle. And then we 
 waved good-by, and they cheered us. We all 
 cried." 
 
 For a moment, quite unconsciously, Monica 
 gave an imitation of how they all cried. It 
 made the appeal of the violet eyes even more 
 disturbing. 
 
 207
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 "Don't you love our sailors?" begged Mon 
 ica. 
 
 Fearful of hurting the feelings of others, she 
 added hastily, "And, of course, our marines, 
 too." 
 
 Everett assured her if there was one thing 
 that meant more to him than all else, it was an 
 American bluejacket, and next to him an Amer 
 ican leatherneck. 
 
 It took a long time to arrange the details of 
 the Red Cross Society. In spite of his reputa 
 tion for brilliancy, it seemed to Monica Mr. 
 Everett had a mind that plodded. For his 
 benefit it was necessary several times to repeat 
 the most simple proposition. She was sure his 
 inability to fasten his attention on her League 
 of Mercy was because his brain was occupied 
 with problems of state. It made her feel sel 
 fish and guilty. When his visitor decided that 
 to explain further was but to waste his valuable 
 time and had made her third effort to go, Ever 
 ett went with her. He suggested that she take 
 him to the hospital and introduce him to the 
 sisters. He wanted to talk to them about the 
 Red Cross League. It was a charming walk. 
 Every one lifted his hat to Monica; the beggars, 
 the cab-drivers, the barefooted policemen, and 
 the social lights of Camaguay on the sidewalks 
 in front of the cafes rose and bowed. 
 
 208
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 "It is like walking with royalty!" exclaimed 
 Everett. 
 
 While at the hospital he talked to the Mother 
 Superior his eyes followed Monica. As she 
 moved from cot to cot he noted how the younger 
 sisters fluttered happily around her, like brides 
 maids around a bride, and how as she passed, 
 the eyes of those in the cots followed her jeal 
 ously, and after she had spoken with them 
 smiled in content. 
 
 "She is good," the Mother Superior was say 
 ing, "and her brother, too, is very good." 
 
 Everett had forgotten the brother. With a 
 start he lifted his eyes and found the Mother 
 Superior regarding him. 
 
 "He is very good," she repeated. "For us, 
 he built this wing of the hospital. It was his 
 money. We should be very sorry if any harm 
 came to Mr. Ward. Without his help we would 
 starve." She smiled, and with a gesture signi 
 fied the sick. "I mean they would starve; they 
 would die of disease and fever." The woman 
 fixed upon him grave, inscrutable eyes. "Will 
 Your Excellency remember?" she said. It was 
 less of a question than a command. "Where 
 the church can forgive " she paused. 
 
 Like a real diplomat Everett sought refuge in 
 mere words. 
 
 "The church is all-powerful, Mother," he 
 209
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 said. "Her power to forgive is her strongest 
 weapon. I have no such power. It lies be 
 yond my authority. I am just a messenger- 
 boy carrying the wishes of the government of 
 one country to the government of another." 
 
 The face of the Mother Superior remained 
 grave, but undisturbed. 
 
 "Then, as regards our Mr. Ward," she said, 
 "the wishes of your government are " 
 
 Again she paused; again it was less of a ques 
 tion than a command. With interest Everett 
 gazed at the whitewashed ceiling. 
 
 "I have not yet," he said, "communicated 
 them to any one." 
 
 That night, after dinner in the patio, he 
 reported to Garland the words of the Mother 
 Superior. 
 
 "That was my dream, O Prophet," concluded 
 Everett; "you who can read this land of lotus- 
 eaters, interpret! What does it mean?" 
 
 "It only means what I've been telling you," 
 said the consul. " It means that if you're going 
 after that treaty, you've only got to fight the 
 Catholic Church. That's all it means !" 
 
 Later in the evening Garland said: "I saw 
 you this morning crossing the plaza with Mon 
 ica. When I told you everybody in this town 
 loved her, was I right?" 
 
 "Absolutely!" assented Everett. "But why 
 didn't you tell me she was a flapper?" 
 
 210
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 "I don't know what a flapper is," promptly 
 retorted Garland. "And if I did, I wouldn't 
 call Monica one." 
 
 "A flapper is a very charming person," pro 
 tested Everett, "I used the term in its most 
 complimentary sense. It means a girl between 
 fourteen and eighteen. It's English slang, and 
 in England at the present the flapper is very 
 popular. She is driving her sophisticated elder 
 sister, who has been out two or three seasons, 
 and the predatory married woman to the wall. 
 To men of my years the flapper is really at the 
 dangerous age." 
 
 In his bamboo chair Garland tossed violently 
 and snorted. 
 
 "I sized you up," he cried, "as a man of the 
 finest perceptions. I was wrong. You don't 
 appreciate Monica ! Dangerous ! You might 
 as well say God's sunshine is dangerous, or a 
 beautiful flower is dangerous." 
 
 Everett shook his head at the other man re 
 proachfully : 
 
 "Did you ever hear of a sunstroke?" he de 
 manded. "Don't you know if you smell cer 
 tain beautiful flowers you die? Can't you 
 grasp any other kind of danger than being run 
 down by a trolley-car? Is the danger of losing 
 one's peace of mind nothing, of being unfaithful 
 to duty, nothing ! Is " 
 
 Garland raised his arms. 
 211
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 "Don't shoot!" he begged. "I apologize. 
 You do appreciate Monica. You have your 
 consul's permission to walk with her again." 
 
 The next day young Professor Peabody called 
 and presented his letters. He was a forceful 
 young man to whom the delays of diplomacy 
 did not appeal, and one apparently accustomed 
 to riding off whatever came in his way. He 
 seemed to consider any one who opposed him, 
 or who even disagreed with his conclusions, as 
 offering a personal affront. With indignation he 
 launched into his grievance. 
 
 "These people," he declared, "are dogs in 
 the manger, and Ward is the worst of the lot. 
 He knows no more of archaeology than a con 
 gressman. The man's a faker ! He showed me 
 a spear-head of obsidian and called it flint; and 
 he said the Aztecs borrowed from the Mayas, 
 and that the Toltecs were a myth. And he got 
 the Aztec solar calendar mixed with the Ahau. 
 He's as ignorant as that." 
 
 "I can't believe it!" exclaimed Everett. 
 
 "You may laugh," protested the professor, 
 j"but the ruins of Cobre hold secrets the stu 
 dents of two continents are trying to solve. 
 They hide the history of a lost race, and I sub 
 mit it's not proper one man should keep that 
 knowledge from the world, certainly not for a 
 few gold armlets!" 
 
 212
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 Everett raised his eyes. 
 
 "What makes you say that?" he demanded. 
 
 "I've been kicking my heels in this town for 
 a month," Peabody told him, "and I've talked 
 to the people here, and to the Harvard expedi 
 tion at Copan, and everybody tells me this fel 
 low has found treasure." The archaeologist ex 
 claimed with indignation: "What's gold," he 
 snorted, "compared to the discovery of a lost 
 race?" 
 
 " I applaud your point of view," Everett as 
 sured him. "I am to see the President to 
 morrow, and I will lay the matter before him. 
 I'll ask him to give you a look in." 
 
 To urge his treaty of extradition was the 
 reason for the audience with the President, and 
 with all the courtesy that a bad case demanded 
 Mendoza protested against it. He pointed out 
 that governments entered into treaties only 
 when the ensuing benefits were mutual. For 
 Amapala in a treaty of extradition he saw no 
 benefit. Amapala was not so far "advanced" 
 as to produce defaulting bank presidents, get- 
 rich-quick promoters, counterfeiters, and thiev 
 ing cashiers. Her fugitives were revolutionists 
 who had fought and lost, and every one was 
 glad to have them go, and no one wanted them 
 back. 
 
 "Or," suggested the President, "suppose I 
 213
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 am turned out by a revolution, and I seek asy 
 lum in your country? My enemies desire my 
 
 life. They would ask for my extradition " 
 
 "If the offense were political,*' Everett cor 
 rected, "my government would surrender no 
 
 one." 
 
 "But my enemies would charge me with 
 murder," explained the President. "Remem 
 ber Castro. And by the terms of the treaty 
 your government would be forced to surrender 
 me. And I am shot against the wall." The 
 President shrugged his shoulders. "That treaty 
 would not be nice for me !" 
 
 "Consider the matter as a patriot," said the 
 diplomat. "Is it good that the criminals of 
 my country should make their home in yours? 
 When you are so fortunate as to have no dis 
 honest men of your own, why import ours? 
 We don't seek the individual. We want to 
 punish him only as a warning to others. And 
 we want the money he takes with him. Often 
 it is the savings of the very poor." 
 
 The President frowned. It was apparent 
 that both the subject and Everett bored him. 
 
 "I name no names," exclaimed Mendoza, 
 "but to those who come here we owe the little 
 railroads we possess. They develop our mines 
 and our coffee plantations. In time they will 
 make this country very modern, very rich. 
 
 214
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 And some you call criminals we have learned to 
 love. Their past does not concern us. We 
 shut our ears. We do not spy. They have 
 come to us as to a sanctuary, and so long as 
 they claim the right of sanctuary, I will not 
 violate it." 
 
 As Everett emerged from the cool, dark halls 
 of the palace into the glare of the plaza he was 
 scowling; and he acknowledged the salute of 
 the palace guard as though those gentlemen 
 had offered him an insult. 
 
 Garland was waiting in front of a cafe and 
 greeted him with a mocking grin. 
 
 "Congratulations," he shouted. 
 
 " I have still twenty-two days," said Everett. 
 
 The aristocracy of Camaguay invited the 
 new minister to formal dinners of eighteen 
 courses, and to picnics less formal. These latter 
 Everett greatly enjoyed, because while Monica 
 Ward was too young to attend the state din 
 ners, she was exactly the proper age for the all- 
 day excursions to the waterfalls, the coffee 
 plantations, and the asphalt lakes. The native 
 belles of Camaguay took no pleasure in riding 
 farther afield than the military parade-ground. 
 Climbing a trail so steep that you viewed the 
 sky between the ears of your pony, or where 
 with both hands you forced a way through 
 hanging vines and creepers, did not appeal. 
 
 215
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 But to Monica, with the seat and balance of a 
 cowboy, riding astride, with her leg straight 
 and the ball of her foot just feeling the stirrup, 
 these expeditions were the happiest moments in 
 her exile. So were they to Everett; and that 
 on the trail one could ride only in single file 
 was a most poignant regret. In the column the 
 place of honor was next to whoever rode at 
 the head, but Everett relinquished this position 
 in favor of Monica. By this manoeuvre she 
 always was in his sight, and he could call upon 
 her to act as his guide and to explain what lay 
 on either hand. His delight and wonder in 
 her grew daily. He found that her mind leaped 
 instantly and with gratitude to whatever was 
 most fair. Just out of reach of her pony's 
 hoofs he pressed his own pony forward, and 
 she pointed out to him what in the tropic abun 
 dance about them she found most beautiful. 
 Sometimes it was the tumbling waters of a 
 cataract; sometimes, high in the topmost 
 branches of a ceiba-tree, a gorgeous orchid; 
 sometimes a shaft of sunshine as rigid as a 
 search-light, piercing the shadow of the jungle. 
 At first she would turn in the saddle and call 
 to him, but as each day they grew to know 
 each other better she need only point with her 
 whip-hand and he would answer, "Yes," and 
 each knew the other understood. 
 
 216
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 As a body, the exiles resented Everett. They 
 knew his purpose in regard to the treaty, and 
 for them he always must be the enemy. Even 
 though as a man they might like him, they 
 could not forget that his presence threatened 
 their peace and safety. Chester Ward treated 
 him with impeccable politeness; but, although 
 his house was the show-place of Camaguay, he 
 never invited the American minister to cross 
 the threshold. On account of Monica, Everett 
 regretted this and tried to keep the relations of 
 her brother and himself outwardly pleasant. 
 But Ward made it difficult. To no one was 
 his manner effusive, and for Monica only he 
 seemed to hold any real feeling. The two were 
 alone in the world; he was her only relative, 
 and to the orphan he had been father and 
 mother. When she was a child he had bought 
 her toys and dolls; now, had the sisters per 
 mitted, he would have dressed her in imported 
 frocks, and with jewels killed her loveliness. 
 He seemed to understand how to spend his 
 money as little as did the gossips of Camaguay 
 understand from whence it came. 
 
 That Monica knew why her brother lived in 
 Camaguay Everett was uncertain. She did not 
 complain of living there, but she was not at 
 rest, and constantly she was asking Everett of 
 foreign lands. As Everett was homesick far 
 them, he was most eloquent. 
 
 217
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 "I should like to see them for myself," said 
 Monica, "but until my brother's work here is 
 finished we must wait. And I am young, and 
 after a few years Europe will be just as old. 
 When my brother leaves Amapala, he promises 
 to take me wherever I ask to go: to London, to 
 Paris, to Rome. So I read and read of them; 
 books of history, books about painting, books 
 about the cathedrals. But the more I read the 
 more I want to go at once, and that is disloyal." 
 
 "Disloyal?" asked Everett. 
 
 "To my brother," explained Monica. "He 
 does so much for me. I should think only of 
 his work. That is all that really counts. For 
 the world is waiting to learn what he has dis 
 covered. It is like having a brother go in 
 search of the North Pole. You are proud of 
 what he is doing, but you want him back to 
 keep him to yourself. Is that selfish?" 
 
 Everett was a trained diplomat, but with his 
 opinion of Chester Ward he could not think of 
 the answer. Instead, he was thinking of Mon 
 ica in Europe; of taking her through the churches 
 and galleries which she had seen only in black 
 and white. He imagined himself at her side 
 facing the altar of some great cathedral, or 
 some painting in the Louvre, and watching her 
 face lighten and the tears come to her eyes, as 
 they did now, when things that were beautiful 
 hurt her. Or he imagined her rid of her half- 
 
 218
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 mourning and accompanying him through a 
 cyclonic diplomatic career that carried them to 
 Japan, China, Persia; to Berlin, Paris, and 
 London. In these imaginings Monica appeared 
 in pongee and a sun-hat riding an elephant, 
 in pearls and satin receiving royalty, in tweed 
 knickerbockers and a woollen jersey coasting 
 around the hairpin curve at Saint Moritz. 
 
 Of course he recognized that except as his 
 wife Monica could not accompany him to all 
 these strange lands and high diplomatic posts. 
 And of course that was ridiculous. He had 
 made up his mind for the success of what he 
 called his career, that he was too young to 
 marry; but he was sure, should he propose to 
 marry Monica, every one would say he was 
 too old. And there was another consideration. 
 What of the brother? Would his government 
 send him to a foreign post when his wife was 
 the sister of a man they had just sent to the 
 penitentiary? 
 
 He could hear them say in London, "We 
 know your first secretary, but who is Mrs. 
 Everett?" And the American visitor would 
 explain: "She is the sister of 'Inky Dink/ the 
 forger. He is bookkeeping in Sing Sing." 
 
 Certainly it would be a handicap. He tried 
 to persuade himself that Monica so entirely 
 filled his thoughts because in Camaguay there 
 
 219
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 was no one else; it was a case of propinquity; 
 her loneliness and the fact that she lay under 
 a shadow for which she was not to blame ap 
 pealed to his chivalry. So, he told himself, in 
 thinking of Monica except as a charming com 
 panion, he was an ass. And then, arguing that 
 in calling himself an ass he had shown his sane- 
 ness and impartiality, he felt justified in seeing 
 her daily. 
 
 One morning Garland came to the legation to 
 tell Everett that Peabody was in danger of 
 bringing about international complications by 
 having himself thrust into the cartel. 
 
 "If he qualifies for this local jail," said Gar 
 land, "you will have a lot of trouble setting 
 him free. You'd better warn him it's easier to 
 keep out than to get out." 
 
 "What has he been doing?" asked the min 
 ister. 
 
 "Poaching on Ward's ruins," said the consul. 
 "He certainly is a hustler. He pretends to go 
 to Copan, but really goes to Cobre. Ward had 
 him followed and threatened to have him ar 
 rested. Peabody claims any tourist has a 
 right to visit the ruins so long as he does no 
 excavating. Ward accused him of exploring 
 the place by night and taking photographs by 
 flash-light of the hieroglyphs. He's put an 
 armed guard at the ruins, and he told Peabody 
 
 220
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 they are to shoot on sight. So Peabody went 
 to Mendoza and said if anybody took a shot at 
 him he'd bring war-ships down here and blow 
 Amapala off the map/' 
 
 "A militant archaeologist," said Everett, "is 
 something new. Peabody is too enthusiastic. 
 He and his hieroglyphs are becoming a bore." 
 
 He sent for Peabody and told him unless he 
 curbed his spirit his minister could not promise 
 to keep him out of a very damp and dirty dun 
 geon. 
 
 "I am too enthusiastic," Peabody admitted, 
 "but to me this fellow Ward is like a red flag 
 to the bull. His private graft is holding up 
 the whole scientific world. He won't let us 
 learn the truth, and he's too ignorant to learn 
 it himself. Why, he told me Cobre dated from 
 iSyS, when Palacio wrote of it to Philip the 
 Second, not knowing that in that very letter 
 Palacio states that he found Cobre in ruins. 
 Is it right a man as ignorant " 
 
 Everett interrupted by levelling his finger. 
 
 "You," he commanded, "keep out of those 
 ruins ! My dear professor," he continued re 
 proachfully, "you are a student, a man of 
 peace. Don't try to wage war on these Ama- 
 palans. They're lawless, they're unscrupulous. 
 So is Ward. Besides, you are in the wrong, and 
 if they turn ugly, your minister cannot help 
 
 221
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 you." He shook his head and smiled doubt 
 fully. "I can't understand," he exclaimed, 
 "why you're so keen. It's only a heap of 
 broken pottery. Sometimes I wonder if your 
 interest in Cobre is that only of the archaeolo- 
 gist." 
 
 "What other interest " demanded Peabody. 
 
 "Doesn't Ward's buried treasure appeal at 
 all?" asked the minister. "I mean, of course, 
 to your imagination. It does to mine." 
 
 The young professor laughed tolerantly. 
 
 "Buried treasure!" he exclaimed. "If Ward 
 has found treasure, and I think he has, he's wel 
 come to it. What we want is what you call 
 the broken pottery. It means nothing to you, 
 but to men like myself, who live eight hundred 
 years behind the times, it is much more precious 
 than gold." 
 
 A few moments later Professor Peabody took 
 his leave, and it was not until he had turned 
 the corner of the Calle Morazan that he halted 
 and, like a man emerging from water, drew a 
 deep breath. 
 
