THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 MRS. VIRGINIA B. SPORER
 
 VAN BIBBER 
 
 AND OTHERS
 
 From a photograph by Pach Bros 
 
 / ff 
 

 
 THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 VAN BIBBER 
 
 AND OTHERS 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1919
 
 The first nine stories in this rolume from " Van Bibber and 
 Others," copyright, 1892, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 
 Of the remainder, "Van Bibber and the Swan-Boats," 
 "Van Bibber's Burglar," "Van Bibber as Best Man," 
 " My Disreputable Friend, Mr. Raegen," " The Trafle* 
 for Room No. 8," and "A Walk Up the Arenue " from 
 "Gallegher and Other Stories," copyright, 1891, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNKH'S SONS; "Cinderella," "The 
 Editor's Story," and "An Assisted Emigrant " from " Cin 
 derella," copyright, 1896, by CHARLES SCRJBNEK'S 
 SONS : " The Man with One Talent " ftom " The Uon 
 and the Unicorn." copyright, 1903, by CHARLES 
 SCRIBNER S SONS. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY 
 BESSIE McCOY DAVIS
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 PS 
 \5 
 
 MIS 
 
 TO 
 MY FATHER 
 
 L. CLARKE DAVIS 
 
 WHO HAS BEEN MY KINDEST AND 
 MY SEVEREST CRITIC 
 
 1182205
 
 PUBLISHERS' NOTE 
 
 THIS edition has been prepared in pursuance 
 of a plan long contemplated, and on lines dis 
 cussed and arranged with Mr. Davis a year or 
 more ago. It has now been completed with 
 what is believed to be a full knowledge of his 
 wishes. 
 
 It has been thought of interest to preserve in 
 connection with it some of the notable recollec 
 tions and appreciations which his death called 
 forth. They have therefore been prefixed as 
 introductory passages to the several volumes, 
 though in only two or three cases have they 
 any association with special books. In a few 
 instances they were published in periodicals and 
 the press; those of Colonel Roosevelt, Mr. Gib 
 son and Mr. McCutcheon appeared in Scrib- 
 ner's Magazine, and thanks are due to the 
 Metropolitan Magazine and Collier's Weekly for 
 permission to reprint those by Mr. Gouverneur 
 Morris and Mr. Dunne; but most of them ap 
 pear here for the first time. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1916.
 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 To the college boy of the early nineties Richard 
 Harding Davis was the "beau ideal of jeunesse 
 doree" a sophisticated heart of gold. He was of 
 that college boy's own age, but already an editor 
 already publishing books ! His stalwart good 
 looks were as familiar to us as were those of our 
 own football captain; we knew his face as we knew 
 the face of the President of the United States, but 
 we infinitely preferred Davis's. When the Waldorf 
 was wondrously completed, and we cut an exam, in 
 Cuneiform Inscriptions for an excursion to see the 
 world at lunch in its new magnificence, and Richard 
 Harding Davis came into the Palm Room then, oh, 
 then, our day was radiant ! That was the top of our 
 fortune: we could never have hoped for so much. 
 Of all the great people of every continent, this was 
 the one we most desired to see. 
 
 The boys of those days left college to work, to 
 raise families, to grow grizzled; but the glamour re 
 mained about Davis; he never grew grizzled. Youth 
 was his great quality. 
 
 All his writing has the liveliness of springtime; it 
 stirs with an unsuppressible gayety, and it has the 
 
 be
 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 attraction which companionship with him had: there 
 is never enough. He could be sharp; he could write 
 angrily and witheringly; but even when he was 
 fiercest he was buoyant, and when his words were 
 hot they were not scalding but rather of a dry, 
 clean indignation with things which he believed 
 could, if they would, be better. He never saw evil 
 but as temporary. 
 
 Following him through his books, whether he 
 wrote of home or carried his kind, stout heart far, 
 far afield, we see an American writing to Americans. 
 He often told us about things abroad in terms of 
 New York; and we have all been to New York, so 
 he made for us the pictures, he wished us to see. 
 And when he did not thus use New York for his 
 colors he found other means as familiar to us and as 
 suggestive; he always made us see. What claims 
 our thanks in equal measure, he knew our kind of 
 curiosity so well that he never failed to make us 
 see what we were most anxious to see. He knew 
 where our dark spots were, cleared up the field of 
 vision, and left us unconfused. This discernment 
 of our needs, and this power of enlightening and 
 pleasuring his reader, sprang from seeds native in 
 him. They were, as we say, gifts; for he always 
 had them but did not make them. He was a na 
 tional figure at twenty-three. He knew how, before 
 he began. 
 
 Youth called to youth : all ages read him, but the 
 
 x
 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 young men and young women have turned to him 
 ever since his precocious fame made him their idol. 
 They got many things from him, but above all they 
 live with a happier bravery because of him. Read 
 ing the man beneath the print, they found their 
 prophet and gladly perceived that a prophet is not 
 always cowled and bearded, but may be a gallant 
 young gentleman. This one called merrily to them 
 in his manly voice; and they followed him. He 
 bade them see that pain is negligible, that fear is a 
 joke, and that the world is poignantly interesting, 
 joyously lovable. 
 
 They will always follow him. 
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON. 
 
 SI
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Richard Harding Davis Booth Tarkington 
 
 PACE 
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE I 
 
 C/ VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT 
 
 / 
 
 THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED 42 
 
 jf 
 
 ^} VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES r . 50 L- 
 
 S X 
 
 ^ AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOM^F. 59 U'' 
 
 fi MR. TRAVERS'S FIRST HUNT V 67 f^ 
 
 '^ LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG ^\ . . * . . . 73 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVERf .... 82 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN ..... 96 
 
 VAN BIBBER AND THE SWAN-BOATSr . . . no 
 
 X* 
 
 VAN tURRFR'S BURGLAR ' / JI 7 -^" 
 
 / I 3 ^ 
 
 BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 140 
 
 MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN . 153 
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE^ 182 
 
 CINDERELLA y^. . . . . 
 
 Kill 
 
 / 
 
 *
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 /PAGE 
 .... 222 
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 259 
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 ^ . '. . . 290 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY J . ......'.. 306
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS . . . . .' Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 "CAN I SIT UP HERE BESIDE YOU, OR DO 
 
 YOU RULE ALONE?" 12 
 
 HE SPRANG UP TREMBLING TO HIS FEET . 160 
 
 "SHE'D REACH OUT HER HANDS AND KISS 
 
 ME" l8o 
 
 I 
 
 "YOU ARE LIKE A RING OF GAMBLERS 
 
 AROUND A GAMING TABLE" 252
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 IT was at the end of the first act of the first 
 night of "The Sultana," and every member of 
 the Lester Comic Opera Company, from Lester 
 himself down to the wardrobe woman's son, 
 who would have had to work if his mother lost 
 her place, was sick with anxiety. 
 
 There is perhaps only one other place as fever 
 ish as it is behind the scenes on the first night 
 of a comic opera, and that is a newspaper office 
 on the last night of a Presidential campaign, 
 when the returns are being flashed on the can 
 vas outside, and the mob is howling, and the 
 editor-in-chief is expecting to go to the Court 
 of St. James if the election comes his way, and 
 the office-boy is betting his wages that it won't. 
 
 Such nights as these try men's souls; but Van 
 Bibber passed the stage-door man with as 
 calmly polite a nod as though the piece had 
 been running a hundred nights, and the man 
 ager was thinking up souvenirs for the one hun 
 dred and fiftieth, and the prima donna had, as 
 usual, begun to hint for a new set of costumes. 
 The stage-door keeper hesitated and was lost, 
 and Van Bibber stepped into the unsuppressed
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 excitement of the place with a pleased sniff at 
 the familiar smell of paint and burning gas, and 
 the dusty odor that came from the scene-lofts 
 above. 
 
 For a moment he hesitated in the cross-lights 
 and confusion about him, failing to recognize in 
 their new costumes his old acquaintances of the 
 company; but he saw Kripps, the stage-man 
 ager, in the centre of the stage, perspiring and 
 in his shirt-sleeves as always, wildly waving an 
 arm to some one in the flies, and beckoning with 
 the other to the gas-man in the front entrance. 
 The stage hands were striking the scene for the 
 first act, and fighting with the set for the second, 
 and dragging out a canvas floor of tessellated 
 marble, and running a throne and a practical 
 pair of steps over it, and aiming the high quak 
 ing walls of a palace and abuse at whoever 
 came in their way. 
 
 "Now then, Van Bibber," shouted Kripps, 
 with a wild glance of recognition, as the white- 
 and-black figure came toward him, "y u know 
 you're the only man in New York who gets 
 behind here to-night. But you can't stay. 
 Lower it, lower it, can't you?" This to the 
 man in the flies. "Any other night goes, but 
 not this night. I can't have it. I Where 
 is the backing for the centre entrance? Didn't 
 I tell you men " 
 
 2
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 Van Bibber dodged two stage hands who 
 were steering a scene at him, stepped over the 
 carpet as it unrolled, and brushed through a 
 group of anxious, whispering chorus people 
 into the quiet of the star's dressing-room. 
 
 The star saw him in the long mirror before 
 which he sat, while his dresser tugged at his 
 boots, and threw up his hands desperately. 
 
 "Well," he cried, in mock resignation, "are 
 we in it or are we not? Are they in their seats 
 still or have they fled?" 
 
 "How are you, John?" said Van Bibber to 
 the dresser. Then he dropped into a big arm 
 chair in the corner, and got up again with a 
 protesting sigh to light his cigar between the 
 wires around the gas-burner. "Oh, it's going 
 very well. I wouldn't have come around if it 
 wasn't. If the rest of it is as good as the first 
 act, you needn't worry." 
 
 Van Bibber's unchallenged freedom behind 
 the scenes had been a source of much comment 
 and perplexity to the members of the Lester 
 Comic Opera Company. He had made his first 
 appearance there during one hot night of the 
 long run of the previous summer, and had con 
 tinued to be an almost nightly visitor for sev 
 eral weeks. At first it was supposed that he 
 was backing the piece, that he was the "Angel," 
 as those weak and wealthy individuals are called 
 
 3
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 who allow themselves to be led into supplying 
 the finances for theatrical experiments. But as 
 he never peered through the curtain-hole to 
 count the house, nor made frequent trips to 
 the front of it to look at the box sheet, but was, 
 on the contrary, just as undisturbed on a rainy 
 night as on those when the "standing room 
 only" sign blocked the front entrance, this sup 
 position was discarded as untenable. Nor did 
 he show the least interest in the prima donna, 
 or in any of the other pretty women of the 
 company; he did not know them, nor did he 
 make any effort to know them, and it was not 
 until they inquired concerning him outside of 
 the theatre that they learned what a figure in 
 the social life of the city he really was. He 
 spent most of his time in Lester's dressing-room 
 smoking, listening to the reminiscences of Les 
 ter's dresser when Lester was on the stage; and 
 this seclusion and his clerical attire of evening 
 dress led the second comedian to call him Les 
 ter's father confessor, and to suggest that he 
 came to the theatre only to take the star to 
 task for his sins. And in this the second come 
 dian was unknowingly not so very far wrong. 
 Lester, the comedian, and young Van Bibber 
 had known each other at the university, when 
 Lester's voice and gift of mimicry had made 
 him the leader in the college theatricals; and 
 
 4
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 later, when he had gone upon the stage, and 
 had been cut off by his family even after he 
 had become famous, or on account of it, Van 
 Bibber had gone to visit him, and had found 
 him as simple and sincere and boyish as he had 
 been in the days of his Hasty-Pudding suc 
 cesses. And Lester, for his part, had found 
 Van Bibber as likable as did every one else, and 
 welcomed his quiet voice and youthful knowl 
 edge of the world as a grateful relief to the 
 boisterous camaraderie of his professional ac 
 quaintances. And he allowed Van Bibber to 
 scold him, and to remind him of what he owed 
 to himself, and to touch, even whether it hurt 
 or not, upon his better side. And in time he 
 admitted to finding his friend's occasional com 
 ments on stage matters of value as coming from 
 the point of view of those who look on at the 
 game; and even Kripps, the veteran, regarded 
 him with respect after he had told him that he 
 could turn a set of purple costumes black by 
 throwing a red light on them. To the com 
 pany, after he came to know them, he was 
 gravely polite, and, to those who knew him if 
 they had overheard, amusingly commonplace in 
 his conversation. He understood them better 
 than they did themselves, and made no mis 
 takes. The women smiled on him, but the 
 men were suspicious and shy of him until they 
 
 5
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 saw that he was quite as shy of the women; 
 and then they made him a confidant, and told 
 him all their woes and troubles, and exhibited 
 all their little jealousies and ambitions, in the 
 innocent hope that he would repeat what they 
 said to Lester. They were simple, unconven 
 tional, light-hearted folk, and Van Bibber found 
 them vastly more entertaining and preferable 
 to the silence of the deserted club, where the 
 matting was down, and from whence the regular 
 habitues had departed to the other side or to 
 Newport. He liked the swing of the light, 
 bright music as it came to him through the 
 open door of the dressing-room, and the glimpse 
 he got of the chorus people crowding and push 
 ing for a quick charge up the iron stairway, 
 and the feverish smell of oxygen in the air, and 
 the picturesque disorder of Lester's wardrobe, 
 and the wigs and swords, and the mysterious 
 articles of make-up, all mixed together on a 
 tray with half-finished cigars and autograph 
 books and newspaper "notices." 
 