 "Gee!" muttered the distinguished archaeol 
 ogist, "that was a close call !" 
 
 One or two women had loved Everett, and 
 after five weeks, in which almost daily he had 
 seen Monica, he knew she cared for him. This 
 discovery made him entirely happy and filled 
 
 222
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 him with dismay. It was a complication he 
 had not foreseen. It left him at the parting of 
 two ways, one of which he must choose. For 
 his career he was willing to renounce marriage, 
 but now that Monica loved him, even though 
 he had consciously not tried to make her love 
 him, had he the right to renounce it for her 
 also? He knew that the difference between 
 Monica and his career lay in the fact that he 
 loved Monica and was in love with his career. 
 Which should he surrender? Of this he thought 
 long and deeply, until one night, without think 
 ing at all, he chose. 
 
 Colonel Goddard had given a dance, and, as 
 all invited were Americans, the etiquette was 
 less formal than at the gatherings of the Ama- 
 palans. For one thing, the minister and Mon 
 ica were able to sit on the veranda overlooking 
 the garden without his having to fight a duel 
 in the morning. 
 
 It was not the moonlight, or the music, or 
 the palms that made Everett speak. It was 
 simply the knowledge that it was written, that 
 it had to be. And he heard himself, without 
 prelude or introduction, talking easily and 
 assuredly of the life they would lead as man 
 and wife. From this dream Monica woke him. 
 The violet eyes were smiling at him through 
 tears. 
 
 223
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 "When you came," said the girl, "and I 
 loved you, I thought that was the greatest hap 
 piness. Now that I know you love me I ask 
 nothing more. And I can bear it." 
 
 Everett felt as though an icy finger had 
 moved swiftly down his spine. He pretended 
 not to understand. 
 
 "Bear what?" he demanded roughly. 
 
 "That I cannot marry you," said the girl. 
 "Even had you not asked me, in loving you I 
 would have been happy. Now that I know 
 you thought of me as your wife, I am proud. 
 I am grateful. And the obstacle " 
 
 Everett laughed scornfully. 
 
 "There is no obstacle." 
 
 Monica shook her head. Unafraid, she looked 
 into his eyes, her own filled with her love for him. 
 
 "Don't make it harder," she said. "My 
 brother is hiding from the law. What he did 
 I don't know. When it happened I was at the 
 convent, and he did not send for me until he 
 had reached Amapala. I never asked why we 
 came, but were I to marry you, with your name 
 and your position, every one else would ask. 
 And the scandal would follow you; wherever 
 you went it would follow; it would put an end 
 to your career." 
 
 His career, now that Monica urged it as her 
 rival, seemed to Everett particularly trivial. 
 
 224
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 "I don't know what your brother did either," 
 he said. "His sins are on his own head. 
 They're not on yours, nor on mine. I don't 
 judge him; neither do I intend to let him spoil 
 my happiness. Now that I have found you I 
 will never let you go." 
 
 Sadly Monica shook her head and smiled. 
 
 "When you leave here," she said, "for some 
 new post, you won't forget me, but you'll be 
 grateful that I let you go alone; that I was not 
 a drag on you. When you go back to your 
 great people and your proud and beautiful 
 princesses, all this will seem a strange dream, 
 and you will be glad you are awake and free." 
 
 "The idea of marrying you, Monica," said 
 Everett, "is not new. It did not occur to me 
 only since we moved out here into the moon 
 light. Since I first saw you I've thought of you, 
 and only of you. I've thought of you with me 
 in every corner of the globe, as my wife, my 
 sweetheart, my partner, riding through jungles 
 as we ride here, sitting opposite me at our own 
 table, putting the proud and beautiful princesses 
 at their ease. And in all places, at all moments, 
 you make all other women tawdry and absurd. 
 And I don't think you are the most wonderful 
 person I ever met because I love you, but I 
 love you because you are the most wonderful 
 person I ever met." 
 
 225
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 "I am young," said Monica, "but since I 
 began to love you I am very old. And I see 
 clearly that it cannot be." 
 
 "Dear heart," cried Everett, "that is quite 
 morbid. What the devil do I care what your 
 brother has done! I am not marrying your 
 brother." 
 
 For a long time, leaning forward with her 
 elbows on her knees and her face buried in her 
 hands, the girl sat silent. It was as though she 
 were praying. Everett knew it was not of him, 
 but of her brother, she was thinking, and his 
 heart ached for her. For him to cut the 
 brother out of his life was not difficult; what it 
 meant to her he could guess. 
 
 When the girl raised her eyes they were elo 
 quent with distress. 
 
 "He has been so good to me," she said; "al 
 ways so gentle. He has been mother and father 
 to me. He is the first person I can remember. 
 When I was a child he put me to bed, he dressed 
 me, and comforted me. When we became rich 
 there was nothing he did not wish to give me. 
 I cannot leave him. He needs me more than 
 ever I needed him. I am all he has. And there 
 is this besides. Were I to marry, of all the 
 men in the world it would be harder for him if 
 I married you. For if you succeed in what 
 you came here to do, the law will punish him, 
 
 226
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COB RE 
 
 and he will know it was through you he was 
 punished. And even between you and me there 
 always would be that knowledge, that feeling." 
 "That is not fair," cried Everett. "I am 
 not an individual fighting less fortunate indi 
 viduals. I am an insignificant wheel in a great 
 
 machine. You must not blame me because 
 j > 
 
 With an exclamation the girl reproached 
 him. 
 
 "Because you do your duty!" she protested. 
 "Is that fair to me? If for my sake or my 
 brother you failed in your duty, if you were 
 less vigilant, less eager, even though we suffer, 
 I could not love you." 
 
 Everett sighed happily. 
 
 "As long as you love me," he said, "neither 
 your brother nor any one else can keep us 
 apart." 
 
 "My brother," said the girl, as though she 
 were pronouncing a sentence, "always will keep 
 us apart, and I will always love you." 
 
 It was a week before he again saw her, and 
 then the feeling he had read in her eyes was 
 gone or rigorously concealed. Now her man 
 ner was that of a friend, of a young girl address 
 ing a man older than herself, one to whom she 
 looked up with respect and liking, but with no 
 sign of any feeling deeper or more intimate. 
 
 227
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 It upset Everett completely. When he pleaded 
 with her, she asked: 
 
 "Do you think it is easy for me? But " 
 she protested, " I know I am doing right. I am 
 doing it to make you happy." 
 
 "You are succeeding," Everett assured her, 
 "in making us both damned miserable." 
 
 For Everett, in the second month of his stay 
 in Amapala, events began to move quickly. 
 Following the example of two of his predecessors, 
 the Secretary of State of the United States was 
 about to make a grand tour of Central America. 
 He came on a mission of peace and brotherly 
 love, to foster confidence and good-will, and it 
 was secretly hoped that, in the wake of his 
 escort of battle-ships, trade would follow fast. 
 There would be salutes and visits of ceremony, 
 speeches, banquets, reviews. But in these re 
 joicings Amapala would have no part. 
 
 For, so Everett was informed by cable, un 
 less, previous to the visit of the Secretary, 
 Amapala fell into line with her sister republics 
 and signed a treaty of extradition, from the 
 itinerary of the great man Amapala would find 
 herself pointedly excluded. It would be a 
 humiliation. In the eyes of her sister republics 
 it would place her outside the pale. Everett 
 saw that in his hands his friend the Secretary 
 had placed a powerful weapon; and lost no time 
 
 228
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 in using it. He caught the President alone, 
 sitting late at his dinner, surrounded by bottles, 
 and read to him the Secretary's ultimatum. 
 General Mendoza did not at once surrender. 
 Before he threw over the men who fed him the 
 golden eggs that made him rich, and for whom 
 he had sworn never to violate the right of sanc 
 tuary, he first, for fully half an hour, raged and 
 swore. During that time, while Everett sat 
 anxiously expectant, the President paced and 
 repaced the length of the dining-hall. When 
 to relight his cigar, or to gulp brandy from a 
 tumbler, he halted at the table, his great bulk 
 loomed large in the flickering candle-flames, and 
 when he continued his march, he would disap 
 pear into the shadows, and only his scabbard 
 clanking on the stone floor told of his presence. 
 At last he halted and shrugged his shoulders 
 so that the tassels of his epaulets tossed like 
 wheat. 
 
 "You drive a hard bargain, sir," he said. 
 "And I have no choice. To-morrow bring the 
 treaty and I will sign." 
 
 Everett at once produced it and a fountain 
 pen. 
 
 "I should like to cable to-night," he urged, 
 "that you have signed. They are holding back 
 the public announcement of the Secretary's 
 route until hearing from Your Excellency. This 
 
 229
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 is only tentative," he pointed out; "the Senate 
 must ratify. But our Senate will ratify it, and 
 when you sign now, it is a thing accomplished." 
 
 Over the place at which Everett pointed, the 
 pen scratched harshly; and then, throwing it 
 from him, the President sat in silence. With 
 eyes inflamed by anger and brandy he regarded 
 the treaty venomously. As though loath to 
 let it go, his hands played with it, as a cat plays 
 with the mouse between her paws. Watching 
 him breathlessly, Everett feared the end was 
 not yet. He felt a depressing premonition that 
 if ever the treaty were to reach Washington he 
 best had snatch it and run. Even as he waited, 
 the end came. An orderly, appearing suddenly 
 in the light of the candles, announced the ar 
 rival, in the room adjoining, of "the Colonel 
 Goddard and Sefior Mellen." They desired an 
 immediate audience. Their business with the 
 President was most urgent. Whether from 
 Washington their agents had warned them, 
 whether in Camaguay they had deciphered the 
 cablegram from the State Department, Everett 
 could only guess, but he was certain the cause 
 of their visit was the treaty. That Mendoza 
 also believed this was most evident. 
 
 Into the darkness, from which the two exiles 
 might emerge, he peered guiltily. With an 
 oath he tore the treaty in half. Crushing the 
 
 230
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 pieces of paper into a ball, he threw it at Ever 
 ett's feet. His voice rose to a shriek. It was 
 apparent he intended his words to carry to the 
 men outside. Like an actor on a stage he 
 waved his arms. 
 
 "That is my answer!" he shouted. "Tell 
 your Secretary the choice he offers is an insult ! 
 It is blackmail. We will not sign his treaty. 
 We do not desire his visit to our country." 
 Thrilled by his own bravado, his voice rose 
 higher. "Nor," he shouted, "do we desire the 
 presence of his representative. Your usefulness 
 is at an end. You will receive your passports 
 in the morning." 
 
 As he might discharge a cook, he waved 
 Everett away. His hand, trembling with ex 
 citement, closed around the neck of the brandy- 
 bottle. Everett stooped and secured the treaty. 
 On his return to Washington, torn and rumpled 
 as it was, it would be his justification. It was 
 his "Exhibit A." 
 
 As he approached the legation he saw drawn 
 up in front of it three ponies ready saddled. 
 For an instant he wondered if Mendoza intended 
 further to insult him, if he planned that night 
 to send him under guard to the coast. He de 
 termined hotly sooner than submit to such an 
 indignity he would fortify the legation, and 
 defend himself. But no such heroics were re- 
 
 231
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 quired of him. As he reached the door, Gar 
 land, with an exclamation of relief, hailed him, 
 and Monica, stepping from the shadow, laid 
 an appealing hand upon his sleeve. 
 
 "My brother!" she exclaimed. "The guard 
 at Cobre has just sent word that they found 
 Peabody prowling in the ruins and fired on him. 
 He fired back, and he is still there hiding. My 
 brother and others have gone to take him. I 
 don't know what may happen if he resists. 
 Chester is armed, and he is furious; he is beside 
 himself; he would not listen to me. But he 
 must listen to you. Will you go," the girl 
 begged, "and speak to him; speak to him, I 
 mean," she added, "as the American minister?" 
 
 Everett already had his foot in the stirrup. 
 "I'm the American minister only until to-mor 
 row," he said. "I've got my walking-papers. 
 But I'll do all I can to stop this to-night. Gar 
 land," he asked, "will you take Miss Ward 
 home, and then follow me?" 
 
 "If I do not go with you," said Monica, "I 
 will go alone." 
 
 Her tone was final. With a clatter of hoofs 
 that woke alarmed echoes in the sleeping 
 streets the three horses galloped abreast toward 
 Cobre. In an hour they left the main trail and 
 at a walk picked their way to where the blocks 
 of stone, broken columns, and crumbling tem- 
 
 232
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 pies of the half-buried city checked the jun 
 gle. 
 
 The moon made it possible to move in safety, 
 and at different distances the lights of torches 
 told them the man-hunt still was in progress. 
 
 "Thank God,** breathed Monica, "we are 
 in time.'* 
 
 Everett gave the ponies in care of one of the 
 guards. He turned to Garland. 
 
 "Catch up with those lights ahead of us,** he 
 said, "and we will join this party to the right. 
 If you find Ward, tell him I forbid him taking 
 the law into his own hands; tell him I will pro 
 tect his interests. If you meet Peabody, make 
 him give up his gun, and see that the others 
 don't harm him!** 
 
 Everett and the girl did not overtake the 
 lights they had seen flashing below them. Be 
 fore they were within hailing distance, that 
 searching party had disappeared, and still far 
 ther away other torches beckoned. 
 
 Stumbling and falling, now in pursuit of one 
 will-o'-the-wisp, now of another, they scrambled 
 forward. But always the lights eluded them. 
 From their exertions and the moist heat they 
 were breathless, and their bodies dripped with 
 water. Panting, they halted at the entrance of 
 what once had been a tomb. From its black 
 interior came a damp mist; above them, alarmed 
 
 233
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 by their intrusion, the vampire bats whirled 
 blindly in circles. Monica, who by day pos 
 sessed some slight knowledge of the ruins, had, 
 in the moonlight, lost all sense of direction. 
 
 "We're lost," said Monica, in a low tone. 
 Unconsciously both were speaking in whispers. 
 "I thought we were following what used to be 
 the main thoroughfare of the city; but I have 
 never seen this place before. From what I 
 have read I think we must be among the tombs 
 of the kings." 
 
 She was silenced by Everett placing one hand 
 quickly on her arm, and with the other pointing. 
 In the uncertain moonlight she saw moving 
 cautiously away from them, and unconscious 
 of their presence, a white, ghostlike figure. 
 
 "Peabody," whispered Everett. 
 
 "Call him," commanded Monica. 
 
 "The others might hear," objected Everett. 
 "We must overtake him. If we're with him 
 when they meet, they wouldn't dare " 
 
 With a gasp of astonishment, his words 
 ceased. 
 
 Like a ghost, the ghostlike figure had van 
 ished. 
 
 "He walked through that rock!" cried Mon 
 ica. 
 
 Everett caught her by the wrist. "Come!" 
 he commanded. 
 
 234
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 Over the face of the rock, into which Peabody 
 had dived as into water, hung a curtain of vines. 
 Everett tore it apart. Concealed by the vines 
 was the narrow mouth to a tunnel; and from it 
 they heard, rapidly lessening in the distance, 
 the patter of footsteps. 
 
 "Will you wait," demanded Everett, "or 
 come with me?" 
 
 With a shudder of distaste, Monica answered 
 by seizing his hand. 
 
 With his free arm Everett swept aside the 
 vines, and, Monica following, they entered 
 the tunnel. It was a passageway cleanly cut 
 through the solid rock and sufficiently wide to 
 permit of their moving freely. At the farther 
 end, at a distance of a hundred yards, it opened 
 into a great vault, also hollowed from the rock 
 and, as they saw to their surprise, brilliantly 
 lighted. 
 
 For an instant, in black silhouette, the figure 
 of Peabody blocked the entrance to this vault, 
 and then, turning to the right, again vanished. 
 Monica felt an untimely desire to laugh. Now 
 that they were on the track of Peabody she no 
 longer feared the outcome of the adventure. 
 In the presence of the American minister and 
 of herself there would be no violence; and as 
 they trailed the archaeologist through the tunnel 
 she was reminded of Alice and her pursuit of 
 
 235
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 the white rabbit. This thought, and her sense 
 of relief that the danger was over, caused her 
 to laugh aloud. 
 
 They had gained the farther end of the tun 
 nel and the entrance to the vault, when at once 
 her amusement turned to wonder. For the 
 vault showed every evidence of use and of 
 recent occupation. In brackets, and burning 
 brightly, were lamps of modern make; on the 
 stone floor stood a canvas cot, saddle-bags, 
 camp-chairs, and in the centre of the vault a 
 collapsible table. On this were bottles filled 
 with chemicals, trays, and presses such as are 
 used in developing photographs, and appar 
 ently hung there to dry, swinging from strings, 
 the proofs of many negatives. 
 
 Loyal to her brother, Monica exclaimed in 
 dignantly. At the proofs she pointed an ac 
 cusing finger. 
 
 "Look!" she whispered. "This is Peabody's 
 darkroom, where he develops the flash-lights he 
 takes of the hieroglyphs ! Chester has a right 
 to be furious!" 
 
 Impulsively she would have pushed past 
 Everett; but with an exclamation he sprang in 
 front of her. 
 
 "No!" he commanded, "come away!" 
 
 He had fallen into a sudden panic. His tone 
 spoke of some catastrophe, imminent and over- 
 
 236
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 whelming. Monica followed the direction of 
 his eyes. They were staring in fear at the 
 proofs. 
 
 The girl leaned forward; and now saw them 
 clearly. 
 
 Each was a United States Treasury note for 
 five hundred dollars. 
 
 Around the turn of the tunnel, approaching 
 the vault apparently from another passage, they 
 heard hurrying footsteps; and then, close to 
 them from the vault itself, the voice of Professor 
 Peabody. 
 
 It was harsh, sharp, peremptory. 
 
 "Hands up!*' it commanded. "Drop that 
 gun!" 
 
 As though halted by a precipice, the footsteps 
 fell into instant silence. There was a pause, 
 and then the ring of steel upon the stone floor. 
 There was another pause, and Monica heard the 
 voice of her brother. Broken, as though with 
 running, it still retained its level accent, its 
 note of insolence. 
 
 "So," it said, "I have caught you?" 
 
 Monica struggled toward the lighted vault, 
 but around her Everett threw his arm. 
 
 "Come away!" he begged. 
 
 Monica fought against the terror of something 
 unknown. She could not understand. They 
 had come only to prevent a meeting between 
 
 237
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 her brother and Peabody; and now that they 
 had met, Everett was endeavoring to escape. 
 
 It was incomprehensible. 
 
 And the money in the vault, the yellow bills 
 hanging from a cobweb of strings; why should 
 they terrify her; what did they threaten? 
 Dully, and from a distance, Monica heard the 
 voice of Peabody. 
 