 And he often wished he was clever enough 
 to be an artist with the talent to paint the un 
 consciously graceful groups in the sharply di 
 vided light and shadow of the wings as he saw 
 them. The brilliantly colored, fantastically 
 clothed girls leaning against the bare brick wall 
 of the theatre, or whispering together in circles, 
 
 6
 
 with their arms close about one another, or 
 reading apart and solitary, or working at some 
 piece of fancy-work as soberly as though they 
 were in a rocking-chair in their own flat, and 
 not leaning against a scene brace, with the 
 glare of the stage and the applause of the house 
 just behind them. He liked to watch them 
 coquetting with the big fireman detailed from 
 the precinct engine-house, and clinging desper 
 ately to the curtain wire, or with one of the 
 chorus men on the stairs, or teasing the phleg 
 matic scene-shifters as they tried to catch a 
 minute's sleep on a pile of canvas. He even 
 forgave the prima donna's smiling at him from 
 the stage, as he stood watching her from the 
 wings, and smiled back at her with polite cyn 
 icism, as though he did not know and she did 
 not know that her smiles were not for him, but 
 to disturb some more interested one in the front 
 row. And so, in time, the company became so 
 well accustomed to him that he moved in and 
 about as unnoticed as the stage-manager him 
 self, who prowled around hissing "hush" on 
 principle, even though he was the only person 
 who could fairly be said to be making a noise. 
 The second act was on, and Lester came off 
 the stage and ran to the dressing-room and 
 beckoned violently. "Come here," he said; 
 "you ought to see this; the children are doing 
 
 7
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 their turn. You want to hear them. They're 
 great!" 
 
 Van Bibber put his cigar into a tumbler and 
 stepped out into the wings. They were crowded 
 on both sides of the stage with the members of 
 the company; the girls were tiptoeing, with 
 their hands on the shoulders of the men, and 
 making futile little leaps into the air to get a 
 better view, and others were resting on one 
 knee that those behind might see over their 
 shoulders. There were over a dozen children 
 before the footlights, with the prima donna in 
 the centre. She was singing the verses of a 
 song, and they were following her movements, 
 and joining in the chorus with high piping 
 voices. They seemed entirely too much at 
 home and too self-conscious to please Van Bib 
 ber; but there was one exception. The one ex 
 ception was the smallest of them, a very, very 
 little girl, with long auburn hair and black eyes; 
 such a very little girl that every one in the 
 house looked at her first, and then looked at 
 no one else. She was apparently as uncon 
 cerned to all about her, excepting the pretty 
 prima donna, as though she were by a piano at 
 home practising a singing lesson. She seemed 
 to think it was some new sort of a game. When 
 the prima donna raised her arms, the child 
 raised hers; when the prima donna courtesied, 
 
 8
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 she stumbled into one, and straightened herself 
 just in time to get the curls out of her eyes, and 
 to see that the prima donna was laughing at 
 her, and to smile cheerfully back, as if to say, 
 11 We are doing our best anyway, aren't we?" 
 She had big, gentle eyes and two wonderful 
 dimples, and in the excitement of the dancing 
 and the singing her eyes laughed and flashed, 
 and the dimples deepened and disappeared and 
 reappeared again. She was as happy and in 
 nocent looking as though it were nine in the 
 morning and she were playing school at a kin 
 dergarten. From all over the house the women 
 were murmuring their delight, and the men 
 were laughing and pulling their mustaches and 
 nudging each other to "look at the littlest 
 one." 
 
 The girls in the wings were rapturous in their 
 enthusiasm, and were calling her absurdly ex 
 travagant titles of endearment, and making so 
 much noise that Kripps stopped grinning at 
 her from the entrance, and looked back over 
 his shoulder as he looked when he threatened 
 fines and calls for early rehearsal. And when 
 she had finished finally, and the prima donna, 
 and the children ran off together, there was a 
 roar from the house that went to Lester's head 
 like wine, and seemed to leap clear across the 
 footlights and drag the children back again. 
 
 9
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 "That settles it!" cried Lester, in a sup 
 pressed roar of triumph. "I knew that child 
 would catch them." 
 
 There were four encores, and then the chil 
 dren and Elise Broughten, the pretty prima 
 donna, came off jubilant and happy, with the 
 Littlest Girl's arms full of flowers, which the 
 management had with kindly forethought pre 
 pared for the prima donna, but which that de 
 lightful young person and the delighted leader 
 of the orchestra had passed over to the little 
 girl. 
 
 "Well," gasped Miss Broughten, as she came 
 up to Van Bibber laughing, and with one hand 
 on her side and breathing very quickly, "will 
 you kindly tell me who is the leading woman 
 now? Am I the prima donna, or am I not? I 
 wasn't in it, was I?" 
 
 "You were not," said Van Bibber. 
 
 He turned from the pretty prima donna and 
 hunted up the wardrobe woman, and told her 
 he wanted to meet the Littlest Girl. And the 
 wardrobe woman, who was fluttering wildly 
 about, and as delighted as though they were all 
 her own children, told him to come into the 
 property-room, where the children were, and 
 which had been changed into a dressing-room 
 that they might be by themselves. The six 
 little girls were in six different states of disha- 
 
 10
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 bille, but they were too little to mind that, and 
 Van Bibber was too polite to observe it. 
 
 "This is the little girl, sir/* said the wardrobe 
 woman, excitedly, proud at being the means of 
 bringing together two such prominent people. 
 "Her name is Madeline. Speak to the gentle 
 man, Madeline; he wants to tell you what a 
 great big hit youse made." 
 
 The little girl was seated on one of the cush 
 ions of a double throne so high from the ground 
 that the young woman who was pulling off the 
 child's silk stockings and putting woollen ones 
 on in their place did so without stooping. The 
 young woman looked at Van Bibber and nod 
 ded somewhat doubtfully and ungraciously, and 
 Van Bibber turned to the little girl in prefer 
 ence. The young woman's face was one of a 
 type that was too familiar to be pleasant. 
 
 He took the Littlest Girl's small hand in his 
 and shook it solemnly, and said, "I am very 
 glad to know you. Can I sit up here beside 
 you, or do you rule alone?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am yes, sir," answered the little girl. 
 