 "No," he answered; "I have caught you! 
 And I've had a hell of a time doing it !" 
 
 Monica tried to call out, to assure her brother 
 of her presence. But, as though in a nightmare, 
 she could make no sound. Fingers of fear 
 gripped at her throat. To struggle was no 
 longer possible. 
 
 The voice of Peabody continued: 
 
 "Six months ago we traced these bills to New 
 Orleans. So we guessed the plant was in Cen 
 tral America. We knew only one man who 
 could make them. When I found you were in 
 Amapala and they said you had struck * buried 
 treasure* the rest was easy." 
 
 Monica heard the voice of her brother answer 
 with a laugh. 
 
 "Easy?" he mocked. "There's no extradi 
 tion. You can't touch me. You're lucky if 
 you get out of here alive. I've only to raise 
 my voice " 
 
 "And, I'll kill you!" 
 
 This was danger Monica could understand. 
 238
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 Freed from the nightmare of doubt, with a 
 cry she ran forward. She saw Peabody, his 
 back against a wall, a levelled automatic in his 
 hand; her brother at the entrance to a tunnel 
 like the one from which she had just appeared. 
 His arms were raised above his head. At his 
 feet lay a revolver. For an instant, with disbe 
 lief, he stared at Monica, and then, as though 
 assured that it was she, his eyes dilated. In 
 them were fear and horror. So genuine was 
 the agony in the face of the counterfeiter that 
 Everett, who had followed, turned his own 
 away. But the eyes of the brother and sister 
 remained fixed upon each other, hers, appeal- 
 ingly; his, with despair. He tried to speak, 
 but the words did not come. When he did 
 break the silence his tone was singularly wist 
 ful, most tenderly kind. 
 
 "Did you hear?" he asked. 
 
 Monica slowly bowed her head. With the 
 same note of gentleness her brother persisted : 
 
 "Did you understand?" 
 
 Between them stretched the cobweb of strings 
 hung with yellow certificates; each calling for 
 five hundred dollars, payable in gold. Stirred 
 by the night air from the open tunnels, they 
 fluttered and flaunted. 
 
 Against the sight of them, Monica closed her 
 eyes. Heavily, as though with a great physical 
 effort, again she bowed her head. 
 
 '239
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 The eyes of her brother searched about him 
 wildly. They rested on the mouth of the 
 tunnel. 
 
 With his lowered arm he pointed. 
 
 "Who is that?" he cried. 
 
 Instinctively the others turned. 
 
 It was for an instant. The instant sufficed. 
 
 Monica saw her brother throw himself upon 
 the floor, felt herself flung aside as Everett and 
 the detective leaped upon him; saw her brother 
 press his hands against his heart, the two men 
 dragging at his arms. 
 
 The cavelike room was shaken with a report, 
 an acrid smoke assailed her nostrils. The men 
 ceased struggling. Her brother lay still. 
 
 Monica sprang toward the body, but a black 
 wave rose and submerged her. As she fainted, 
 to save herself she threw out her arms, and as 
 she fell she dragged down with her the buried 
 treasure of Cobre. 
 
 Stretched upon the stone floor beside her 
 brother, she lay motionless. Beneath her, and 
 wrapped about and covering her, as the leaves 
 covered the babes in the wood, was a vast cob 
 web of yellow bills, each for five hundred dol 
 lars, payable in gold. 
 
 A month later the harbor of Porto Cortez in 
 Honduras was shaken with the roar of cannon. 
 
 240
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 In comparison, the roaring of all the cannon of 
 all the revolutions that that distressful country 
 ever had known, were like fire-crackers under a 
 barrel. 
 
 Faithful to his itinerary, the Secretary of 
 State of the United States was paying his for 
 mal visit to Honduras, and the President of 
 that republic, waiting upon the Fruit Company's 
 wharf to greet him, was receiving the salute of 
 the American battle-ships. Back of him, on 
 the wharf, his own barefooted artillerymen in 
 their turn were saluting, excitedly and spas 
 modically, the distinguished visitor. As an 
 honor he had at last learned to accept without 
 putting a finger in each ear, the Secretary of 
 State smiled with gracious calm. Less calm 
 was the President of Honduras. He knew 
 something the Secretary did not know. He 
 knew that at any moment a gun of his saluting 
 battery might turn turtle, or blow into the 
 harbor himself, his cabinet, and the larger part 
 of his standing army. 
 
 Made fast to the wharf on the side opposite 
 to the one at which the Secretary had landed 
 was one of the Fruit Company's steamers. She 
 was on her way north, and Porto Cortez was a 
 port of call. That her passengers might not 
 intrude upon the ceremonies, her side of the 
 wharf was roped off and guarded by the stand- 
 
 241
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 ing army. But from her decks and from be 
 hind the ropes the passengers, with a battery 
 of cameras, were perpetuating the historic scene. 
 
 Among them, close to the ropes, viewing the 
 ceremony with the cynical eye of one who in 
 Europe had seen kings and emperors meet upon 
 the Field of the Cloth of Gold, was Everett. 
 He made no effort to bring himself to the atten 
 tion of his former chief. But when the intro 
 ductions were over, the Secretary of State 
 turned his eyes to his fellow countrymen crowd 
 ing the rails of the American steamer. They 
 greeted him with cheers. The great man raised 
 his hat, and his eyes fell upon Everett. The 
 Secretary advanced quickly, his hand extended, 
 brushing to one side the standing army. 
 
 "What are you doing here?'* he demanded. 
 
 "On my way home, sir," said Everett. "I 
 couldn't leave sooner; there were personal 
 reasons. But I cabled the department my 
 resignation the day Mendoza gave me my 
 walking-papers. You may remember," Ever 
 ett added dryly, "the department accepted by 
 cable." 
 
 The great man showed embarrassment. 
 
 "It was most unfortunate," he sympathized. 
 "We wanted that treaty, and while, no doubt, 
 you made every effort " 
 
 He became aware of the fact that Everett's 
 242
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 attention was not exclusively his own. Follow 
 ing the direction of the young man's eyes the 
 Secretary saw on the deck just above them, 
 leaning upon the rail, a girl in deep mourn 
 ing. 
 
 She was very beautiful. Her face was as 
 lovely as a violet and as shy. To the Secretary 
 a beautiful woman was always a beautiful 
 woman. But he had read the papers. Who 
 had not? He was sure there must be some 
 mistake. This could not be the sister of a 
 criminal; the woman for whom Everett had 
 smashed his career. 
 
 The Secretary masked his astonishment, but 
 not his admiration. 
 
 "Mrs. Everett?" he asked. His very tone 
 conveyed congratulations. 
 
 "Yes," said the ex-diplomat. "Some day I 
 shall be glad to present you." 
 
 The Secretary did not wait for an introduc 
 tion. Raising his eyes to the ship's rail, he 
 made a deep and courtly bow. With a gesture 
 worthy of d'Artagnan, his high hat swept the 
 wharf. The members of his staff, the officers 
 from the war-ships, the President of Honduras 
 and the members of bis staff endeavored to 
 imitate his act of homage, and in confusion 
 Mrs. Everett blushed becomingly. 
 
 "When I return to Washington," said the 
 243
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 Secretary hastily, "come and see me. You are 
 too valuable to lose. Your career " 
 
 Again Everett was looking at his wife. Her 
 distress at having been so suddenly drawn into 
 the lime-light amused him, and he was smiling. 
 Then, as though aware of the Secretary's mean 
 ing, he laughed. 
 
 "My dear sir !" he protested. His tone sug 
 gested he was about to add "mind your own 
 business," or "go to the devil." 
 
 Instead he said: "I'm not worrying about my 
 career. My career has just begun." 
 
 244
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 A RULE of the Boy Scouts is every day to do 
 some one a good turn. Not because the copy 
 books tell you it deserves another, but in spite 
 of that pleasing possibility. If you are a true 
 scout, until you have performed your act of 
 kindness your day is dark. You are as un 
 happy as is the grown-up who has begun his 
 day without shaving or reading the New York 
 Sun. But as soon as you have proved yourself 
 you may, with a clear conscience, look the 
 world in the face and untie the knot in your 
 kerchief. 
 
 Jimmie Reeder untied the accusing knot in 
 his scarf at just ten minutes past eight on a hot 
 August morning after he had given one dime 
 to his sister Sadie. With that she could either 
 witness the first-run films at the Palace, or by 
 dividing her fortune patronize two of the nickel 
 shows on Lenox Avenue. The choice Jimmie 
 left to her. He was setting out for the annual 
 encampment of the Boy Scouts at Hunter's 
 Island, and in the excitement of that adventure 
 even the movies ceased to thrill. But Sadie 
 also could be unselfish. With a heroism of a 
 
 245
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 camp-fire maiden she made a gesture which 
 might have been interpreted to mean she was 
 returning the money. 
 
 "I can't, Jimmie!" she gasped. "I can't 
 take it off you. You saved it, and you ought 
 to get the fun of it." 
 
 " I haven't saved it yet," said Jimmie. " I'm 
 going to cut it out of the railroad fare. I'm 
 going to get off at City Island instead of at 
 Pelham Manor and walk the difference. That's 
 ten cents cheaper." 
 
 Sadie exclaimed with admiration: 
 "An* you carry in* that heavy grip!" 
 "Aw, that's nothin'," said the man of the 
 family. 
 
 "Good-by, mother. So long, Sadie." 
 To ward off further expressions of gratitude 
 he hurriedly advised Sadie to take in "The 
 Curse of Cain" rather than "The Mohawk's 
 Last Stand," and fled down the front steps. 
 
 He wore his khaki uniform. On his shoulders 
 was his knapsack, from his hands swung his 
 suit-case, and between his heavy stockings and 
 his "shorts" his kneecaps, unkissed by the sun, 
 as yet unscathed by blackberry vines, showed 
 as white and fragile as the wrists of a girl. As 
 he moved toward the "L" station at the corner, 
 Sadie and his mother waved to him; in the 
 street, boys too small to be scouts hailed him 
 
 246
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 enviously; even the policeman glancing over 
 the newspapers on the news-stand nodded ap 
 proval. 
 
 "You a scout, Jimmie?" he asked. 
 
 "No," retorted Jimmie, for was not he also 
 in uniform? "I'm Santa Glaus out filling 
 Christmas stockings." 
 
 The patrolman also possessed a ready wit. 
 
 "Then get yourself a pair," he advised. "If 
 a dog was to see your legs " 
 
 Jimmie escaped the insult by fleeing up the 
 steps of the Elevated. 
 
 An hour later, with his valise in one hand 
 and staff in the other, he was tramping up the 
 Boston Post Road and breathing heavily. The 
 day was cruelly hot. Before his eyes, over an 
 interminable stretch of asphalt, the heat waves 
 danced and flickered. Already the knapsack on 
 his shoulders pressed upon him like an Old Man 
 of the Sea; the linen in the valise had turned to 
 pig iron, his pipe-stem legs were wabbling, his 
 eyes smarted with salt sweat, and the fingers 
 supporting the valise belonged to some other 
 boy, and were giving that boy much pain. But 
 as the motor-cars flashed past with raucous 
 warnings, or, that those who rode might better 
 see the boy with bare knees, passed at "half 
 speed," Jimmie stiffened his shoulders and 
 
 247
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 stepped jauntily forward. Even when the joy 
 riders mocked with "Oh, you scout!" he smiled 
 at them. He was willing to admit to those 
 who rode that the laugh was on the one who 
 walked. And he regretted oh, so bitterly 
 having left the train. He was indignant that 
 for his "one good turn a day" he had not 
 selected one less strenuous that, for instance, 
 he had not assisted a frightened old lady through 
 the traffic. To refuse the dime she might have 
 offered, as all true scouts refuse all tips, would 
 have been easier than to earn it by walking 
 five miles, with the sun at ninety-nine degrees, 
 and carrying excess baggage. Twenty times 
 James shifted the valise to the other hand, 
 twenty times he let it drop and sat upon it. 
 
 And then, as again he took up his burden, 
 the good Samaritan drew near. He drew near 
 in a low gray racing-car at the rate of forty 
 miles an hour, and within a hundred feet of 
 Jimmie suddenly stopped and backed toward 
 him. The good Samaritan was a young man 
 with white hair. He wore a suit of blue, a golf 
 cap; the hands that held the wheel were dis 
 guised in large yellow gloves. He brought the 
 car to a halt and surveyed the dripping figure 
 in the road with tired and uncurious eyes. 
 
 "You a Boy Scout?" he asked. 
 
 With alacrity for the twenty-first time Jim- 
 248
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 mie dropped the valise, forced his cramped fin 
 gers into straight lines, and saluted. 
 
 The young man in the car nodded toward the 
 seat beside him. 
 
 "Get in," he commanded. 
 
 When James sat panting happily at his elbow 
 the old young man, to Jimmie's disappoint 
 ment, did not continue to shatter the speed 
 limit. Instead, he seemed inclined for con 
 versation, and the car, growling indignantly, 
 crawled. 
 
 "I never saw a Boy Scout before," announced 
 the old young man. "Tell me about it. First, 
 tell me what you do when you're not scouting." 
 
 Jimmie explained volubly. When not in uni 
 form he was an office boy, and from peddlers 
 and beggars guarded the gates of Carroll and 
 Hastings, stock-brokers. He spoke the names 
 of his employers with awe. It was a firm dis 
 tinguished, conservative, and long established. 
 The white-haired young man seemed to nod in 
 assent. 
 
 "Do you know them?" demanded Jimmie 
 suspiciously. "Are you a customer of ours?" 
 
 " I know them," said the young man. "They 
 are customers of mine." 
 
 Jimmie wondered in what way Carroll and 
 Hastings were customers of the white-haired 
 young man. Judging him by his outer gar- 
 
 249
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 ments, Jimmie guessed he was a Fifth Avenue 
 tailor; he might be even a haberdasher. Jimmie 
 continued. He lived, he explained, with his 
 mother at One Hundred and Forty-sixth Street; 
 Sadie, his sister, attended the public school; he 
 helped support them both, and he now was 
 about to enjoy a well-earned vacation camping 
 out on Hunter's Island, where he would cook 
 his own meals, and, if the mosquitoes permitted, 
 sleep in a tent. 
 
 "And you like that?" demanded the young 
 man. "You call that fun?" 
 
 "Sure!" protested Jimmie. "Don't you go 
 camping out?" 
 
 "I go camping out," said the good Samari 
 tan, "whenever I leave New York." 
 
 Jimmie had not for three years lived in Wall 
 Street not to understand that the young man 
 spoke in metaphor. 
 
 "You don't look," objected the young man 
 critically, "as though you were built for the 
 strenuous life." 
 
 Jimmie glanced guiltily at his white knees. 
 
 "You ought ter see me two weeks from now," 
 he protested. "I get all sunburnt and hard 
 hard as anything !" 
 
 The young man was incredulous. 
 
 "You were near getting sunstruck when I 
 picked you up," he laughed. "If you're going 
 
 250
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 to Hunter's Island, why didn't you go to Pel- 
 ham Manor?" 
 
 "That's right!" assented Jimmie eagerly. 
 "But I wanted to save the ten cents so's to 
 send Sadie to the movies. So I walked." 
 
 The young man looked his embarrassment. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he murmured. 
 
 But Jimmie did not hear him. From the 
 back of the car he was dragging excitedly at 
 the hated suit-case. 
 
 "Stop !" he commanded. "I got ter get out. 
 I got ter walk." 
 
 The young man showed his surprise. 
 
 "Walk!" he exclaimed. "What is it a 
 bet?" 
 
 Jimmie dropped the valise and followed it 
 into the roadway. It took some time to ex 
 plain to the young man. First, he had to be 
 told about the scout law and the one good turn 
 a day, and that it must involve some personal 
 sacrifice. And, as Jimmie pointed out, chang 
 ing from a slow suburban train to a racing-car 
 could not be listed as a sacrifice. He had not 
 earned the money, Jimmie argued; he had only 
 avoided paying it to the railroad. If he did 
 not walk he would be obtaining the gratitude 
 of Sadie by a falsehood. Therefore, he must 
 walk. 
 
 "Not at all," protested the young man. 
 251
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 "You've got it wrong. What good will it do 
 your sister to have you sunstruck? I think 
 you are sunstruck. You're crazy with the heat. 
 You get in here, and we'll talk it over as we go 
 along." 
 
 Hastily Jimmie backed away. "I'd rather 
 walk," he said. 
 
 The young man shifted his legs irritably. 
 
 "Then how'II this suit you?" he called. 
 "We'll declare that first 'one good turn' a fail 
 ure and start afresh. Do me a good turn." 
 
 Jimmie halted in his tracks and looked back 
 suspiciously. 
 
 "I'm going to Hunter's Island Inn," called 
 the young man, "and I've lost my way. You 
 get in here and guide me. That'll be doing me 
 a good turn." 
 
 On either side of the road, blotting out the 
 landscape, giant hands picked out in electric- 
 light bulbs pointed the way to Hunter's Island 
 Inn. Jimmie grinned and nodded toward them. 
 
 "Much obliged," he called. "I got ter 
 walk." Turning his back upon temptation, he 
 waddled forward into the flickering heat waves. 
 
 The young man did not attempt to pursue. 
 At the side of the road, under the shade of a 
 giant elm, he had brought the car to a halt and 
 with his arms crossed upon the wheel sat mo- 
 
 252
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 tionless, following with frowning eyes the re 
 treating figure of Jimmie. But the narrow- 
 chested and knock-kneed boy staggering over 
 the sun-baked asphalt no longer concerned him. 
 It was not Jimmie, but the code preached by 
 Jimmie, and not only preached but before his 
 eyes put into practice, that interested him. The 
 young man with white hair had been running 
 away from temptation. At forty miles an hour 
 he had been running away from the temptation 
 to do a fellow mortal "a good turn." That 
 morning, to the appeal of a drowning Caesar to 
 "Help me, Cassius, or I sink," he had answered: 
 "Sink!" That answer he had no wish to re 
 consider. That he might not reconsider he 
 had sought to escape. It was his experience 
 that a sixty-horse-power racing-machine is a 
 jealous mistress. For retrospective, sentimen 
 tal, or philanthropic thoughts she grants no 
 leave of absence. But he had not escaped. 
 Jimmie had halted him, tripped him by the 
 heels, and set him again to thinking. Within 
 the half-hour that followed those who rolled 
 past saw at the side of the road a car with her 
 engine running, and leaning upon the wheel, as 
 unconscious of his surroundings as though he 
 sat at his own fireplace, a young man who 
 frowned and stared at nothing. The half-hour 
 passed and the young man swung his car back 
 
 253
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 toward the city. But at the first road-house 
 that showed a blue-and-white telephone sign 
 he left it, and into the iron box at the end of 
 the bar dropped a nickel. He wished to com 
 municate with Mr. Carroll, of Carroll and Hast 
 ings; and when he learned Mr. Carroll had just 
 issued orders that he must not be disturbed, 
 the young man gave his name. 
 
 The effect upon the barkeeper was instan 
 taneous. With the aggrieved air of one who 
 feels he is the victim of a jest he laughed scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 "What are you putting over?" he demanded. 
 
 The young man smiled reassuringly. He had 
 begun to speak and, though apparently engaged 
 with the beer-glass he was polishing, the bar 
 keeper listened. 
 
 Down in Wall Street the senior member of 
 Carroll and Hastings also listened. He was 
 alone in the most private of all his private 
 offices, and when interrupted had been engaged 
 in what, of all undertakings, is the most mo 
 mentous. On the desk before him lay letters 
 to his kwyer, to the coroner, to his wife; and 
 hidden by a mass of papers, but within reach 
 of his hand, was an automatic pistol. The 
 promise it offered of swift release had made the 
 writing of the letters simple, had given him a 
 feeling of complete detachment, had released 
 
 254
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 him, at least in thought, from all responsibilities. 
 And when at his elbow the telephone coughed 
 discreetly, it was as though some one had called 
 him from a world from which already he had 
 made his exit. 
 
 Mechanically, through mere habit, he lifted 
 the receiver. 
 
 The voice over the telephone came in brisk, 
 staccato sentences. 
 
 "That letter I sent this morning? Forget it. 
 Tear it up. I've been thinking and I'm going 
 to take a chance. I've decided to back you 
 boys, and I know you'll make good. I'm speak 
 ing from a road-house in the Bronx; going 
 straight from here to the bank. So you can 
 begin to draw against us within an hour. And 
 hello! will three millions see you through?" 
 
 From Wall Street there came no answer, but 
 from the hands of the barkeeper a glass crashed 
 to the floor. 
 
 The young man regarded the barkeeper with 
 puzzled eyes. 
 
 "He doesn't answer," he exclaimed. "He 
 must have hung up." 
 
 "He must have fainted!" said the bar 
 keeper. 
 
 The white-haired one pushed a bill across the 
 counter. "To pay for breakage," he said, and 
 disappeared down Pelham Parkway. 
 
 255
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 Throughout the day, with the bill, for evi 
 dence, pasted against the mirror, the barkeeper 
 told and retold the wondrous tale. 
 
 "He stood just where you're standing now," 
 he related, "blowing in million-dollar bills like 
 you'd blow suds off a beer. If I'd knowed it 
 was him, I'd have hit him once and hid him in 
 the cellar for the reward. Who'd I think he 
 was? I thought he was a wire-tapper, working 
 a con game!" 
 
 Mr. Carroll had not "hung up," but when in 
 the Bronx the beer-glass crashed, in Wall Street 
 the receiver had slipped from the hand of the 
 man who held it, and the man himself had fallen 
 forward. His desk hit him in the face and 
 woke him woke him to the wonderful fact 
 that he still lived; that at forty he had been 
 born again; that before him stretched many 
 more years in which, as the young man with 
 the white hair had pointed out, he still could 
 make good. 
 
 The afternoon was far advanced when the 
 staff of Carroll and Hastings were allowed to 
 depart, and, even late as was the hour, two of 
 them were asked to remain. Into the most 
 private of the private offices Carroll invited 
 Gaskell, the head clerk; in the main office 
 Hastings had asked young Thorne, the bond 
 clerk, to be seated. 
 
 256
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 Until the senior partner has finished with 
 Gaskell young Thorne must remain seated. 
 
 "Gaskell," said Mr. Carroll, "if we had lis 
 tened to you, if we'd run this place as it was 
 when father was alive, this never would have 
 happened. It hasnt happened, but we've had 
 our lesson. And after this we're going slow and 
 going straight. And we don't need you to tell 
 us how to do that. We want you to go away 
 on a month's vacation. When I thought we 
 were going under I planned to send the children 
 on a sea voyage with the governess so they 
 wouldn't see the newspapers. But now that I 
 can look them in the eye again, I need them, 
 I can't let them go. So, if you'd like to take 
 your wife on an ocean trip to Nova Scotia and 
 Quebec, here are the cabins I reserved for the 
 kids. They call it the royal suite whatever 
 that is and the trip lasts a month. The boat 
 sails to-morrow morning. Don't sleep too late 
 or you may miss her." 
 
 The head clerk was secreting the tickets in 
 the inside pocket of his waistcoat. His fingers 
 trembled, and when he laughed his voice trem 
 bled. 
 
 "Miss the boat!" the head clerk exclaimed. 
 "If she gets away from Millie and me she's got 
 to start now. We'll go on board to-night!" 
 
 A half-hour later Millie was on her knees 
 257
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 packing a trunk, and her husband was telephon 
 ing to the drug-store for a sponge-bag and a 
 cure for seasickness. 
 
 Owing to the joy in her heart and to the fact 
 that she was on her knees, Millie was alter 
 nately weeping into the trunk-tray and offering 
 up incoherent prayers of thanksgiving. Sud 
 denly she sank back upon the floor. 
 
 "John!" she cried, "doesn't it seem sinful to 
 sail away in a 'royal suite' and leave this beau 
 tiful flat empty?" 
 
 Over the telephone John was having trouble 
 vrith the drug clerk. 
 
 "No!" he explained, "I'm not seasick now. 
 The medicine I want is to be taken later. I 
 know I'm speaking from the Pavonia; but the 
 Pavonia isn't a ship; it's an apartment-house." 
 
 He turned to Millie. "We can't be in two 
 places at the same time," he suggested. 
 
 "But, think," insisted Millie, "of all the poor 
 people stifling to-night in this heat, trying to 
 sleep on the roofs and fire-escapes; and our flat 
 so cool and big and pretty and no one in it." 
 
 John nodded his head proudly. 
 
 "I know it's big," he said, "but it isn't big 
 enough to hold all the people who are sleeping 
 to-night on the roofs and in the parks." 
 
 " I was thinking of your brother and Grace," 
 said Millie. "They've been married only two 
 
 258
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 weeks now, and they're in a stuffy hall bedroom 
 and eating with all the other boarders. Think 
 what our flat would mean to them; to be by 
 themselves, with eight rooms and their own 
 kitchen and bath, and our new refrigerator and 
 the gramophone ! It would be heaven ! It 
 would be a real honeymoon!" 
 
 Abandoning the drug clerk, John lifted Millie 
 in his arms and kissed her, for, next to his wife, 
 nearest his heart was the younger brother. 
 
 The younger brother and Grace were sitting 
 on the stoop of the boarding-house. On the 
 upper steps, in their shirt-sleeves, were the 
 other boarders; so the bride and bridegroom 
 spoke in whispers. The air of the cross street 
 was stale and stagnant; from it rose exhalations 
 of rotting fruit, the gases of an open subway, 
 the smoke of passing taxicabs. But between 
 the street and the hall bedroom, with its odors 
 of a gas-stove and a kitchen, the choice was 
 difficult. 
 
 "We've got to cool off somehow," the young 
 husband was saying, "or you won't sleep. 
 Shall we treat ourselves to ice-cream sodas or 
 a trip on the Weehawken ferry-boat?" 
 
 "The ferry-boat!" begged the girl, "where 
 we can get away from all these people." 
 
 A taxicab with a trunk in front whirled into 
 259
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 the street, kicked itself to a stop, and the head 
 clerk and Millie spilled out upon the pavement. 
 They talked so fast, and the younger brother 
 and Grace talked so fast, that the boarders, al 
 though they listened intently, could make 
 nothing of it. 
 
 They distinguished only the concluding sen 
 tences : 
 
 "Why don't you drive down to the wharf 
 with us," they heard the elder brother ask, 
 "and see our royal suite?" 
 
 But the younger brother laughed him to 
 
 scorn. 
 
 M 
 
 What's your royal suite," he mocked, "to 
 our royal palace?" 
 
 An hour later, had the boarders listened out 
 side the flat of the head clerk, they would have 
 heard issuing from his bathroom the cooling 
 murmur of running water and frtfm his gramo 
 phone the jubilant notes of "Alexander's Rag 
 time Band." 
 
 When in his private office Carroll was making 
 a present of the royal suite to the head clerk, 
 in the main office Hastings, the junior partner, 
 was addressing "Champ" Thorne, the bond 
 clerk. He addressed him familiarly and affec 
 tionately as "Champ." This was due partly 
 to the fact that twenty-six years before Thorne 
 had been christened Champneys and to the 
 
 260
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 coincidence that he had captained the football 
 eleven of one of the Big Three to the champion 
 ship. 
 
 "Champ," said Mr. Hastings, "last month, 
 when you asked me to raise your salary, the 
 reason I didn't do it was not because you didn't 
 deserve it, but because I believed if we gave 
 you a raise you'd immediately get married." 
 
 The shoulders of the ex-football captain rose 
 aggressively; he snorted with indignation. 
 
 "And why should I not get married?" he de 
 manded. " You're a fine one to talk ! You're 
 the most offensively happy married man I ever 
 met." 
 
 "Perhaps I know I am happy better than 
 you do," reproved the junior partner; "but I 
 know also that it takes money to support a 
 wife." 
 
 "You raise me to a hundred a week," urged 
 Champ, "and I'll make it support a wife 
 whether it supports rne or not." 
 
 "A month ago," continued Hastings, "we 
 could have promised you a hundred, but we 
 didn't know how long we could pay it. We 
 didn't want you to rush off and marry some 
 fine girl " 
 
 "Some fine girl!" muttered Mr. Thorne. 
 "The finest girl!" 
 
 "The finer the girl," Hastings pointed out, 
 261
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 "the harder it would have been for you if we 
 had failed and you had lost your job." 
 
 The eyes of the young man opened with sym 
 pathy and concern. 
 
 "Is it as bad as that?" he murmured. 
 
 Hastings sighed happily. 
 
 "It was" he said, "but this morning the 
 Young Man of Wall Street did us a good turn 
 saved us saved our creditors, saved our 
 homes, saved our honor. We're going to start 
 fresh and pay our debts, and we agreed the 
 first debt we paid would be the small one we 
 owe you. You've brought us more than we've 
 given, and if you'll stay with us we're going to 
 'see' your fifty and raise it a hundred. What 
 do you say?" 
 
 Young Mr. Thorne leaped to his feet. What 
 he said was: "Where'n hell's my hat?" 
 
 But by the time he had found the hat and 
 the door he mended his manners. 
 
 "I say, 'Thank you a thousand times,"' he 
 shouted over his shoulder. "Excuse me, but 
 I've got to go. I've got to break the news 
 to- 
 
 He did not explain to whom he was going to 
 break the news; but Hastings must have 
 guessed, for again he sighed happily and then, 
 a little hysterically laughed aloud. Several 
 months had passed since he had laughed aloud. 
 
 262
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 In his anxiety to break the news Champ 
 Thorne almost broke his neck. In his excite 
 ment he could not remember whether the red 
 flash meant the elevator was going down or 
 coming up, and sooner than wait to find out 
 he started to race down eighteen flights of stairs 
 when fortunately the elevator-door swung open. 
 
 "You get five dollars," he announced to the 
 elevator man, "if you drop to the street with 
 out a stop. Beat the speed limit ! Act like the 
 building is on fire and you're trying to save me 
 before the roof falls." 
 
 Senator Barnes and his entire family, which 
 was his daughter Barbara, were at the Ritz- 
 Carlton. They were in town in August because 
 there was a meeting of the directors of the 
 Brazil and Cuyaba Rubber Company, of which 
 company Senator Barnes was president. It was 
 a secret meeting. Those directors who were 
 keeping cool at the edge of the ocean had been 
 summoned by telegraph; those who were steam 
 ing across the ocean, by wireless. 
 
 Up from the equator had drifted the threat 
 of a scandal, sickening, grim, terrible. As yet 
 it burned beneath the surface, giving out only 
 an odor, but an odor as rank as burning rubber 
 itself. At any moment it might break into 
 flame. For the directors, was it the better 
 wisdom to let the scandal smoulder, and take a 
 
 263
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 chance, or to be the first to give the alarm, the 
 first to lead the way to the horror and stamp 
 it out? 
 
 It was to decide this that, in the heat of 
 August, the directors and the president had 
 foregathered. 
 
 Champ Thorne knew nothing of this; he 
 knew only that by a miracle Barbara Barnes 
 was in town; that at last he was in a position 
 to ask her to marry him; that she would cer 
 tainly say she would. That was all he cared 
 to know. 
 
 A year before he had issued his declaration of 
 independence. Before he could marry, he told 
 her, he must be able to support a wife on what 
 he earned, without her having to accept money 
 from her father, and until he received "a min 
 imum wage" of five thousand dollars they must 
 wait. 
 
 "What is the matter with my father's 
 money?" Barbara had demanded. 
 
 Thorne had evaded the direct question. 
 
 "There is too much of it," he said. 
 
 "Do you object to the way he makes it?" in 
 sisted Barbara. "Because rubber is most use 
 ful. You put it in golf balls and auto tires 
 and galoshes. There is nothing so perfectly 
 respectable as galoshes. And what is there 
 * tainted' about a raincoat?" 
 
 264
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 Thorne shook his head unhappily. 
 
 "It's not the finished product to which I 
 refer," he stammered; "it's the way they get 
 the raw material." 
 
 "They get it out of trees," said Barbara. 
 Then she exclaimed with enlightenment "Oh !" 
 she cried, "you are thinking of the Congo. 
 There it is terrible! That is slavery. But 
 there are no slaves on the Amazon. The na 
 tives are free and the work is easy. They just 
 tap the trees the way the farmers gather sugar 
 in Vermont. Father has told me about it 
 often." 
 
 Thorne had made no comment. He could 
 abuse a friend, if the friend were among those 
 present, but denouncing any one he disliked as 
 heartily as he disliked Senator Barnes was a 
 public service he preferred to leave to others. 
 And he knew besides that if the father she loved 
 and the man she loved distrusted each other, 
 Barbara would not rest until she learned the 
 reason why. 
 
 One day, in a newspaper, Barbara read of 
 the Puju Mayo atrocities, of the Indian slaves 
 in the jungles and backwaters of the Amazon, 
 who are offered up as sacrifices to "red rubber." 
 She carried the paper to her father. What it 
 said, her father told her, was untrue, and if it 
 were true it was the first he had heard of it. 
 
 265
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 Senator Barnes loved the good things of life, 
 but the thing he loved most was his daughter; 
 the thing he valued the highest was her good 
 opinion. So when for the first time she looked 
 at him in doubt, he assured her he at once 
 would order an investigation. 
 
 "But, of course," he added, "it will be many 
 months before our agents can report. On the 
 Amazon news travels very slowly/* 
 
 In the eyes of his daughter the doubt still 
 lingered. 
 
 "I am afraid/* she said, "that that is true.'* 
 
 That was six months before the directors of 
 the Brazil and Cuyaba Rubber Company were 
 summoned to meet their president at his rooms 
 in the Ritz-Carlton. They were due to arrive 
 in half an hour, and while Senator Barnes 
 awaited their coming Barbara came to him. In 
 her eyes was a light that helped to tell the great 
 news. It gave him a sharp, jealous pang. He 
 wanted at once to play a part in her happiness, 
 to make her grateful to him, not alone to this 
 stranger who was taking her away. So fearful 
 was he that she would shut him out of her life 
 that had she asked for half his kingdom he 
 would have parted with it. 
 
 "And besides giving my consent," said the 
 rubber king, "for which no one seems to have 
 asked, what can I give my little girl to make 
 
 266 '
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 her remember her old father? Some diamonds 
 to put on her head, or pearls to hang around 
 her neck, or does she want a vacant lot on 
 Fifth Avenue?" 
 
 The lovely hands of Barbara rested upon his 
 shoulders; her lovely face was raised to his; her 
 lovely eyes were appealing, and a little fright 
 ened. 
 
 "What would one of those things cost?" 
 asked Barbara. 
 
 The question was eminently practical. It 
 came within the scope of the senator's under 
 standing. After all, he was not to be cast into 
 outer darkness. His smile was complacent. 
 He answered airily: 
 
 "Anything you like," he said; "a million dol 
 lars?" 
 
 The fingers closed upon his shoulders. The 
 eyes, still frightened, still searched his in ap 
 peal. 
 
 "Then, for my wedding-present," said the 
 girl, "I want you to take that million dollars 
 and send an expedition to the Amazon. And I 
 will choose the men. Men unafraid; men not 
 afraid of fever or sudden death; not afraid to 
 tell the truth even to you. And all the world 
 will know. And they I mean you will set 
 those people free!" 
 
 Senator Barnes received the directors with 
 267
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 an embarrassment which he concealed under a 
 manner of just indignation. 
 
 "My mind is made up," he told them. "Ex 
 isting conditions cannot continue. And to that 
 end, at my own expense, I am sending an expe 
 dition across South America. It will investi 
 gate, punish, and establish reforms. I suggest, 
 on account of this damned heat, we do now 
 adjourn." 
 
 That night, over on Long Island, Carroll told 
 his wife all, or nearly all. He did not tell her 
 about the automatic pistol. And together on 
 tiptoe they crept to the nursery and looked 
 down at their sleeping children. When she 
 rose from her knees the mother said: "But how 
 can I thank him?" 
 
 By "him" she meant the Young Man of Wall 
 Street. 
 
 "You never can thank him," said Carroll; 
 "that's the worst of it." 
 
 But after a long silence the mother said: "I 
 will send him a photograph of the children. 
 Do you think he will understand?" 
 
 Down at Seabright, Hastings and his wife 
 walked in the sunken garden. The moon was 
 so bright that the roses still held their color. 
 
 "I would like to thank him," said the young 
 wife. She meant the Young Man of Wall 
 Street. " But for him we would have lost this." 
 
 Her eyes caressed the garden, the fruit-trees, 
 268
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 the house with wide, hospitable verandas. 
 "To-morrow I will send him some of these 
 roses," said the young wife. "Will he under 
 stand that they mean our home?" 
 
 At a scandalously late hour, in a scandalous 
 spirit of independence, Champ Thorne and 
 Barbara were driving around Central Park in a 
 taxicab. 
 