 Van Bibber put his hands on the arms of the 
 throne and vaulted up beside the girl, and 
 pulled out the flower in his button-hole and 
 gave it to her. 
 
 "Now," prompted the wardrobe woman, 
 "what do you say to the gentleman?" 
 
 ii
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 "Thank you, sir," stammered the little girl. 
 
 "She is not much used to gentlemen's so 
 ciety/* explained the woman who was pulling 
 on the stockings. 
 
 "I see," said Van Bibber. He did not know 
 exactly what to say next. And yet he wanted 
 to talk to the child very much, so much more 
 than he generally wanted to talk to most young 
 women, who showed no hesitation in talking 
 to him. With them he had no difficulty what 
 soever. There was a doll lying on the top of a 
 chest near them, and he picked this up and 
 surveyed it critically. "Is this your doll?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "No," said Madeline, pointing to one of the 
 children, who was much taller than herself; "it's 
 'at 'ittle durPs. My doll he's dead." 
 
 "Dear me!" said Van Bibber. He made a 
 mental note to get a live one in the morning, 
 and then he said: "That's very sad. But dead 
 dolls do come to life." 
 
 The little girl looked up at him, and surveyed 
 him intently and critically, and then smiled, 
 with the dimples showing, as much as to say 
 that she understood him and approved of him 
 entirely. Van Bibber answered this sign lan 
 guage by taking Madeline's hand in his and 
 asking her how she liked being a great actress, 
 and how soon she would begin to storm because 
 
 12
 
 "Can I sit up here beside you, or do you rule 
 alone?"
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 that photographer hadn't sent the proofs. The 
 young woman understood this, and deigned to 
 smile at it, but Madeline yawned a very polite 
 and sleepy yawn, and closed her eyes. Van 
 Bibber moved up closer, and she leaned over 
 until her bare shoulder touched his arm, and 
 while the woman buttoned on her absurdly 
 small shoes, she let her curly head fall on his 
 elbow and rest there. Any number of people 
 had shown confidence in Van Bibber not in 
 that form exactly, but in the same spirit and 
 though he was used to being trusted, he felt a 
 sharp thrill of pleasure at the touch of the 
 child's head on his arm, and in the warm clasp 
 of her fingers around his. And he was conscious 
 of a keen sense of pity and sorrow for her rising 
 in him, which he crushed by thinking that it 
 was entirely wasted, and that the child was 
 probably perfectly and ignorantly happy, 
 
 "Look at that, now," said the wardrobe 
 woman, catching sight of the child's closed eye 
 lids; "just look at the rest of the little dears, 
 all that excited they can't stand still to get 
 their hats on, and she just as unconcerned as 
 you please, and after making the hit of the 
 piece, too." 
 
 "She's not used to it, you see," said the 
 young woman, knowingly; "she don't know 
 what it means. It's just that much play to her." 
 
 13
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 This last was said with a questioning glance 
 at Van Bibber, in whom she still feared to 
 find the disguised agent of a Children's Aid 
 Society. Van Bibber only nodded in reply, and 
 did not answer her, because he found he could 
 not very well, for he was looking a long way 
 ahead at what the future was to bring to the 
 confiding little being at his side, and of the evil 
 knowledge and temptations that would mar the 
 beauty of her quaintly sweet face, and its 
 strange mark of gentleness and refinement. 
 Outside he could hear his friend Lester shouting 
 the refrain of his new topical song, and the 
 laughter and the hand-clapping came in through 
 the wings and open door, broken but tumul 
 tuous. 
 
 "Does she come of professional people?" Van 
 Bibber asked, dropping into the vernacular. 
 He spoke softly, not so much that he might not 
 disturb the child, but that she might not under 
 stand what he said. 
 
 "Yes," the woman answered, shortly, and 
 bent her head to smooth out the child's stage 
 dress across her knees. 
 
 Van Bibber touched the little girl's head 
 with his hand and found that she was asleep, 
 and so let his hand rest there, with the curls 
 between his fingers. "Are are you her moth 
 er?" he asked, with a slight inclination of his 
 
 14
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 head. He felt quite confident she was not; at 
 least, he hoped not. 
 
 The woman shook her head. "No," she said. 
 
 "Who is her mother?" 
 
 The woman looked at the sleeping child and 
 then up at him almost defiantly. "Ida Clare 
 was her mother," she said. 
 
 Van Bibber's protecting hand left the child 
 as suddenly as though something had burned 
 it, and he drew back so quickly that her head 
 slipped from his arm, and she awoke and raised 
 her eyes and looked up at him questioningly. 
 He looked back at her with a glance of the 
 strangest concern and of the deepest pity. 
 Then he stooped and drew her toward him 
 very tenderly, put her head back in the corner 
 of his arm, and watched her in silence while 
 she smiled drowsily and went to sleep again. 
 
 "And who takes care of her now?" he asked. 
 
 The woman straightened herself and seemed 
 relieved. She saw that the stranger had recog 
 nized the child's pedigree and knew her story, 
 and that he was not going to comment on it. 
 "I do," she said. "After the divorce Ida came 
 to me," she said, speaking more freely. "I 
 used to be in her company when she was doing 
 'Aladdin,' and then when I left the stage and 
 started to keep an actors' boarding-house, she 
 came to me. She lived on with us a year, 
 
 15
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 until she died, and she made me the guardian 
 of the child. I train children for the stage, 
 you know, me and my sister, Ada Dyer; you've 
 heard of her, I guess. The courts pay us for 
 her keep, but it isn't much, and I'm expecting 
 to get what I spent on her from what she makes 
 on the stage. Two of them other children are 
 my pupils; but they can't touch Madie. She is 
 a better dancer an* singer than any of them. 
 If it hadn't been for the Society keeping her 
 back, she would have been on the stage two 
 years ago. She's great, she is. She'll be just 
 as good as her mother was." 
 
 Van Bibber gave a little start, and winced 
 visibly, but turned it off into a cough. "And 
 her father," he said, hesitatingly, "does he ' 
 
 "Her father," said the woman, tossing back 
 her head, "he looks after himself, he does. We 
 don't ask no favors of him. She'll get along 
 without him or his folks, thank you. Call him 
 a gentleman? Nice gentleman he is!" Then 
 she stopped abruptly. "I guess, though, you 
 know him," she added. "Perhaps he's a friend 
 of yourn?" 
 
 "I just know him," said Van Bibber, wear- 
 
 ily. 
 