 "How strangely the Lord moves, his wonders 
 to perform," misquoted Barbara. "Had not 
 the Young Man of Wall Street saved Mr. 
 Hastings, Mr. Hastings could not have raised 
 your salary; you would not have asked me to 
 marry you, and had you not asked me to marry 
 you, father would not have given me a wedding- 
 present, and " 
 
 "And," said Champ, taking up the tale, 
 "thousands of slaves would still be buried in 
 the jungles, hidden away from their wives and 
 children and the light of the sun and their fel 
 low men. They still would be dying of fever, 
 starvation, tortures." 
 
 He took her hand in both of his and held her 
 finger-tips against his lips. 
 
 "And they will never know," he whispered, 
 "when their freedom comes, that they owe it 
 all to you." 
 
 On Hunter's Island, Jimmie Reeder and his 
 bunkie, Sam Sturges, each on his canvas cot, 
 
 269
 
 THE BOY SCOUT 
 
 tossed and twisted. The heat, the moonlight, 
 and the mosquitoes would not let them even 
 think of sleep. 
 
 "That was bully," said Jimmie, "what you 
 did to-day about saving that dog. If it hadn't 
 been for you he'd ha* drownded." 
 
 "He would not!" said Sammy with punctilious 
 regard for the truth; "it wasn't deep enough." 
 
 "Well, the scout-master ought to know," 
 argued Jimmie; "he said it was the best 'one 
 good turn' of the day !" 
 
 Modestly Sam shifted the lime-light so that 
 it fell upon his bunkie. 
 
 "I'll bet," he declared loyally, "your 'one 
 good turn' was a better one!" 
 
 Jimmie yawned, and then laughed scornfully. 
 
 "Me !" he scoffed. " I didn't do nothing. I 
 sent my sister to the movies." 
 
 270
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 MARIE GESSLER, known as Marie Chau- 
 montel, Jeanne d'Avrechy, the Countess d'Au- 
 rillac, was German. Her father, who served 
 through the Franco-Prussian War, was a Ger 
 man spy. It was from her mother she learned 
 to speak French sufficiently well to satisfy even 
 an Academician and, among Parisians, to pass 
 as one. Both her parents were dead. Before 
 they departed, knowing they could leave their 
 daughter nothing save their debts, they had 
 had her trained as a nurse. But when they 
 were gone, Marie in the Berlin hospitals played 
 politics, intrigued, indiscriminately misused the 
 appealing, violet eyes. There was a scandal; 
 several scandals. At the age of twenty-five she 
 was dismissed from the Municipal Hospital, and 
 as now save for the violet eyes she was 
 without resources, as a compagnon de voyage 
 with a German doctor she travelled to Monte 
 Carlo. There she abandoned the doctor for 
 Henri Ravignac, a captain in the French Avia 
 tion Corps, who, when his leave ended, escorted 
 her to Paris. 
 
 The duties of Captain Ravignac kept him in 
 barracks near the aviation field, but Marie he 
 
 271
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 established in his apartments on the Boulevard 
 Haussmann. One day he brought from the 
 barracks a roll of blue-prints, and as he was 
 locking them in a drawer, said: "The Germans 
 would pay through the nose for those!" The 
 remark was indiscreet, but then Marie had told 
 him she was French, and any one would have 
 believed her. 
 
 The next morning the same spirit of adven 
 ture that had exiled her from the Berlin hospi 
 tals carried her with the blue-prints to the 
 German embassy. There, greatly shocked, they 
 first wrote down her name and address, and 
 then, indignant at her proposition, ordered her 
 out. But the day following a strange young 
 German who was not at all indignant, but, on 
 the contrary, quite charming, called upon Marie. 
 For the blue-prints he offered her a very large 
 sum, and that same hour with them and Marie 
 departed for Berlin. Marie did not need the 
 money. Nor did the argument that she was 
 serving her country greatly impress her. It 
 was rather that she loved intrigue. And so 
 she became a spy. 
 
 Henri Ravignac, the man she had robbed of 
 the blue-prints, was tried by court-martial. 
 The charge was treason, but Charles Ravignac, 
 his younger brother, promised to prove that 
 the guilty one was the girl, and to that end 
 
 272
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 obtained leave of absence and spent much time 
 and money. At the trial he was able to show 
 the record of Marie in Berlin and Monte Carlo; 
 that she was the daughter of a German secret 
 agent; that on the afternoon the prints disap 
 peared Marie, with an agent of the German 
 embassy, had left Paris for Berlin. In conse 
 quence of this the charge of selling military 
 secrets was altered to one of "gross neglect," 
 and Henri Ravignac was sentenced to two 
 years in the military prison at Tours. But 
 he was of an ancient and noble family, and 
 when they came to take him from his cell in 
 the Cherche-Midi, he was dead. Charles, his 
 brother, disappeared. It was said he also had 
 killed himself; that he had been appointed a 
 military attache in South America; that to 
 revenge his brother he had entered the secret 
 service; but whatever became of him no one 
 knew. All that was certain was that, thanks 
 to the act of Marie Gessler, on the rolls of the 
 French army the ancient and noble name of 
 Ravignac no longer appeared. 
 
 In her chosen profession Marie Gessler found 
 nothing discreditable. Of herself her opinion 
 was not high, and her opinion of men was 
 lower. For her smiles she had watched several 
 sacrifice honor, duty, loyalty; and she held 
 them and their kind in contempt. To lie, to 
 
 273
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 qajole, to rob men of secrets they thought im 
 portant, and of secrets the importance of which 
 they did not even guess, was to her merely an 
 intricate and exciting game. 
 
 She played it very well. So well that in the 
 service her advance was rapid. On important 
 missions she was sent to Russia, through the 
 Balkans; even to the United States. There, 
 with credentials as an army nurse, she inspected 
 our military hospitals and unobtrusively asked 
 many innocent questions. 
 
 When she begged to be allowed to work in 
 her beloved Paris, "they" told her when war 
 came "they" intended to plant her inside that 
 city, and that, until then, the less Paris knew of 
 her the better. 
 
 But just before the great war broke, to report 
 on which way Italy might jump, she was sent 
 to Rome, and it was not until September she 
 was recalled. The telegram informed her that 
 her Aunt Elizabeth was ill, and that at once 
 she must return to Berlin. This, she learned 
 from the code book wrapped under the cover 
 of her thermos bottle, meant that she was to 
 report to the general commanding the German 
 forces at Soissons. 
 
 From Italy she passed through Switzerland, 
 and, after leaving Basle, on military trains was 
 rushed north to Luxemburg, and then west to 
 
 274
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 Laon. She was accompanied by her companion, 
 Bertha, an elderly and respectable, even distin 
 guished-looking female. In the secret service 
 her number was 528. Their passes from the 
 war office described them as nurses of the Ger 
 man Red Cross. Only the Intelligence Depart 
 ment knew their real mission. With her, also, 
 as her chauffeur, was a young Italian soldier of 
 fortune, Paul Anfossi. He had served in the 
 Belgian Congo, in the French Foreign Legion in 
 Algiers, and spoke all the European languages. 
 In Rome, where as a wireless operator he was 
 serving a commercial company, in selling Marie 
 copies of messages he had memorized, Marie 
 had found him useful, and when war came she 
 obtained for him, from the Wilhelmstrasse, the 
 number 292. From Laon, in one of the auto 
 mobiles of the General Staff, the three spies 
 were driven first to Soissons, and then along the 
 road to Meaux and Paris, to the village of 
 Neufchelles. They arrived at midnight, and in 
 a chateau of one of the Champagne princes, 
 found the colonel commanding the Intelligence 
 Bureau. He accepted their credentials, de 
 stroyed them, and replaced them with a laissez- 
 passer signed by the mayor of Laon. That dig 
 nitary, the colonel explained, to citizens of Laon 
 fleeing to Paris and the coast had issued many 
 passes. But as now between Laon and Paris 
 
 275
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 there were three German armies, the refugees 
 had been turned back and their passes confis 
 cated. 
 
 "From among them," said the officer, "we 
 have selected one for you. It is issued to the 
 wife of Count d'Aurillac, a captain of reserves, 
 and her aunt, Madame Benet. It asks for those 
 ladies and their chauffeur, Briand, a safe- 
 conduct through the French military lines. If 
 it gets you into Paris you will destroy it and 
 assume another name. The Count d'Aurillac 
 is now with his regiment in that city. If he 
 learned of the presence there of his wife, he 
 would seek her, and that would not be good for 
 you. So, if you reach Paris, you will become a 
 Belgian refugee. You are high-born and rich. 
 Your chateau has been destroyed. But you 
 have money. You will give liberally to the 
 Red Cross. You will volunteer to nurse in the 
 hospitals. With your sad story of ill treatment 
 by us, with your high birth, and your knowl 
 edge of nursing, which you acquired, of course, 
 only as an amateur, you should not find it diffi- 
 ,cult to join the Ladies of France, or the Ameri 
 can Ambulance. What you learn from the 
 wounded English and French officers and the 
 French doctors you will send us through the 
 usual channels." 
 
 "When do I start?" asked the woman. 
 276
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 "For a few days," explained the officer, "you 
 remain in this chateau. You will keep us in 
 formed of what is going forward after we with 
 draw." 
 
 "Withdraw?" It was more of an exclama 
 tion than a question. Marie was too well 
 trained to ask questions. 
 
 "We are taking up a new position," said the 
 officer, "on the Aisne." 
 
 The woman, incredulous, stared. 
 
 "And we do not enter Paris?" 
 
 "You do," returned the officer. "That is all 
 that concerns you. We will join you later in 
 the spring. Meanwhile, for the winter we in 
 trench ourselves along the Aisne. In a chim 
 ney of this chateau we have set up a wireless 
 outfit. We are leaving it intact. The chauffeur 
 Briand who, you must explain to the French, 
 you brought with you from Laon, and who has 
 been long in your service will transmit what 
 ever you discover. We wish especially to know 
 of any movement toward our left. If they 
 attack in front from Soissons, we are prepared; 
 but of any attempt to cross the Oise and take 
 us in flank you must warn us." 
 
 The officer rose and hung upon himself his 
 field-glasses, map-cases, and side-arms. 
 
 "We leave you now," he said. "When the 
 French arrive you will tell them your reason 
 
 277
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 for halting at this chateau was that the owner, 
 Monsieur Iverney, and his family are friends of 
 your husband. You found us here, and we 
 detained you. And. so long as you can use the 
 wireless, make excuses to remain. If they offer 
 to send you on to Paris, tell them your aunt 
 is too ill to travel." 
 
 "But they will find the wireless," said the 
 woman. "They are sure to use the towers for 
 observation, and they will find it." 
 
 "In that case," said the officer, "you will sug 
 gest to them that we fled in such haste we had 
 no time to dismantle it. Of course, you had 
 no knowledge that it existed, or, as a loyal 
 French woman, you would have at once told 
 them." To emphasize his next words the officer 
 pointed at her: "Under no circumstances," he 
 continued, "must you be suspected. If they 
 should take Briand in the act, should they have 
 even the least doubt concerning him, you must 
 repudiate him entirely. If necessary, to keep 
 your own skirts clear, it would be your duty 
 yourself to denounce him as a spy." 
 
 "Your first orders," said the woman, "were 
 to tell them Briand had been long in my service; 
 that I brought him from my home hi Laon." 
 
 "He might be in your service for years," re 
 turned the colonel, "and you not know he was 
 a German agent." 
 
 278
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 "If to save myself I inform upon him," said 
 Marie, "of course you know you will lose 
 him." 
 
 The officer shrugged his shoulders. "A wire 
 less operator," he retorted, "we can replace. 
 But for you, and for the service you are to 
 render in Paris, we have no substitute. You 
 must not be found out. You are invaluable." 
 
 The spy inclined her head. "I thank you," 
 she said. 
 
 The officer sputtered indignantly. 
 
 "It is not a compliment," he exclaimed; "it 
 is an order. You must not be found out!" 
 
 Withdrawn some two hundred yards from 
 the Paris road, the chateau stood upon a wooded 
 hill. Except directly in front, trees of great 
 height surrounded it. The tips of their branches 
 brushed the windows; interlacing, they con 
 tinued until they overhung the wall of the 
 estate. Where it ran with the road the wall 
 gave way to a lofty gate and iron fence, through 
 which those passing could see a stretch of noble 
 turf, as wide as a polo-field, borders of flowers 
 disappearing under the shadows of the trees; 
 and the chateau itself, with its terrace, its many 
 windows, its high-pitched, sloping roof, broken 
 by towers and turrets. 
 
 Through the remainder of the night there 
 came from the road to those in the chateau the 
 
 279
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 roar and rumbling of the army in retreat. It 
 moved without panic, disorder, or haste, but 
 unceasingly. Not for an instant was there a 
 breathing-spell. And when the sun rose, the 
 three spies the two women and the chauffeur 
 who in the great chateau were now alone, 
 could see as well as hear the gray column of 
 steel rolling past below them. 
 
 The spies knew that the gray column had 
 reached Claye, had stood within fifteen miles of 
 Paris, and then upon Paris had turned its back. 
 They knew also that the reverberations from 
 the direction of Meaux, that each moment grew 
 more loud and savage, were the French "sev 
 enty-fives" whipping the gray column forward. 
 Of what they felt the Germans did not speak. 
 In silence they looked at each other, and in the 
 eyes of Marie was bitterness and resolve. 
 
 Toward noon Marie met Anfossi in the great 
 drawing-room that stretched the length of the 
 terrace and from the windows of which, through 
 the park gates, they could see the Paris road. 
 
 "This, that is passing now," said Marie, "is 
 the last of our rear-guard. Go to your tower,'* 
 she ordered, "and send word that except for 
 stragglers and the wounded our column has just 
 passed through Neufchelles, and that any mo 
 ment we expect the French." She raised her 
 hand impressively. "From now," she warned, 
 
 280
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 "we speak French, we think French, we are 
 French!" 
 
 Anfossi, or Briand, as now he called himself, 
 addressed her in that language. His tone was 
 bitter. "Pardon my lese-majesty," he said, 
 "but this chief of your Intelligence Department 
 is a dummer Menscb. He is throwing away a 
 valuable life." 
 
 Marie exclaimed in dismay. She placed her 
 hand upon his arm, and the violet eyes filled 
 with concern. 
 
 "Not yours !" she protested. 
 
 "Absolutely!" returned the Italian. "I can 
 send nothing by this knapsack wireless that 
 they will not learn from others; from airmen, 
 Uhlans, the peasants in the fields. And cer 
 tainly I will be caught. Dead I am dead, but 
 alive and in Paris the opportunities are unend 
 ing. From the French Legion Etranger I have 
 my honorable discharge. I am an expert wire 
 less operator and in their Signal Corps I can 
 easily find a place. Imagine me, then, on the 
 Eiffel Tower. From the air I snatch news from 
 all of France, from the Channel, the North Sea. 
 You and I could work together, as in Rome. 
 But here, between the lines, with a pass from a 
 village sous-prefet, it is ridiculous. I am not 
 afraid to die. But to die because some one else 
 is stupid, that is hard." 
 
 281
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 Marie clasped his hand in both of hers. 
 
 "You must not speak of death," she cried; 
 "you know I must carry out my orders, that I 
 must force you to take this risk. And you 
 know that thought of harm to you tortures 
 
 me!' 
 
 Quickly the young man disengaged his hand. 
 The woman exclaimed with anger. 
 
 "Why do you doubt me?" she cried. 
 
 Briand protested vehemently. 
 
 "I do not doubt you." 
 
 "My affection, then?" In a whisper that 
 carried with it the feeling of a caress Marie 
 added softly: "My love?" 
 
 The young man protested miserably. "You 
 
 make it very hard, mademoiselle," he cried. 
 
 ' You are my superior officer, I am your servant. 
 
 Who am I that I should share with others " 
 
 The woman interrupted eagerly. 
 
 "Ah, you are jealous!" she cried. "Is that 
 why you are so cruel? But when I tell you I 
 love you, and only you, can you not Jeel it is the 
 truth?" 
 
 The young man frowned unhappily. 
 
 "My duty, mademoiselle!" he stammered. 
 
 With an exclamation of anger Marie left him. 
 As the door slammed behind her, the young 
 man drew a deep breath. On his face was the 
 expression of ineffable relief. 
 
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 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 In the hall Marie met her elderly companion, 
 Bertha, now her aunt, Madame Benet. 
 
 "I heard you quarrelling," Bertha protested. 
 "It is most indiscreet. It is not in the part of 
 the Countess d'Aurillac that she makes love to 
 her chauffeur." 
 
 Marie laughed noiselessly and drew her far 
 ther down the hall. "He is imbecile!" she ex 
 claimed. "He will kill me with his solemn face 
 and his conceit. I make love to him yes 
 that he may work the more willingly. But he 
 will have none of it. He is jealous of the 
 others." 
 
 Madame Benet frowned. 
 
 "He resents the others," she corrected. "I 
 do not blame him. He is a gentleman!" 
 
 "And the others," demanded Marie; "were 
 they not of the most noble families of 
 Rome?" 
 
 "I am old and I am ugly," said Bertha, "but 
 to me Anfossi is always as considerate as he is 
 to you who are so beautiful." 
 
 "An Italian gentleman," returned Marie, 
 "does not serve in Belgian Congo unless it is 
 the choice of that or the marble quarries." 
 
 "I do not know what his past may be," 
 sighed Madame Benet, "nor do I ask. He is 
 only a number, as you and I are only numbers. 
 And I beg you to let us work in harmony. At
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 such a time your love-affairs threaten our safety. 
 You must wait/* 
 
 Marie laughed insolently. "With the Du 
 Barry," she protested, " I can boast that I wait 
 for no man." 
 
 "No," replied the older woman; "you pursue 
 him!" 
 
 Marie would have answered sharply, but on 
 the instant her interest was diverted. For one 
 week, by day and night, she had lived in a 
 world peopled only by German soldiers. Beside 
 her in the railroad carriage, on the station plat 
 forms, at the windows of the trains that passed 
 the one in which she rode, at the grade cross 
 ings, on the bridges, in the roads that paralleled 
 the tracks, choking the streets of the villages 
 and spread over the fields of grain, she had 
 seen only the gray-green uniforms. Even her 
 professional eye no longer distinguished regi 
 ment from regiment, dragoon from grenadier, 
 Uhlan from Hussar or Landsturm. Stripes, in 
 signia, numerals, badges of rank, had lost their 
 meaning. Those who wore them no longer 
 were individuals. They were not even human. 
 During the three last days the automobile, like 
 a motor-bo* t fighting the tide, had crept through 
 a gray-greei river of men, stained, as though 
 from the banks, by mud and yellow clay. And 
 for hours, while the car was blocked, and in 
 
 284
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 fury the engine raced and purred, the gray- 
 green river had rolled past her, slowly but as 
 inevitably as lava down the slope of a volcano, 
 bearing on its surface faces with staring eyes, 
 thousands and thousands of eyes, some fierce 
 and bloodshot, others filled with weariness, 
 homesickness, pain. At night she still saw 
 them: the white faces under the sweat and dust, 
 the eyes dumb, inarticulate, asking the answer. 
 She had been suffocated by German soldiers, 
 by the mass of them, engulfed and smothered; 
 she had stifled in a land inhabited only by gray- 
 green ghosts. 
 
 And suddenly, as though a miracle had been 
 wrought, she saw upon the lawn, riding toward 
 her, a man in scarlet, blue, and silver. One 
 man riding alone. 
 
 Approaching with confidence, but alert; his 
 reins fallen, his hands nursing his carbine, his 
 eyes searched the shadows of the trees, the 
 empty windows, even the sun-swept sky. His 
 was the new face at the door, the new step on 
 the floor. And the spy knew had she beheld an 
 army corps it would have been no more signifi 
 cant, no more menacing, than the solitary 
 chasseur a cbeval scouting in advance of the 
 enemy. 
 
 "We are saved!" exclaimed Marie, with 
 irony. "Go quickly," she commanded, "to the 
 
 285
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 bedroom on the second floor that opens upon 
 the staircase, so that you can see all who pass. 
 You are too ill to travel. They must find you 
 in bed/' 
 
 "And you?" said Bertha. 
 
 "I," cried Marie rapturously, "hasten to 
 welcome our preserver !" 
 
 The preserver was a peasant lad. Under the 
 white dust his cheeks were burned a brown-red, 
 his eyes, honest and blue, through much staring 
 at the skies and at horizon lines, were puckered 
 and encircled with tiny wrinkles. Responsi 
 bility had made him older than his years, and 
 in speech brief. With the beautiful lady who 
 with tears of joy ran to greet him, and who in 
 an ecstasy of happiness pressed her cheek against 
 the nose of his horse, he was unimpressed. He 
 returned to her her papers and gravely echoed 
 her answers to his questions. "This chateau," 
 he repeated, "was occupied by their General 
 Staff; they have left no wounded here; you saw 
 the last of them pass a half-hour since." He 
 gathered up his reins. 
 
 Marie shrieked in alarm. "You will not 
 leave us?" she cried. 
 
 For the first time the young man permitted 
 himself to smile. "Others arrive soon," he 
 said. 
 
 He touched his shako, wheeled his horse in 
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 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 the direction from which he had come, and a 
 minute later Marie heard the hoofs echoing 
 through the empty village. 
 
 When they came, the others were more sym 
 pathetic. Even in times of war a beautiful 
 woman is still a beautiful woman. And the 
 staff officers who moved into the quarters so 
 lately occupied by the enemy found in the 
 presence of the Countess d'Aurillac nothing to 
 distress them. In the absence of her dear 
 friend, Madame Iverney, the chatelaine of the 
 chateau, she acted as their hostess. Her chauf 
 feur showed the company cooks the way to the 
 kitchen, the larder, and the charcoal-box. She, 
 herself, in the hands of General Andre placed 
 the keys of the famous wine-cellar, and to the 
 surgeon, that the wounded might be freshly 
 bandaged, intrusted those of the linen-closet. 
 After the indignities she had suffered while 
 "detained" by les Boches, her delight and relief 
 at again finding herself under the protection of 
 her own people would have touched a heart of 
 stone. And the hearts of the staff were not of 
 stone. It was with regret they gave the count 
 ess permission to continue on her way. At this 
 she exclaimed with gratitude. She assured 
 them, were her aunt able to travel, she would 
 immediately depart. 
 
 "In Paris she will be more comfortable than 
 287
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 here," said the kind surgeon. He was a reserv 
 ist, and in times of peace a fashionable physician 
 and as much at his ease in a boudoir as in a 
 field hospital. "Perhaps if I saw Madame 
 Benet?" 
 
 At the suggestion the countess was overjoyed. 
 But they found Madame Benet in a state of 
 complete collapse. The conduct of the Ger 
 mans had brought about a nervous break 
 down. 
 
 "Though the bridges are destroyed at 
 Meaux," urged the surgeon, "even with a de 
 tour, you can be in Paris in four hours. I think 
 it is worth the effort." 
 
 But the mere thought of the journey threw 
 Madame Benet into hysterics. She asked only 
 to rest, she begged for an opiate to make her 
 sleep. She begged also that they would leave 
 the door open, so that when she dreamed she 
 was still in the hands of the Germans, and woke 
 in terror, the sound of the dear French voices 
 and the sight of the beloved French uniforms 
 might reassure her. She played her part well. 
 Concerning her Marie felt not the least anxiety. 
 But toward Briand, the chauffeur, the new 
 arrivals were less easily satisfied. 
 
 The general sent his adjutant for the countess. 
 When the adjutant had closed the door General 
 Andre began abruptly: 
 
 288
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 "The chauffeur Briand," he asked, "you 
 know him; you can vouch for him?" 
 
 "But, certainly!" protested Marie. "He is 
 an Italian." 
 
 As though with sudden enlightenment, Marie 
 laughed. It was as if now in the suspicion of 
 the officer she saw a certain reasonableness. 
 "Briand was so long in the Foreign Legion in 
 Algiers," she explained, "where my husband 
 found him, that we have come to think of him 
 as French. As much French as ourselves, I 
 assure you." 
 
 The general and his adjutant were regarding 
 each other questioningly. 
 
 "Perhaps I should tell the countess," began 
 the general, "that we have learned " 
 
 The signal from the adjutant was so slight, 
 so swift, that Marie barely intercepted it. 
 
 The lips of the general shut together like the 
 leaves of a book. To show the interview was 
 at an end, he reached for a pen. 
 
 "I thank you," he said. 
 
 "Of course," prompted the adjutant, "Ma 
 dame d'Aurillac understands the man must not 
 know we inquired concerning him." 
 
 General Andre frowned at Marie. 
 
 "Certainly not!" he commanded. "The 
 honest fellow must not know that even for a 
 moment he was doubted." 
 
 289
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 Marie raised the violet eyes reprovingly. 
 
 " I trust," she said with reproach, " I too well 
 understand the feelings of a French soldier to 
 let him know his loyalty is questioned." 
 
 With a murmur of appreciation the officers 
 bowed and with a gesture of gracious pardon 
 Marie left them. 
 
 Outside in the hall, with none but orderlies 
 to observe, like a cloak the graciousness fell 
 from her. She was drawn two ways. In her 
 work Anfossi was valuable. But Anfossi sus 
 pected was less than of no value; he became a 
 menace, a death-warrant. 
 
 General Andre had said, "We have learned " 
 and the adjutant had halted him. What had 
 he learned? To know that, Marie would have 
 given much. Still, one important fact com 
 forted her. Anfossi alone was suspected. Had 
 there been concerning herself the slightest 
 doubt, they certainly would not have allowed 
 her to guess her companion was under surveil 
 lance; they would not have asked one who was 
 herself suspected to vouch for the innocence of 
 a fellow conspirator. Marie found the course 
 to follow difficult. With Anfossi under suspi 
 cion his usefulness was for the moment at an 
 end; and to accept the chance offered her to 
 continue on to Paris seemed most wise. On 
 the other hand, if, concerning Anfossi, she had 
 
 290
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 succeeded in allaying their doubts, the results 
 most to be desired could be attained only by 
 remaining where they were. 
 
 Their position inside the lines was of the 
 greatest strategic value. The rooms of the 
 servants were under the roof, and that Briand 
 should sleep in one of them was natural. That 
 to reach or leave his room he should constantly 
 be ascending or descending the stairs also was 
 natural. The field-wireless outfit, or, as he had 
 disdainfully described it, the " knapsack'* wire 
 less, was situated not in the bedroom he had 
 selected for himself, but in one adjoining. At 
 other times this was occupied by the maid of 
 Madame Iverney. To summon her maid Ma 
 dame Iverney, from her apartment on the sec 
 ond floor, had but to press a button. And it 
 was in the apartment of Madame Iverney, and 
 on the bed of that lady, that Madame Benet 
 now reclined. When through the open door 
 she saw an officer or soldier mount the stairs, 
 she pressed the button that rang a bell in the 
 room of the maid. In this way, long before 
 whoever was ascending the stairs could reach 
 the top floor, warning of his approach came to 
 Anfossi. It gave him time to replace the dust- 
 board over the fireplace in which the wireless 
 was concealed and to escape into his own bed 
 room. The arrangement was ideal. And al- 
 
 291
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 ready information picked up in the halls below 
 by Marie had been conveyed to Anfossi to relay 
 in a French cipher to the German General Staff 
 at Rheims. 
 
 Marie made an alert and charming hostess. 
 To all who saw her it was evident that her 
 mind was intent only upon the comfort of her 
 guests. Throughout the day many came and 
 went, but each she made welcome; to each as 
 he departed she called "bonne chance." Effi 
 cient, tireless, tactful, she was everywhere: in 
 the dining-room, in the kitchen, in the bed 
 rooms, for the wounded finding mattresses to 
 spread in the gorgeous salons of the Champagne 
 prince; for the soldier-chauffeurs carrying wine 
 into the courtyard, where the automobiles 
 panted and growled, and the arriving and de 
 parting shrieked for right of way. At all times 
 an alluring person, now the one woman in a 
 tumult of men, her smart frock covered by an 
 apron, her head and arms bare, undismayed 
 by the sight of the wounded or by the distant 
 rumble of the guns, the Countess d'Aurillac 
 was an inspiring and beautiful picture. The 
 eyes of the officers, young and old, informed 
 her of that fact, one of which already she was 
 well aware. By the morning of the next day 
 she was accepted as the owner of the chateau. 
 And though continually she reminded the staff 
 
 292
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 she was present only as the friend of her school 
 mate, Madame Iverney, they deferred to her 
 as to a hostess. Many of them she already 
 saluted by name, and to those who with mes 
 sages were constantly motoring to and from 
 the front at Soissons she was particularly kind. 
 Overnight the legend of her charm, of her de 
 votion to the soldiers of all ranks, had spread 
 from Soissons to Meaux, and from Meaux to 
 Paris. It was noon of that day when from the 
 window of the second story Marie saw an 
 armored automobile sweep into the courtyard. 
 It was driven by an officer, young and appal 
 lingly good-looking, and, as was obvious by 
 the way he spun his car, one who held in con 
 tempt both the law of gravity and death. 
 That he was some one of importance seemed 
 evident. Before he could alight the adjutant 
 had raced to meet him. With her eye for detail 
 Marie observed that the young officer, instead 
 of imparting information, received it. He must, 
 she guessed, have just arrived from Paris, and 
 his brother officer either was telling him the 
 news or giving him his orders. Whichever it 
 might be, in what was told him the new arrival 
 was greatly interested. One instant in indig 
 nation his gauntleted fist beat upon the steering- 
 wheel, the next he smiled with pleasure. To 
 interpret this pantomime was difficult; and, tk 
 
 403
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE'' 
 
 better to inform herself, Marie descended the 
 stairs. 
 
 As she reached the lower hall the two officers 
 entered. To the spy the man last to arrive was 
 always the one of greatest importance; and 
 Marie assured herself that through her friend, 
 the adjutant, to meet with this one would prove 
 easy. 
 
 But the chauffeur-commander of the armored 
 car made it most difficult. At sight of Marie, 
 much to her alarm, as though greeting a dear 
 friend, he snatched his kepi from his head and 
 sprang toward her. 
 
 "The major," he cried, "told me you were 
 here, that you are Madame d'Aurillac." His 
 eyes spoke his admiration. In delight he 
 beamed upon her. "I might have known it!" 
 he murmured. With the confidence of one 
 who is sure he brings good news, he laughed 
 happily. "And I," he cried, "am 'Pierrot'!" 
 
 Who the devil "Pierrot" might be the spy 
 could not guess. She knew only that she 
 wished by a German shell "Pierrot" and his 
 car had been blown to tiny fragments. Was it 
 a trap, she asked herself, or was the handsome 
 youth really some one the Countess d'Aurillac 
 should know. But, as from his introducing 
 himself it was evident he could not know that 
 lady very well, Marie took courage and smiled. 
 
 294
 
 With her eye for detail Marie observed that the 
 young officer, instead of imparting informa 
 tion, received it.
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 "Which 'Pierrot'?" she parried. 
 
 "Pierre Thierry!" cried the youth. 
 
 To the relief of Marie he turned upon the 
 adjutant and to him explained who Pierre 
 Thierry might be. 
 
 "Paul d'Aurillac," he said, "is my dearest 
 friend. When he married this charming lady I 
 was stationed in Algiers, and but for the war I 
 might never have met her." 
 
 To Marie, with his hand on his heart in a 
 most charming manner, he bowed. His ad 
 miration he made no effort to conceal. 
 
 "And so," he said, "I know why there is 
 war!" 
 
 The adjutant smiled indulgently, and de 
 parted on his duties, leaving them alone. The 
 handsome eyes of Captain Thierry were raised 
 to the violet eyes of Marie. They appraised 
 her boldly and as boldly expressed their ap 
 proval. 
 
 In burlesque the young man exclaimed indig 
 nantly: "Paul deceived me!" he cried. "He 
 told me he had married the most beautiful 
 woman in Laon. He has married the most 
 beautiful woman in France!" 
 
 To Marie this was not impertinence, but gal 
 lantry. 
 
 This was a language she understood, and this 
 was the type of man, because he was the least 
 
 295
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 difficult to manage, she held most in con 
 tempt. 
 
 "But about you Paul did not deceive me," 
 she retorted. In apparent confusion her eyes 
 refused to meet his. "He told me 'Pierrot* 
 was a most dangerous man!" 
 
 She continued hurriedly. With wifely solici 
 tude she asked concerning Paul. She explained 
 that for a week she had been a prisoner in the 
 chateau, and, since the mobilization, of her 
 husband save that he was with his regiment in 
 Paris she had heard nothing. Captain Thierry 
 was able to give her later news. Only the day 
 previous, on the boulevards, he had met Count 
 d'Aurillac. He was at the Grand Hotel, and 
 as Thierry was at once motoring back to Paris 
 he would give Paul news of their meeting. He 
 hoped he might tell him that soon his wife also 
 would be in Paris. Marie explained that only 
 the illness of her aunt prevented her from that 
 same day joining her husband. Her manner 
 became serious. 
 
 "And what other news have you?" she asked. 
 "Here on the firing-line we know less of what 
 is going forward than you in Paris." 
 
 So Pierre Thierry told her all he knew. They 
 were preparing despatches he was at once to 
 carry back to the General Staff, and, for the 
 moment, his time was his own. How could he 
 
 296
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 better employ it than in talking of the war with 
 a patriotic and charming French woman? 
 
 In consequence Marie acquired a mass of 
 facts, gossip, and guesses. From these she men 
 tally selected such information as, to her em 
 ployers across the Aisne, would be of vital 
 interest. 
 
 And to rid herself of Thierry and on the 
 fourth floor seek Anfossi was now her only wish. 
 But, in attempting this, by the return of the 
 adjutant she was delayed. To Thierry the 
 adjutant gave a sealed envelope. 
 
 "Thirty-one, Boulevard des Invalides," he 
 said. With a smile he turned to Marie. "And 
 you will accompany him!'* 
 
 "I!" exclaimed Marie. She was sick with 
 sudden terror. 
 
 But the tolerant smile of the adjutant reas 
 sured her. 
 
 "The count, your husband," he explained, 
 "has learned of your detention here by the 
 enemy, and he has besieged the General Staff 
 to have you convoyed safely to Paris." The 
 adjutant glanced at a field telegram he held 
 open in his hand. "He asks," he continued, 
 "that you be permitted to return in the car of 
 his friend, Captain Thierry, and that on arriv 
 ing you join him at the Grand Hotel." 
 
 Thierry exclaimed with delight. 
 297
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 "But how charming!" he cried. "To-night 
 you must both dine with me at La Rue's." He 
 saluted his superior officer. "Some petrol, sir," 
 he said. "And I am ready." To Marie he 
 added: "The car will be at the steps in five 
 minutes." He turned and left them. 
 
 The thoughts of Marie, snatching at an ex 
 cuse for delay, raced madly. The danger of 
 meeting the Count d'Aurillac, her supposed 
 husband, did not alarm her. The Grand Hotel 
 has many exits, and, even before they reached 
 it, for leaving the car she could invent an excuse 
 that the gallant Thierry would not suspect. 
 But what now concerned her was how, before 
 she was whisked away to Paris, she could con 
 vey to Anfossi the information she had gathered 
 from Thierry. First, of a woman overcome 
 with delight at being reunited with her husband 
 she gave an excellent imitation; then she ex 
 claimed in distress: "But my aunt, Madame 
 Benet!" she cried. "I cannot leave her!" 
 
 "The Sisters of St. Francis," said the adju 
 tant, "arrive within an hour to nurse the 
 wounded. They will care also for your aunt." 
 
 Marie concealed her chagrin. "Then I will 
 at once prepare to go," she said. 
 
 The adjutant handed her a slip of paper. 
 "Your laissez-passer to Paris," he said. "You 
 leave in five minutes, madame!" 
 
 298
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 As temporary hostess of the chateau Marie 
 was free to visit any part of it, and as she 
 passed her door a signal from Madame Benet 
 told her that Anfossi was on the fourth floor, 
 that he was at work, and that the coast was 
 clear. Softly, in the felt slippers she always 
 wore, as she explained, in order not to disturb 
 the wounded, she mounted the staircase. In 
 her hand she carried the housekeeper's keys, 
 and as an excuse it was her plan to return with 
 an armful of linen for the arriving Sisters. But 
 Marie never reached the top of the stairs. 
 When her eyes rose to the level of the fourth 
 floor she came to a sudden halt. At what she 
 saw terror gripped her, bound her hand and 
 foot, and turned her blood to ice. 
 
 At her post for an instant Madame Benet 
 had slept, and an officer of the staff, led by 
 curiosity, chance, or suspicion, had, unobserved 
 and unannounced, mounted to the fourth floor. 
 When Marie saw him he was in front of the 
 room that held the wireless. His back was 
 toward her, but she saw that he was holding the 
 door to the room ajar, that his eye was pressed 
 to the opening, and that through it he had 
 pushed the muzzle of his automatic. What 
 would be the fate of Anfossi Marie knew. Nor 
 did she for an instant consider it. Her thoughts 
 were of her own safety; that she might live. 
 