 He sat with the child asleep beside him while 
 the woman turned to the others and dressed 
 them for the third act. She explained that 
 
 16
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 Madie would not appear in the last act, only 
 the two larger girls, so she let her sleep, with 
 the cape of Van Bibber's cloak around her. 
 
 Van Bibber sat there for several long minutes 
 thinking, and then looked up quickly, and 
 dropped his eyes again as quickly, and said, 
 with an effort to speak quietly and unconcern 
 edly: "If the little girl is not on in this act, 
 would you mind if I took her home? I have a 
 cab at the stage-door, and she's so sleepy it 
 seems a pity to keep her up. The sister you 
 spoke of or some one could put her to bed." 
 
 ; 'Yes," the woman said, doubtfully, "Ada's 
 home. Yes, you can take her around, if you 
 want to." 
 
 She gave him the address, and he sprang 
 down to the floor, and gathered the child up in 
 his arms and stepped out on the stage. The 
 prima donna had the centre of it to herself at 
 that moment, and all the rest of the company 
 were waiting to go on; but when they saw the 
 little girl in Van Bibber's arms they made a 
 rush at her, and the girls leaned over and kissed 
 her with a great show of rapture and with many 
 gasps of delight. 
 
 "Don't," said Van Bibber, he could not tell 
 just why. "Don't." 
 
 "Why not?" asked one of the girls, looking 
 up at him sharply. 
 
 17
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 "She was asleep; you've wakened her," he 
 said, gently. 
 
 But he knew that was not the reason. He 
 stepped into the cab at the stage entrance, and 
 put the child carefully down in one corner. 
 Then he looked back over his shoulder to see 
 that there was no one near enough to hear him, 
 and said to the driver, "To the Berkeley Flats, 
 on Fifth Avenue." He picked the child up 
 gently in his arms as the carriage started, and 
 sat looking out thoughtfully and anxiously as 
 they flashed past the lighted shop-windows on 
 Broadway. He was far from certain of this 
 errand, and nervous with doubt, but he reas 
 sured himself that he was acting on impulse, 
 and that his impulses were so often good. The 
 hall-boy at the Berkeley said, yes, Mr. Caruth- 
 ers was in, and Van Bibber gave a quick sigh 
 of relief. He took this as an omen that his im 
 pulse was a good one. The young English ser 
 vant who opened the hall door to Mr. Caruth- 
 ers's apartment suppressed his surprise with an 
 effort, and watched Van Bibber with alarm as 
 he laid the child on the divan in the hall, and 
 pulled a covert coat from the rack to throw 
 over her. 
 
 "Just say Mr. Van Bibber would like to see 
 him," he said, "and you need not speak of the 
 little girl having come with me." 
 
 18
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 She was still sleeping, and Van Bibbe r turned 
 down the light in the hall, and stood looking 
 down at her gravely while the servant went to 
 speak to his master. 
 
 "Will you come this way, please, sir?" he 
 said. 
 
 "You had better stay out here," said Van 
 Bibber, "and come and tell me if she wakes." 
 
 Mr. Caruthers was standing by the mantel 
 over the empty fireplace, wrapped in a long, 
 loose dressing-gown which he was tying around 
 him as Van Bibber entered. He was partly 
 undressed, and had been just on the point of 
 getting into bed. Mr. Caruthers was a tall, 
 handsome man, with dark reddish hair, turning 
 below the temples into gray; his mustache was 
 quite white, and his eyes and face showed the 
 signs of either dissipation or of great trouble, 
 or of both. But even in the formless dressing- 
 gown he had the look and the confident bearing 
 of a gentleman, or, at least, of the man of the 
 world. The room was very rich-looking, and 
 was filled with the medley of a man's choice of 
 good paintings and fine china, and papered 
 with irregular rows of original drawings and 
 signed etchings. The windows were open, and 
 the lights were turned very low, so that Van 
 Bibber could see the many gas lamps and the 
 dark roofs of Broadway and the Avenue where 
 
 19
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 they crossed a few blocks off, and the bunches 
 of light on the Madison Square Garden, and to 
 the lights on the boats of the East River. From 
 below in the streets came the rattle of hurrying 
 omnibuses and the rush of the hansom cabs. 
 If Mr. Caruthers was surprised at this late 
 visit, he hid it, and came forward to receive his 
 caller as if his presence were expected. 
 
 "Excuse my costume, will you?" he said. 
 "I turned in rather early to-night, it was so 
 hot." He pointed to a decanter and some soda 
 bottles on the table and a bowl of ice, and 
 asked, "Will you have some of this?" And 
 while he opened one of the bottles, he watched 
 Van Bibber's face as though he were curious to 
 have him explain the object of his visit. 
 
 "No, I think not, thank you," said the 
 younger man. He touched his forehead with 
 his handkerchief nervously. "Yes, it is hot," 
 he said. 
 
 Mr. Caruthers filled a glass with ice and 
 brandy and soda, and walked back to his place 
 by the mantel, on which he rested his arm, 
 while he clinked the ice in the glass and looked 
 down into it. 
 
 "I was at the first night of 'The Sultana' this 
 evening," said Van Bibber, slowly and uncer 
 tainly. 
 
 "Oh, yes," assented the elder man, politely, 
 20
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 and tasting his drink. "Lester's new piece. 
 Was it any good?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Van Bibber. "Yes, I 
 think it was. I didn't see it from the front. 
 There were a lot of children in it little ones; 
 they danced and sang, and made a great hit. 
 One of them had never been on the stage before. 
 It was her first appearance." 
 
 He was turning one of the glasses around be 
 tween his fingers as he spoke. He stopped, and 
 poured out some of the soda, and drank it down 
 in a gulp, and then continued turning the empty 
 glass between the tips of his fingers. 
 
 "It seems to me," he said, "that it is a great 
 pity." He looked up interrogatively at the 
 other man, but Mr. Caruthers met his glance 
 without any returning show of interest, 
 say," repeated Van Bibber "I say it seems a 
 pity that a child like that should be allowed to 
 go on in that business. A grown woman can 
 go into it with her eyes open, or a girl who has 
 had decent training can too. But it's different 
 with a child. She has no choice in the matter; 
 they don't ask her permission; and she isn't 
 old enough to know what it means; and she 
 gets used to it and fond of it before she grows 
 to know what the danger is. And then it's too 
 late. It seemed to me that if there was any 
 one who had a right to stop it, it would be a 
 
 21
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 very good thing to let that person know about 
 her about this child, I mean; the one who 
 made the hit before it was too late. It seems 
 to me a responsibility I wouldn't care to take 
 myself. I wouldn't care to think that I had 
 the chance to stop it, and had let the chance 
 go by. You know what the life is, and what 
 the temptation a woman " Van Bibber stopped 
 with a gasp of concern, and added, hurriedly, 
 "I mean we all know every man knows." 
 