 299
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 Not that she might still serve the Wilhelm- 
 strasse, the Kaiser, or the Fatherland; but that 
 she might live. In a moment Anfossi would be 
 denounced, the chateau would ring with the 
 alarm, and, though she knew Anfossi would 
 not betray her, by others she might be accused. 
 To avert suspicion from herself she saw only 
 one way open. She must be the first to de 
 nounce Anfossi. 
 
 Like a deer, she leaped down the marble stairs 
 and, in a panic she had no need to assume, burst 
 into the presence of the staff. 
 
 "Gentlemen!" she gasped, "my servant the 
 chauffeur Briand is a spy! There is a Ger 
 man wireless in the chateau. He is using it! 
 I have seen him." With exclamations, the offi 
 cers rose to their feet. General Andre alone 
 remained seated. General Andre was a veteran 
 of many Colonial wars: Cochin-China, Algiers, 
 Morocco. The great war, when it came, found 
 him on duty in the Intelligence Department. 
 His aquiline nose, bristling white eyebrows, and 
 flashing, restless eyes gave him his nickname of 
 
 In amazement, the flashing eyes were now 
 turned upon Marie. He glared at her as though 
 he thought she suddenly had flown mad. 
 
 "A German wireless!" he protested. "It is 
 impossible!" 
 
 300
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 "I was on the fourth floor," panted Marie, 
 "collecting linen for the Sisters. In the room 
 next to the linen-closet I heard a strange buzzing 
 sound. I opened the door softly. I saw Briand 
 with his back to me seated by an instrument. 
 There were receivers clamped to his ears ! My 
 God ! The disgrace ! The disgrace to my hus 
 band and to me, who vouched for him to you !" 
 Apparently in an agony of remorse, the ringers 
 of the woman laced and interlaced. " I cannot 
 forgive myself!" 
 
 The officers moved toward the door, but Gen 
 eral Andre halted them. Still in a tone of in 
 credulity, he demanded: "When did you see 
 this?" 
 
 Marie knew the question was coming, knew 
 she must explain how she saw Briand, and yet 
 did not see the staff officer who, with his pris 
 oner, might now at any instant appear. She 
 must make it plain she had discovered the spy 
 and left the upper part of the house before the 
 officer had visited it. When that was she could 
 not know, but the chance was that he had pre 
 ceded her by only a few minutes. 
 
 "When did you see this?" repeated the gen 
 eral. 
 
 "But just now," cried Marie; "not ten min 
 utes since." 
 
 "Why did you not come to me at once?"
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 "I was afraid," replied Marie. "If I moved 
 I was afraid he might hear me, and he, knowing 
 I would expose him, would kill me and so 
 escape you!" There was an eager whisper of 
 approval. For silence, General Andre slapped 
 his hand upon the table. 
 
 "Then," continued Marie, "I understood 
 with the receivers on his ears he could not have 
 heard me open the door, nor could he hear me 
 leave, and I ran to my aunt. The thought that 
 we had harbored such an animal sickened me, 
 and I was weak enough to feel faint. But only 
 for an instant. Then I came here." She moved 
 swiftly to the door. "Let me show you the 
 room," she begged; "y u can take him in the 
 act." Her eyes, wild with the excitement of 
 the chase, swept the circle. "Will you come?" 
 she begged. 
 
 Unconscious of the crisis he interrupted, the 
 orderly on duty opened the door. 
 
 "Captain Thierry's compliments," he recited 
 mechanically, "and is he to delay longer for 
 Madame d'Aurillac?" 
 
 With a sharp gesture General Andre waved 
 Marie toward the door. Without rising, he 
 inclined his head. "Adieu, madame," he said. 
 "We act at once upon your information. I 
 thank you!" 
 
 As she crossed from the hall to the terrace, 
 302
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 the ears of the spy were assaulted by a sudden 
 tumult of voices. They were raised in threats 
 and curses. Looking back, she saw Anfossi 
 descending the stairs. His hands were held 
 above his head; behind him, with his automatic, 
 the staff officer she had surprised on the fourth 
 floor was driving him forward. Above the 
 clinched fists of the soldiers that ran to meet 
 him, the eyes of Anfossi were turned toward 
 her. His face was expressionless. His eyes 
 neither accused nor reproached. And with the 
 joy of one who has looked upon and then escaped 
 the guillotine, Marie ran down the steps to 
 the waiting automobile. With a pretty cry of 
 pleasure she leaped into the seat beside Thierry. 
 Gayly she threw out her arms. "To Paris!" 
 she commanded. The handsome eyes of 
 Thierry, eloquent with admiration, looked back 
 into hers. He stooped, threw in the clutch, 
 and the great gray car, with the machine gun 
 and its crew of privates guarding the rear, 
 plunged through the park. 
 
 "To Paris !" echoed Thierry. 
 
 In the order in which Marie had last seen 
 them, Anfossi and the staff officer entered the 
 room of General Andre, and upon the soldiers 
 in the hall the door was shut. The face of the 
 staff officer was grave, but his voice could not 
 conceal his elation. 
 
 303
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 "My general," he reported, "I found this 
 man in the act of giving information to the 
 enemy. There is a wireless " 
 
 General Andre rose slowly. He looked 
 neither at the officer nor at his prisoner. With 
 frowning eyes he stared down at the maps upon 
 his table. 
 
 "I know," he interrupted. "Some one has 
 already told me." He paused, and then, as 
 though recalling his manners, but still without 
 raising his eyes, he added: "You have done 
 well, sir." 
 
 In silence the officers of the staff stood mo 
 tionless. With surprise they noted that, as 
 yet, neither in anger nor curiosity had General 
 Andre glanced at the prisoner. But of the 
 presence of the general the spy was most acutely 
 conscious. He stood erect, his arms still raised, 
 but his body strained forward, and on the 
 averted eyes of the general his own were fixed. 
 
 In an agony of supplication they asked a 
 question. 
 
 At last, as though against his wish, toward 
 the spy the general turned his head, and their 
 eyes met. And still General Andre was silent. 
 Then the arms of the spy, like those of a runner 
 who has finished his race and breasts the tape 
 exhausted, fell tc his sides. In a voice low and 
 vibrant he spoke his question. 
 
 304
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 " It has been so long, sir," he pleaded. " May 
 I not come home?" 
 
 General Andre turned to the astonished group 
 surrounding him. His voice was hushed like 
 that of one who speaks across an open grave. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he began, "my children," he 
 added. "A German spy, a woman, involved 
 in a scandal your brother in arms, Henri Ravi- 
 gnac. His honor, he thought, was concerned, 
 and without honor he refused to live. To prove 
 him guiltless his younger brother Charles asked 
 leave to seek out the woman who had betrayed 
 Henri, and by us was detailed on secret service. 
 He gave up home, family, friends. He lived in 
 exile, in poverty, at all times in danger of a 
 swift and ignoble death. In the War Office we 
 know him as one who has given to his country 
 services she cannot hope to reward. For she 
 cannot return to him the years he has lost. 
 She cannot return to him his brother. But she 
 can and will clear the name of Henri Ravignac, 
 and upon his brother Charles bestow promotion 
 and honors." 
 
 The general turned and embraced the spy. 
 "My children," he said, "welcome your brother. 
 He has come home." 
 
 Before the car had reached the fortifications, 
 Marie Gessler had arranged her plan of escape. 
 She had departed from the chateau without 
 
 305
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE' 1 
 
 even a hand-bag, and she would say that before 
 the shops closed she must make purchases. 
 
 Le Printemps lay in their way, and she asked 
 that, when they reached it, for a moment she 
 might alight. Captain Thierry readily gave 
 permission. 
 
 From the department store it would be most 
 easy to disappear, and in anticipation Marie 
 smiled covertly. Nor was the picture of Cap 
 tain Thierry impatiently waiting outside un- 
 amusing. 
 
 But before Le Printemps was approached, the 
 car turned sharply down a narrow street. On 
 one side, along its entire length, ran a high gray 
 wall, grim and forbidding. In it was a green 
 gate studded with iron bolts. Before this the 
 automobile drew suddenly to a halt. The crew 
 of the armored car tumbled off the rear seat, 
 and one of them beat upon the green gate. 
 Marie felt a hand of ice clutch at her throat. 
 But she controlled herself. 
 
 "And what is this?" she cried gayly. 
 
 At her side Captain Thierry was smiling 
 down at her, but his smile was hateful. 
 
 "It is the prison of St. Lazare," he said. " It 
 is not becoming," he added sternly, "that the 
 name of the Countess d'Aurillac should be 
 made common as the Paris road!" 
 
 Fighting for her life, Marie thrust herself 
 306
 
 "SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 
 
 against him; her arm that throughout the jour 
 ney had rested on the back of the driving-seat 
 caressed his shoulders; her lips and the violet 
 eyes were close to his. 
 
 "Why should you care?" she whispered 
 fiercely. "You have me! Let the Count 
 d'Aurillac look after the honor of his wife him 
 self." 
 
 The charming Thierry laughed at her mock 
 ingly. 
 
 "He means to," he said. "I am the Count 
 d'Aurillac!" 
 
 307
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 IN Salonika, the American consul, the Stand 
 ard Oil man, and the war correspondents 
 formed the American colony. The -correspon 
 dents were waiting to go to the front. Inciden 
 tally, as we waited, the front was coming rapidly 
 toward us. There was "Uncle" Jim, the vet 
 eran of many wars, and of all the correspondents, 
 in experience the oldest and in spirit the young 
 est, and there was the Kid, and the Artist. 
 The Kid jeered at us, and proudly described 
 himself as the only Boy Reporter who jumped 
 from a City Hall assignment to cover a Euro 
 pean War. " I don't know strategy," he would 
 boast; "neither does the Man at Home. He 
 wants 'human interest* stuff, and I give him 
 what he wants. I write exclusively for the 
 subway guard and the farmers in the wheat 
 belt.- When you fellows write about the 'Situ 
 ation,' they don't understand it. Neither do 
 you. Neither does Venizelos or the King. I 
 don't understand it myself. So, I write my 
 people heart-to-heart talks about refugees and 
 wounded, and what kind of ploughs the Servian 
 peasants use, and that St. Paul wrote his letters 
 
 308
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 to the Thessalonians from the same hotel where 
 I write mine; and I tell 'em to pronounce Salon 
 ika 'eeka,' and not put the accent on the 'on.' 
 This morning at the refugee camp I found all 
 the little Servians of the Frothingham unit in 
 American Boy Scout uniforms. That's my 
 meat. That's 'home week' stuff. You fellows 
 write for the editorial page; and nobody reads it. 
 I write for the man that turns first to Mutt and 
 Jeff, and then looks to see where they are run 
 ning the new Charlie Chaplin release. When 
 that man has to choose between 'our military 
 correspondent' and the City Hall Reporter, he 
 chooses me!" 
 
 The third man was John, "Our Special Art 
 ist." John could write a news story, too, but 
 it was the cartoons that had made him famous. 
 They were not comic page, but front page car 
 toons, and before making up their minds what 
 they thought, people waited to see what their 
 Artist thought. So, it was fortunate his 
 thoughts were as brave and clean as they were 
 clever. He was the original Little Brother to 
 the Poor. He was always giving away money. 
 When we caught him, he would prevaricate. 
 He would say the man was a college chum, 
 that he had borrowed the money from him, 
 and that this was the first chance he had had to 
 pay it back. The Kid suggested it was strange 
 
 309
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 that so many of his college chums should at 
 the same moment turn up, dead broke, in Salo 
 nika, and that half of them should be women. 
 
 John smiled disarmingly. "It was a large 
 college," he explained, "and coeducational." 
 There were other Americans; Red Cross doc 
 tors and nurses just escaped through the snow 
 from the Bulgars, and hyphenated Americans 
 who said they had taken out their first papers. 
 They thought hyphenated citizens were so pop 
 ular with us, that we would pay their passage 
 to New York. In Salonika they were tran 
 sients. They had no local standing. They had 
 no local lying-down place, either, or place to 
 eat, or to wash, although they did not look as 
 though that worried them, or place to change 
 their clothes. Or clothes to change. It was 
 because we had clothes to change, and a hotel 
 bedroom, instead of a bench in a cafe, that we 
 were ranked as residents and from the Greek 
 police held a "permission to sojourn." Our 
 American colony was a very close corporation. 
 We were only six Americans against 300,000 
 British, French, Greek, and Servian soldiers, 
 and 120,000 civilian Turks, Spanish Jews, Ar 
 menians, Persians, Egyptians, Albanians, and 
 Arabs, and some twenty more other races that 
 are not listed. We had arrived in Salonika 
 before the rush, and at the Hotel Hermes on
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 the water-front had secured a vast room. The 
 edge of the stone quay was not forty feet from 
 us, the only landing steps directly opposite our 
 balcony. Everybody who arrived on the Greek 
 passenger boats from Naples or the Piraeus, or 
 who had shore leave from a man-of-war, trans 
 port, or hospital ship, was raked by our cameras. 
 There were four windows one for each of us 
 and his work table. It was not easy to work. 
 What was the use? The pictures and stories 
 outside the windows fascinated us, but when we 
 sketched them or wrote about them, they only 
 proved us inadequate. All day long the pin 
 naces, cutters, gigs, steam launches shoved and 
 bumped against the stone steps, marines came 
 ashore for the mail, stewards for fruit and fish, 
 Red Cross nurses to shop, tiny midshipmen to 
 visit the movies, and the sailors and officers of 
 the Russian, French, British, Italian, and Greek 
 war-ships to stretch their legs in the park of 
 the Tour Blanche, or to cramp them under a 
 cafe table. Sometimes the ambulances blocked 
 the quay and the wounded and frost-bitten were 
 lifted into the motor-boats, and sometimes a 
 squad of marines lined the landing stage, and 
 as a coffin under a French or English flag was 
 borne up the stone steps stood at salute. So 
 crowded was the harbor that the oars of the 
 boatmen interlocked. 
 
 3"
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 Close to the stone quay, stretched along the 
 three-mile circle, were the fishing smacks, be 
 yond them, so near that the anchor chains 
 fouled, were the passenger ships with gigantic 
 Greek flags painted on their sides, and beyond 
 them transports from Marseilles, Malta, and 
 Suvla Bay, black colliers, white hospital ships, 
 burning green electric lights, red-bellied tramps 
 and freighters, and, hemming them in, the grim, 
 mouse-colored destroyers, submarines, cruisers, 
 dreadnaughts. At times, like a wall, the cold 
 fog rose between us and the harbor, and again 
 the curtain would suddenly be ripped asunder, 
 and the sun would flash on the brass work of 
 the fleet, on the white wings of the aeroplanes, 
 on the snow-draped shoulders of Mount Olym 
 pus. We often speculated as to how in the 
 early days the gods and goddesses, dressed as 
 they were, or as they were not, survived the 
 snows of Mount Olympus. Or was it only 
 their resort for the summer? 
 
 It got about that we had a vast room to our 
 selves, where one might obtain a drink, or a 
 sofa for the night, or even money to cable for 
 money. So, we had many strange visitors, 
 some half starved, half frozen, with terrible 
 tales of the Albanian trail, of the Austrian pris 
 oners fallen by the wayside, of the mountain 
 passes heaped with dead, of the doctors and 
 
 312
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 nurses wading waist-high in snow-drifts and for 
 food killing the ponies. Some of our visitors 
 wanted to get their names in the American pa 
 pers so that the folks at home would know 
 they were still alive, others wanted us to keep 
 their names out of the papers, hoping the police 
 would think them dead; another, convinced it 
 was of pressing news value, desired us to adver 
 tise the fact that he had invented a poisonous 
 gas for use in the trenches. With difficulty 
 we prevented him from casting it adrift in our 
 room. Or, he had for sale a second-hand 
 motor-cycle, or he would accept a position as 
 barkeeper, or for five francs would sell a state 
 secret that, once made public, in a month would 
 end the war. It seemed cheap at the price. 
 
 Each of us had his "scouts" to bring him the 
 bazaar rumor, the Turkish bath rumor, the cafe 
 rumor. Some of our scouts journeyed as far 
 afield as Monastir and Doiran, returning to 
 drip snow on the floor, and to tell us tales, one- 
 half of which we refused to believe, and the 
 other half the censor refused to pass. With 
 each other's visitors it was etiquette not to 
 interfere. It would have been like tapping a 
 private wire. When we found John sketching 
 a giant stranger in a cap and coat of wolf skin 
 we did not seek to know if he were an Albanian 
 brigand, or a Servian prince incognito, and when 
 
 313
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 a dark Levantine sat close to the Kid, whisper 
 ing, and the Kid banged on his typewriter, we 
 did not listen. 
 
 So, when I came in one afternoon and found 
 a strange American youth writing at John's 
 table, and no one introduced us, I took it for 
 granted he had sold the Artist an "exclusive" 
 story, and asked no questions. But I could 
 not help hearing what they said. Even though 
 I tried to drown their voices by beating on the 
 Kid's typewriter. I was taking my third les 
 son, and I had printed, "I Amm 5w writjng 
 This, 5wjth my own lilly w?ite handS," when 
 I heard the Kid saying: 
 
 "You can beat the game this way. Let John 
 buy you a ticket to the Piraeus. If you go 
 from one Greek port to another you don't need 
 a vise. But, if you book from here to Italy, 
 you must get a permit from the Italian consul, 
 and our consul, and the police. The plot is to 
 get out of the war zone, isn't it? Well, then, 
 my dope is to get out quick, and map the rest 
 of your trip when you're safe in Athens." 
 
 It was no business of mine, but I had to 
 look up. The stranger was now pacing the 
 floor. I noticed that while his face was almost 
 black with tan, his upper lip was quite white. 
 I noticed also that he had his hands in the 
 pockets of one of John's blue serge suits, and
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 that the pink silk shirt he wore was one that 
 once had belonged to the Kid. Except for the 
 pink shirt, in the appearance of the young man 
 there was nothing unusual. He was of a fa 
 miliar type. He looked like a young business 
 man from our Middle West, matter-of-fact and 
 unimaginative, but capable and self-reliant. 
 If he had had a fountain pen in his upper waist 
 coat pocket, I would have guessed he was an 
 insurance agent, or the publicity man for a 
 new automobile. John picked up his hat, and 
 said, "That's good advice. Give me your 
 steamer ticket, Fred, and I'll have them change 
 it." He went out; but he did not ask Fred to 
 go with him. 
 