 Mr. Caruthers was looking at him with his 
 lips pressed closely together, and his eyebrows 
 drawn into the shape of the letter V. He 
 leaned forward, and looked at Van Bibber in 
 tently. 
 
 "What is all this about?" he asked. "Did 
 you come here, Mr. Van Bibber, simply to tell 
 me this? What have you to do with it? What 
 have I to do with it? Why did you come?" 
 
 "Because of the child." 
 
 "What child?" 
 
 "Your child," said Van Bibber. 
 
 Young Van Bibber was quite prepared for an 
 outbreak of some sort, and mentally braced him 
 self to receive it. He rapidly assured himself 
 that this man had every reason to be angry, and 
 that he, if he meant to accomplish anything, 
 had every reason to be considerate and patient. 
 So he faced Mr. Caruthers with shoulders 
 
 22
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 squared, as though it were a physical shock he 
 had to stand against, and in consequence he 
 was quite unprepared for what followed. For 
 Mr. Caruthers raised his face without a trace 
 of feeling in it, and, with his eyes still fixed on 
 the glass in his hand, set it carefully down on 
 the mantel beside him, and girded himself about 
 with the rope of his robe. When he spoke, it 
 was in a tone of quiet politeness. 
 
 "Mr. Van Bibber," he began, "y u are a 
 very brave young man. You have dared to 
 say to me what those who are my best friends 
 what even my own family would not care to 
 say. They are afraid it might hurt me, I sup 
 pose. They have some absurd regard for my 
 feelings; they hesitate to touch upon a subject 
 which in no way concerns them, and which 
 they know must be very painful to me. But 
 you have the courage of your convictions; you 
 have no compunctions about tearing open old 
 wounds; and you come here, unasked and un 
 invited, to let me know what you think of my 
 conduct, to let me understand that it does not 
 agree with your own ideas of what I ought to 
 do, and to tell me how I, who am old enough 
 to be your father, should behave. You have 
 rushed in where angels fear to tread, Mr. Van 
 Bibber, to show me the error of my ways. I 
 suppose I ought to thank you for it; but I 
 
 23
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 have always said that it is not the wicked people 
 who are to be feared in this world, or who do 
 the most t harm. We know them; we can pre 
 pare for them, and checkmate them. It is the 
 well-meaning fool who makes all the trouble. 
 For no one knows him until he discloses him 
 self, and the mischief is done before he can be 
 stopped. I think, if you will allow me to say 
 so, that you have demonstrated my theory 
 pretty thoroughly, and have done about as 
 much needless harm for one evening as you can 
 possibly wish. And so, if you will excuse me/* 
 he continued, sternly, and moving from his 
 place, "I will ask to say good-night, and will 
 request of you that you grow older and wiser 
 and much more considerate before you come to 
 see me again." 
 
 Van Bibber had flushed at Mr. Caruthers's 
 first words, and had then grown somewhat pale, 
 and straightened himself visibly. He did not 
 move when the elder man had finished, but 
 cleared his throat, and then spoke with some 
 little difficulty. "It is very easy to call a man 
 a fool," he said, slowly, "but it is much harder 
 to be called a fool and not to throw the other 
 man out of the window. But that, you see, 
 would not do any good, and I have something 
 to say to you first. I am quite clear in my own 
 mind as to my position, and I am not going to 
 
 24
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 allow anything you have said or can say to 
 annoy me much until I am through. There will 
 be time enough to resent it then. I am quite 
 well aware that I did an unconventional thing 
 in coming here a bold thing or a foolish thing, 
 as you choose but the situation is pretty bad, 
 and I did as I would have wished to be done 
 by if I had had a child going to the devil and 
 didn't know it. I should have been glad to 
 learn of it even from a stranger. However," he 
 said, smiling grimly, and pulling his cape about 
 him, "there are other kindly disposed people in 
 the world besides fathers. There is an aunt, 
 perhaps, or an uncle or two; and sometimes, 
 even to-day, there is the chance Samaritan." 
 
 Van Bibber picked up his high hat from the 
 table, looked into it critically, and settled it on 
 his head. "Good-night," he said, and walked 
 slowly toward the door. He had his hand on 
 the knob, when Mr. Caruthers raised his head. 
 
 "Wait just one minute, please, Mr. Van Bib 
 ber?" asked Mr. Caruthers. 
 
 Van Bibber stopped with a prompt obedience 
 which would have led one to conclude that he 
 might have put on his hat only to precipitate 
 matters. 
 
 "Before you go," said Mr. Caruthers, grudg 
 ingly, "I want to say I want you to under 
 stand my position." 
 
 25
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," said Van Bibber, 
 lightly, opening the door. 
 
 "No, it is not all right. One moment, please. 
 I do not intend that you shall go away from 
 here with the idea that you have tried to do 
 me a service, and that I have been unable to 
 appreciate it, and that you are a much-abused 
 and much-misunderstood young man. Since 
 you have done me the honor to make my affairs 
 your business, I would prefer that you should 
 understand them fully. I do not care to have 
 you discuss my conduct at clubs and afternoon 
 teas with young women until you " 
 
 Van Bibber drew in his breath sharply, with 
 a peculiar whistling sound, and opened and shut 
 his hands. "Oh, I wouldn't say that if I were 
 you," he said, simply. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," the older man said, 
 quickly. "That was a mistake. I was wrong. 
 I beg your pardon. But you have tried me 
 very sorely. You have intruded upon a private 
 trouble that you ought to know must be very 
 painful to me. But I believe you meant well. 
 I know you to be a gentleman, and I am willing 
 to think you acted on impulse, and that you 
 will see to-morrow what a mistake you have 
 made. It is not a thing I talk about; I do 
 not speak of it to my friends, and they are far 
 too considerate to speak of it to me. But you 
 
 26
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 have put me on the defensive. You have made 
 me out more or less of a brute, and I don't 
 intend to be so far misunderstood. There are 
 two sides to every story, and there is something 
 to be said about this, even for me." 
 
 He walked back to his place beside the man 
 tel, and put his shoulders against it, and faced 
 Van Bibber, with his fingers twisted in the cord 
 around his waist. 
 
 "When I married," said Mr. Caruthers, "I 
 did so against the wishes of my people and the 
 advice of all my friends. You know all about 
 that. God help us! who doesn't?" he added, 
 bitterly. "It was very rich, rare reading for 
 you and for every one else who saw the daily 
 papers, and we gave them all they wanted of 
 it. I took her out of that life and married her 
 because I believed she was as good a woman as 
 any of those who had never had to work for 
 their living, and I was bound that my friends 
 and your friends should recognize her and re 
 spect her as my wife had a right to be respected; 
 and I took her abroad that I might give all you 
 sensitive, fine people a chance to get used to 
 the idea of being polite to a woman who had 
 once been a burlesque actress. It began over 
 there in Paris. What I went through then no 
 one knows; but when I came back and I would 
 never have come back if she had not made me 
 
 27
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 it was my friends I had to consider, and not 
 her. It was in the blood; it was in the life she 
 had led, and in the life men like you and me 
 had taught her to live. And it had to come 
 
 out/ 
 
 The muscles of Mr. Caruthers's face were 
 moving, and beyond his control; but Van Bib 
 ber did not see this, for he was looking in 
 tently out of the window, over the roofs of the 
 city. 
 
 "She had every chance when she married 
 me that a woman ever had," continued the 
 older man. "It only depended on herself. I 
 didn't try to make a housewife of her or a 
 drudge. She had all the healthy excitement 
 and all the money she wanted, and she had a 
 home here ready for her whenever she was tired 
 of travelling about and wished to settle down. 
 And I was and a husband that loved her as 
 she had everything. Everything that a man's 
 whole thought and love and money could bring 
 to her. And you know what she did." 
 
 He looked at Van Bibber, but Van Bibber's 
 eyes were still turned toward the open window 
 and the night. 
 
 "And after the divorce and she was free to 
 go where she pleased, and to live as she pleased 
 and with whom she pleased, without bringing 
 disgrace on a husband who honestly loved her 
 
 28
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 I swore to my God that I would never see 
 her nor her child again. And I never saw her 
 again, not even when she died. I loved the 
 mother, and she deceived me and disgraced me 
 and broke my heart, and I only wish she had 
 killed me; and I was beginning to love her child, 
 and I vowed she should not live to trick me 
 too. I had suffered as no man I know had 
 suffered; in a way a boy like you cannot under 
 stand, and that no one can understand who has 
 not gone to hell and been forced to live after it. 
 And was I to go through that again? Was I 
 to love and care for and worship this child, and 
 have her grow up with all her mother's vanity 
 and animal nature, and have her turn on me 
 some day and show me that what is bred in 
 the bone must tell, and that I was a fool again 
 a pitiful fond fool? I could not trust her. 
 I can never trust any woman or child again, 
 and least of all that woman's child. She is as 
 dead to me as though she were buried with her 
 mother, and it is nothing to me what she is or 
 what her life is. I know in time what it will 
 be. She has begun earlier than I had supposed, 
 that is all; but she is nothing to me." The man 
 stopped and turned his back to Van Bibber, 
 and hid his head in his hands, with his elbows 
 on the mantel-piece. "I care too much," he 
 said. "I cannot let it mean anything to me; 
 
 29
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 when I do care, it means so much more to me 
 than to other men. They may pretend to 
 laugh and to forget and to outgrow ft, but it is 
 not so with me. It means too much." He 
 took a quick stride toward one of the arm 
 chairs, and threw himself into it. "Why, man," 
 he cried, "I loved that child's mother to the 
 day of her death. I loved that woman then, 
 and, God help me ! I love that woman still." 
 
 He covered his face with his hands, and sat 
 leaning forward and breathing heavily as he 
 rocked himself to and fro. Van Bibber still 
 stood looking gravely out at the lights that 
 picketed the black surface of the city. He was 
 to all appearances as unmoved by the outburst 
 of feeling into which the older man had been 
 surprised as though it had been something in a 
 play. There was an unbroken silence for a 
 moment, and then it was Van Bibber who was 
 the first to speak. 
 
 "I came here, as you say, on impulse," he 
 said; "but I am glad I came, for I have your 
 i decisive answer now about the little girl. I 
 have been thinking," he continued, slowly, 
 "since you have been speaking, and before, 
 when I first saw her dancing in front of the foot 
 lights, when I did not know who she was, that 
 I could give up a horse or two, if necessary, and 
 support this child instead. Children are worth 
 
 30
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 more than horses, and a man who saves a soul, 
 as it says" he flushed slightly, and looked up 
 with a hesitating, deprecatory smile "some 
 where, wipes out a multitude of sins. And it 
 may be I'd like to try and get rid of some of 
 mine. I know just where to send her; I know 
 the very place. It's down in Evergreen Bay, on 
 Long Island. They are tenants of mine there, 
 and very nice farm sort of people, who will be 
 very good to her. They wouldn't know any 
 thing about her, and she'd forget what little 
 she knows of this present life very soon, and 
 grow up with the other children to be one of 
 them; and then, when she gets older and be 
 comes a young lady, she could go to some school 
 but that's a bit too far ahead to plan for the 
 present; but that's what I am going to do, 
 though," said the young man, confidently, and 
 as though speaking to himself. "That theatri 
 cal boarding-house person could be bought off 
 . easily enough," he went on, quickly, "and 
 ' Lester won't mind letting her go if I ask it, and 
 and that's what I'll do. As you say, it's a 
 good deal of an experiment, but I think I'll run 
 the risk." 
 
 He walked quickly to the door and disap 
 peared in the hall, and then came back, kicking 
 the door open as he returned, and holding the 
 child in his arms. 
 
 3*
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 "This is she," he said, quietly. He did not 
 look at or notice the father, but stood, with the 
 child asleep in the bend of his left arm, gazing 
 down at her. "This is she," he repeated; "this 
 is your child." 
 
 There was something cold and satisfied in 
 Van Bibber's tone and manner, as though he 
 were congratulating himself upon the engaging 
 of a new groom; something that placed the 
 father entirely outside of it. He might have 
 been a disinterested looker-on. 
 
 "She will need to be fed a bit," Van Bibber 
 ran on, cheerfully. "They did not treat her 
 very well, I fancy. She is thin and peaked and 
 tired-looking." He drew up the loose sleeve of 
 her jacket, and showed the bare forearm to the 
 light. He put his thumb and little finger about 
 it, and closed them on it gently. "It is very 
 thin," he said. "And under her eyes, if it were 
 not for the paint," he went on, mercilessly, 
 "you could see how deep the lines are. This 
 red spot on her cheek," he said, gravely, "is 
 where Mary Vane kissed her to-night, and this 
 is where Alma Stantley kissed her, and that 
 Lee girl. You have heard of them, perhaps. 
 They will never kiss her again. She is going to 
 grow up a sweet, fine, beautiful woman are 
 you not?" he said, gently drawing the child 
 higher up on his shoulder, until her face touched 
 
 32
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 his, and still keeping his eyes from the face of 
 the older man. "She does not look like her 
 mother," he said; "she has her father's auburn 
 hair and straight nose and finer-cut lips and 
 chin. She looks very much like her father. It 
 seems a pity," he added, abruptly. "She will 
 grow up," he went on, "without knowing him, 
 or who he is or was, if he should die. She 
 will never speak with him, or see him, or take 
 his hand. She may pass him some day on the 
 street and will not know him, and he will not 
 know her, but she will grow to be very fond and 
 to be very grateful to the simple, kind-hearted 
 old people who will have cared for her when 
 she was a little girl." 
 