 Uncle Jim rose, and murmured something 
 about the Cafe Roma, and tea. But neither 
 did he invite Fred to go with him. Instead, he 
 told him to make himself at home, and if he 
 wanted anything the waiter would bring it from 
 the cafe downstairs. Then the Kid, as though 
 he also was uncomfortable at being left alone 
 with us, hurried to the door. "Going to get 
 you a suit-case," he explained. "Back in five 
 
 minutes." 
 
 The stranger made no answer. Probably he 
 did not hear him. Not a hundred feet from our 
 windows three Greek steamers were huddled 
 together, and the eyes of the American were 
 
 315
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 fixed on them. The one for which John had 
 gone to buy him a new ticket lay nearest. She 
 was to sail in two hours. Impatiently, in short 
 quick steps, the stranger paced the length of 
 the room, but when he turned and so could see 
 the harbor, he walked slowly, devouring it 
 with his eyes. For some time, in silence, he 
 repeated this manoeuvre; and then the com 
 plaints of the typewriter disturbed him. He 
 halted and observed my struggles. Under his 
 scornful eye, in my embarrassment I frequently 
 hit the right letter. "You a newspaper man, 
 too?" he asked. I boasted I was, but begged 
 not to be judged by my typewriting. 
 
 "I got some great stories to write when I 
 get back to God's country/' he announced. " I 
 was a reporter for two years in Kansas City 
 before the war, and now I'm going back to lec 
 ture and write. I got enough material to keep 
 me at work for five years. AH kinds of stuff 
 specials, fiction stories, personal experiences, 
 maybe a novel." 
 
 I regarded him with envy. For the corre 
 spondents in the greatest of all wars the pickings 
 had been meagre. "You are to be congratu 
 lated," I said. He brushed aside my con 
 gratulations. "For what?" he demanded. "I 
 didn't go after the stories; they came to me. 
 The things I saw I had to see. Couldn't get 
 
 316
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 away from them. I've been with the British, 
 serving in the R. A. M. C. Been hospital 
 steward, stretcher bearer, ambulance driver. 
 I've been sixteen months at the front, and all 
 the time on the firing-line. I was in the retreat 
 from Mons, with French on the Marne, at 
 Ypres, all through the winter fighting along the 
 Canal, on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and, just 
 lately, in Servia. I've seen more of this war 
 than any soldier. Because, sometimes, they 
 give the soldier a rest; they never give the medi 
 cal corps a rest. The only rest I got was when 
 I was wounded." 
 
 He seemed no worse for his wounds, so again 
 I tendered congratulations. This time he ac 
 cepted them. The recollection of the things 
 he had seen, things incredible, terrible, unique 
 in human experience, had stirred him. He 
 talked on, not boastfully, but in a tone, rather, 
 of awe and disbelief, as though assuring him 
 self that it was really he to whom such things 
 had happened. 
 
 " I don't believe there's any kind of fighting 
 I haven't seen," he declared; "hand-to-hand 
 fighting with bayonets, grenades, gun butts. 
 I've seen 'em on their knees in the mud choking 
 each other, beating each other with their bare 
 fists. I've seen every kind of airship, bomb, 
 shell, poison gas, every kind of wound. Seen 
 
 317
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 whole villages turned into a brickyard in twenty 
 minutes; in Servia seen bodies of women frozen 
 to death, bodies of babies starved to death, seen 
 men in Belgium swinging from trees; along the 
 Yzer for three months I saw the bodies of men 
 I'd known sticking out of the mud, or hung 
 up on the barb wire, with the crows picking 
 them. 
 
 "I've seen some of the nerviest stunts that 
 ever were pulled off in history. I've seen real 
 heroes. Time and time again I've seen a man 
 throw away his life for his officer, or for a chap 
 he didn't know, just as though it was a ciga 
 rette butt. I've seen the women nurses of our 
 corps steer a car into a village and yank out a 
 wounded man while shells were breaking under 
 the wheels and the houses were pitching into 
 the streets." He stopped and laughed con 
 sciously. 
 
 "Understand," he warned me, "I'm not talk 
 ing about myself, only of things I've seen. The 
 things I'm going to put in my book. It ought 
 to be a pretty good book what?" 
 
 My envy had been washed clean in admira 
 tion. 
 
 "It will make a wonderful book," I agreed. 
 "Are you going to syndicate it first?" 
 
 Young Mr. Hamlin frowned importantly. 
 
 "I was thinking," he said, "of asking John
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 for letters to the magazine editors. So, they'll 
 know I'm not faking, that Pve really been 
 through it all. Letters from John would help 
 a lot." Then he asked anxiously: "They would, 
 wouldn't they?" 
 
 I reassured him. Remembering the Kid's 
 gibes at John and his numerous dependents, I 
 said: "You another college chum of John's?" 
 The young man answered my question quite 
 seriously. "No," he said; "John graduated 
 before I entered; but we belong to the same 
 fraternity. It was the luckiest chance in the 
 world my finding him here. There was a 
 month-old copy of the Balkan News blowing 
 around camp, and his name was in the list of 
 arrivals. The moment I found he was in Sa 
 lonika, I asked for twelve hours leave, and 
 came down in an ambulance. I made straight 
 for John; gave him the grip, and put it up to 
 him to help me." 
 
 "I don't understand," I said. "I thought 
 you were sailing on the Adriaticus?" 
 
 The young man was again pacing the floor. 
 He halted and faced the harbor. 
 
 "You bet I'm sailing on the Adriaticus," he 
 said. He looked out at that vessel, at the Blue 
 Peter flying from her foremast, and grinned. 
 "In just two hours!" 
 
 It was stupid of me, but I still was unenlight-
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 ened. "But your twelve hours' leave?" I 
 asked. 
 
 The young man laughed. "They can take 
 my twelve hours' leave," he said deliberately, 
 "and feed it to the chickens. I'm beating it." 
 
 "What d'you mean, you're beating it?" 
 
 "What do you suppose I mean?" he de 
 manded. "What do you suppose I'm doing 
 out of uniform, what do you suppose I'm lying 
 low in the room for? So's I won't catch cold?" 
 
 "If you're leaving the army without a dis 
 charge, and without permission," I said, "I 
 suppose you know it's desertion." 
 
 Mr. Hamlin laughed easily. "It's not my 
 army," he said. "I'm an American." 
 
 "It's your desertion," I suggested. 
 
 The door opened and closed noiselessly, and 
 Billy, entering, placed a new travelling bag on 
 the floor. He must have heard my last words, 
 for he looked inquiringly at each of us. But 
 he did not speak and, walking to the window, 
 stood with his hands in his pockets, staring 
 out at the harbor. His presence seemed to 
 encourage the young man. "Who knows I'm 
 deserting?" he demanded. "No one's ever 
 seen me in Salonika before, and in these 'cits' 
 I can get on board all right. And then they 
 can't touch me. What do the folks at home 
 care bow I left the British army? They'll be so 
 
 320
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 darned glad to get me back alive that they 
 won't ask if I walked out or was kicked out. I 
 should worry!" 
 
 "It's none of my business," I began, but I 
 was interrupted. In his restless pacings the 
 young man turned quickly. 
 
 "As you say," he remarked icily, "it is none 
 of your business. It's none of your business 
 whether I get shot as a deserter, or go home, 
 or " 
 
 "You can go to the devil for all I care," I 
 assured him. "I wasn't considering you at all. 
 I was only sorry that I'll never be able to read 
 your book." 
 
 For a moment Mr. Hamlin remained silent, 
 then he burst forth with a jeer. 
 
 "No British firing squad," he boasted, "will 
 ever stand me up." 
 
 "Maybe not," I agreed, "but you will never 
 write that book." 
 
 Again there was silence, and this time it 
 was broken by the Kid. He turned from the 
 window and looked toward Hamlin. "That's 
 right!" he said. 
 
 He sat down on the edge of the table, and at 
 the deserter pointed his forefinger. 
 
 "Son," he said, "this war is some war. It's 
 the biggest war in history, and folks will be 
 talking about nothing else for the next ninety 
 
 321
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 years; folks that never were nearer it than 
 Bay City, Mich. But you won't talk about it. 
 And you've been all through it. You've been 
 to hell and back again. Compared with what 
 you know about hell, Dante is in the same class 
 with Dr. Cook. But you won't be able to talk 
 about this war, or lecture, or write a book 
 about it." 
 
 "I won't?" demanded Hamlin. "And why 
 won't I?" 
 
 "Because of what you're doing now," said 
 Billy. "Because you're queering yourself. 
 Now, you've got everything." The Kid was 
 very much in earnest. His tone was intimate, 
 kind, and friendly. " You've seen everything, 
 done everything. We'd give our eye-teeth to 
 see what you've seen, and to write the things 
 you can write. You've got a record now that'll 
 last you until you're dead, and your grandchil 
 dren are dead and then some. When you 
 talk the table will have to sit up and listen. 
 You can say 'I was there.' 'I was in it.' *I 
 saw.' 'I know.' When this war is over you'll 
 have everything out of it that's worth getting 
 all the experiences, all the inside knowledge, all 
 the 'nosebag' news; you'll have wounds, honors, 
 medals, money, reputation. And you're throw 
 ing all that away !" 
 
 Mr. Hamlin interrupted savagely. 
 322
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 "To hell with their medals," he said. "They 
 can take their medals and hang 'em on Christ 
 mas trees. I don't owe the British army any 
 thing. It owes me. I've done my bit. I've 
 earned what I've got, and there's no one can 
 take it away from me." 
 
 "You can," said the Kid. Before Hamlin 
 could reply the door opened and John came in, 
 followed by Uncle Jim. The older man was 
 looking very grave, and John very unhappy. 
 Hamlin turned quickly to John. 
 
 " I thought these men were friends of yours," 
 he began, "and Americans. They're fine Amer 
 icans. They're as full of human kindness and 
 red blood as a kippered herring!" 
 
 John looked inquiringly at the Kid. 
 
 "He wants to hang himself," explained Billy, 
 "and because we tried to cut him down, he's 
 
 sore." 
 
 "They talked to me," protested Hamlin, "as 
 though I was a yellow dog. As though I was 
 a quitter. I'm no quitter! But, if I'm ready 
 to quit, who's got a better right? I'm not an 
 Englishman, but there are several million Eng 
 lishmen haven't done as much for England in 
 this war as I have. What do you fellows know 
 about it? You write about it, about the 'brave 
 lads in the trenches'; but what do you know 
 about the trenches? What you've seen from 
 
 323
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 automobiles. That's all. That's where you get 
 off ! I've lived in the trenches for fifteen months, 
 froze in 'em, starved hi 'em, risked my life in 
 'em, and I've saved other lives, too, by hauling 
 men out of the trenches. And that's no airy 
 persiflage, either!" 
 
 He ran to the wardrobe where John's clothes 
 hung, and from the bottom of it dragged a khaki 
 uniform. It was still so caked with mud and 
 snow that when he flung it on the floor it 
 splashed like a wet bathing suit. "How would 
 you like to wear one of those?" he demanded. 
 "Stinking with lice and sweat and blood; the 
 blood of other men, the men you've helped off 
 the field, and your own blood." 
 
 As though committing hara-kiri, he slashed 
 his hand across his stomach, and then drew it 
 up from his waist to his chin. "I'm scraped 
 with shrapnel from there to there," said Mr. 
 Hamlin. "And another time I got a ball in 
 the shoulder. That would have been a 'blighty' 
 for a fighting man they're always giving them 
 leave but all I 'got was six weeks at Havre in 
 hospital. Then it was the Dardanelles, and 
 sunstroke and sand; sleeping in sand, eating 
 sand, sand in your boots, sand in your teeth; 
 hiding in holes in the sand like a dirty prairie 
 dog. And then, 'Off to ServiaP And the next 
 act opens in the snow and the mud! Cold? 
 
 324
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 God, how cold it was ! And most of us in sun 
 helmets." 
 
 As though the cold still gnawed at his bones, 
 he shivered. 
 
 "It isn't the danger," he protested. "It 
 isn't that I'm getting away from. To hell with 
 the danger! It's just the plain discomfort of 
 it! It's the never being your own master, 
 never being clean, never being warm." Again 
 he shivered and rubbed one hand against the 
 other. "There were no bridges over the 
 streams," he went on, "and we had to break the 
 ice and wade in, and then sleep in the open 
 with the khaki frozen to us. There was no 
 firewood; not enough to warm a pot of tea. 
 There were no wounded; all our casualties were 
 frost bite and pneumonia. When we take them 
 out of the blankets their toes fall off. We've 
 been in camp for a month now near Doiran, 
 and it's worse there than on the march. It's a 
 frozen swamp. You can't sleep for the cold; 
 can't eat; the only ration we get is bully beef, 
 and our insides are frozen so damn tight we 
 can't digest it. The cold gets into your blood, 
 gets into your brains. It won't let you think; 
 or else, you think crazy things. It makes you 
 afraid." He shook himself like a man coining 
 out of a bad dream. 
 
 "So, I'm through," he said. In turn he 
 
 325
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 scowled at each of us, as though defying us to 
 contradict him. "That's why I'm quitting," 
 he added. "Because I've done my bit. Be 
 cause I'm damn well fed up on it." He kicked 
 viciously at the water-logged uniform on the 
 floor. "Any one who wants my job can have 
 it!" He walked to the window, turned his 
 back on us, and fixed his eyes hungrily on the 
 Adriaticus. There was a long pause. For 
 guidance we looked at John, but he was staring 
 down at the desk blotter, scratching on it marks 
 that he did not see. 
 
 Finally, where angels feared to tread, the Kid 
 rushed in. "That's certainly a hard luck 
 story," he said; "but," he added cheerfully, 
 "it's nothing to the hard luck you'll strike 
 when you can't tell why you left the army." 
 Hamlin turned with an exclamation, but Billy 
 held up his hand. "Now wait," he begged, 
 "we haven't time to get mussy. At six o'clock 
 your leave is up, and the troop train starts back 
 to camp, and 
 
 Mr. Hamlin interrupted sharply. "And the 
 Adriaticus starts at five." 
 
 Billy did not heed him. !t You've got two 
 hours to change your mind," he said. "That's 
 better than being sorry you didn't the rest of 
 your life." 
 
 Mr. Hamlin threw back his head and laughed. 
 326
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 It was a most unpleasant laugh. "You're a fine 
 body of men," he jeered. "America must be 
 proud of you !" 
 
 "If we weren't Americans," explained Billy 
 patiently, "we wouldn't give a damn whether 
 you deserted or not. You're drowning and you 
 don't know it, and we're throwing you a rope. 
 Try to see it that way. We'll cut out the fact 
 that you took an oath, and that you're break 
 ing it. That's up to you. We'll get down to 
 results. When you reach home, if you can't 
 tell why you left the army, the folks will darned 
 soon guess. And that will queer everything 
 you've done. When you come to sell your 
 stuff, it will queer you with the editors, queer 
 you with the publishers. If they know you 
 broke your word to the British army, how can 
 they know you're keeping faith with them? 
 How can they believe anything you tell them? 
 Every * story* you write, every statement of 
 yours will make a noise like a fake. You won't 
 come into court with clean hands. You'll be 
 licked before you start. 
 
 "Of course, you're for the Allies. Well, all 
 the Germans at home will fear that; and when 
 you want to lecture on your 'Fifteen Months 
 at the British Front,' they'll look up your 
 record; and what will they do to you? This is 
 what they'll do to you. When you've shown 
 
 327
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 *em your moving pictures and say, 'Does any 
 gentleman in the audience want to ask a ques 
 tion?' a German agent will get up and say, 
 'Yes, I want to ask a question. Is it true that 
 you deserted from the British army, and that if 
 you return to it, they will shoot you ? ' 
 
 I was scared. I expected the lean and mus 
 cular Mr. Hamlin to fall on Billy, and fling him 
 where he had flung the soggy uniform. But 
 instead he remained motionless, his arms pressed 
 across his chest. His eyes, filled with anger 
 and distress, returned to the Adriaticus. 
 
 "I'm sorry," muttered the Kid. 
 
 John rose and motioned to the door, and 
 guiltily and only too gladly we escaped. John 
 followed us into the hall. "Let me talk to 
 Kim," he whispered. "The boat sails in an 
 hour. Please don't come back until she's 
 gone." 
 
 We went to the moving picture palace next 
 door, but I doubt if the thoughts of any of us 
 were on the pictures. For after an hour, when 
 from across the quay there came the long-drawn 
 warning of a steamer's whistle, we nudged each 
 other and rose and went out. 
 
 Not a hundred yards from us the propeller 
 blades of the Adriaticus were slowly churning, 
 and the rowboats were falling away from her 
 sides. 
 
 328
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 " Good-bye, Mr. Hamlin," called Billy. "You 
 had everything and you chucked it away. I 
 can spell your finish. It's 'check* for yours." 
 
 But when we entered our room, in the centre 
 of it, under the bunch of electric lights, stood 
 the deserter. He wore the water-logged uni 
 form. The sun helmet was on his head. 
 
 "Good man!" shouted Billy. 
 
 He advanced, eagerly holding out his hand. 
 
 Mr. Hamlin brushed past him. At the door 
 he turned and glared at us, even at John. He 
 was not a good loser. " I hope you're satisfied," 
 he snarled. He pointed at the four beds in a 
 row. I felt guiltily conscious of them. At the 
 moment they appeared so unnecessarily clean 
 and warm and soft. The silk coverlets at the 
 foot of each struck me as being disgracefully 
 effeminate. They made me ashamed. 
 
 "I hope," said Mr. Hamlin, speaking slowly 
 and picking his words, "when you turn into 
 those beds to-night you'll think of me in the 
 mud. I hope when you're having your five- 
 course dinner and your champagne you'll re 
 member my bully beef. I hope when a shell 
 or Mr. Pneumonia gets me, you'll write a nice 
 little sob story about the * brave lads in the 
 trenches. ' ' 
 
 He looked at us, standing like schoolboys, 
 sheepish, embarrassed, and silent, and then 
 
 3 2 9
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 threw open the door. "I hope," he added, 
 "you all choke!" 
 
 With an unconvincing imitation of the college 
 chum manner, John cleared his throat and said: 
 "Don't forget, Fred, if there's anything I can 
 
 T 
 
 Hamlin stood in the doorway smiling at us. 
 
 "There's something you can all do," he said. 
 
 "Yes?" asked John heartily. 
 
 "You can all go to hell !" said Mr. Hamlin. 
 
 We heard the door slam, and his hobnailed 
 boots pounding down the stairs. No one spoke. 
 Instead, in unhappy silence, we stood staring 
 at the floor. Where the uniform had Iain was 
 a pool of mud and melted snow and the darker 
 stains of stale blood.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S A.
 
 AA 001 148413 6