 The child in his arms stirred, shivered slightly, 
 and awoke. The two men watched her breath 
 lessly, with silent intentness. She raised her 
 head and stared around the unfamiliar room 
 doubtfully, then turned to where her father 
 stood, looking at him a moment, and passed him 
 by; and then, looking up into Van Bibber's face, 
 recognized him, and gave a gentle, sleepy smile, 
 and, with a sigh of content and confidence, drew 
 her arm up closer around his neck, and let her 
 head fall back upon his breast. 
 
 The father sprang to his feet with a quick, 
 jealous gasp of pain. "Give her to me!" he 
 said, fiercely, under his breath, snatching her 
 
 33
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 out of Van Bibber's arms. "She is mine; give 
 her to me!" 
 
 Van Bibber closed the door gently behind 
 him, and went jumping down the winding stairs 
 of the Berkeley three steps at a time. 
 
 And an hour later, when the English servant 
 came to his master's door, he found him still 
 awake and sitting in the dark by the open win 
 dow, holding something in his arms and look 
 ing out over the sleeping city. 
 
 "James," he said, "you can make up a place 
 for me here on the lounge. Miss Caruthers, 
 my daughter, will sleep in my room to-night."
 
 VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT 
 
 VAN BIBBER'S man Walters was the envy and 
 admiration of his friends. He was English, of 
 course, and he had been trained in the household 
 of the Marquis Bendinot, and had travelled, in 
 his younger days, as the valet of young Lord 
 Upton. He was now rather well on in years, 
 although it would have been impossible to say 
 just how old he was. Walters had a dignified 
 and repellent air about him, and he brushed his 
 hair in such a way as to conceal his baldness. 
 
 And when a smirking, slavish youth with red 
 cheeks and awkward gestures turned up in Van 
 Bibber's livery, his friends were naturally sur 
 prised, and asked how he had come to lose 
 Walters. Van Bibber could not say exactly, at 
 least he could not rightly tell whether he had 
 dismissed Walters or Walters had dismissed 
 himself. The facts of the unfortunate separa 
 tion were like this : 
 
 Van Bibber gave a great many dinners during 
 the course of the season at Delmonico's, dinners 
 hardly formal enough to require a private room, 
 and yet too important to allow of his running 
 the risk of keeping his guests standing in the 
 
 35
 
 VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT 
 
 hall waiting for a vacant table. So he con 
 ceived the idea of sending Walters over about 
 half-past six to keep a table for him. As every 
 body knows, you can hold a table yourself at 
 Delmonico's for any length of time until the 
 ' other guests arrive, but the rule is very strict 
 * about servants. Because, as the head waiter 
 will tell you, if servants were allowed to reserve 
 a table during the big rush at seven o'clock, 
 why not messenger boys? And it would cer 
 tainly never do to have half a dozen large tables 
 securely held by minute messengers while the 
 hungry and impatient waited their turn at the 
 door. 
 
 But Walters looked as much like a gentleman 
 as did many of the diners; and when he seated 
 himself at the largest table and told the waiter 
 to serve for a party of eight or ten, he did it 
 with such an air that the head waiter came over 
 himself and took the orders. Walters knew 
 quite as much about ordering a dinner as did 
 his master; and when Van Bibber was too tired 
 to make out the menu, Walters would look over 
 the card himself and order the proper wines and 
 side dishes; and with such a carelessly severe 
 air and in such a masterly manner did he dis 
 charge this high function that the waiters looked 
 upon him with much respect. 
 
 But respect even from your equals and the
 
 VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT 
 
 satisfaction of having your fellow-servants mis 
 take you for a member of the Few Hundred 
 are not enough. Walters wanted more. He 
 wanted the further satisfaction of enjoying the 
 delicious dishes he had ordered; of sitting as a 
 coequal with the people for whom he had kept 
 a place; of completing the deception he prac 
 tised only up to the point where it became most 
 interesting. 
 
 It certainly was trying to have to rise with a 
 subservient and unobtrusive bow and glide out 
 unnoticed by the real guests when they arrived; 
 to have to relinquish the feast just when the 
 feast should begin. It would not be pleasant, 
 certainly, to sit for an hour at a big empty table, 
 ordering dishes fit only for epicures, and then, 
 just as the waiters bore down with the Little 
 Neck clams, so nicely iced and so cool and bitter- 
 looking, to have to rise and go out into the 
 street to a table d'hote around the corner. 
 
 This was Walters's state of mind when Mr, 
 Van Bibber told him for the hundredth time to 
 keep a table for him for three at Delmonico's. 
 Walters wrapped his severe figure in a frock- 
 coat and brushed his hair, and allowed himself 
 the dignity of a walking-stick. He would have 
 liked to act as a substitute in an evening dress- 
 suit, but Van Bibber would not have allowed it. 
 So Walters walked over to Delmonico's and 
 
 37
 
 VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT 
 
 took a table near a window, and said that the 
 other gentlemen would arrive later. Then he 
 looked at his watch and ordered the dinner. It 
 was just the sort of dinner he would have 
 ordered had he ordered it for himself at some 
 one else's expense. He suggested Little Neck 
 clams first, with chablis, and pea-soup, and 
 caviare on toast, before the oyster crabs, with 
 Johannisberger Cabinet; then an entree of calves' 
 brains and rice; then no roast, but a bird, cold 
 asparagus with French dressing, Camembert 
 cheese, and Turkish coffee. As there were to 
 be no women, he omitted the sweets and added 
 three other wines to follow the white wine. It 
 struck him as a particularly well-chosen din 
 ner, and the longer he sat and thought about it 
 the more he wished he were to test its excel 
 lence. And then the people all around him 
 were so bright and happy, and seemed to be 
 enjoying what they had ordered with such a 
 refinement of zest that he felt he would give a 
 great deal could he just sit there as one of them 
 for a brief hour. 
 
 At that moment the servant deferentially 
 handed him a note which a messenger boy had 
 brought. It said: 
 
 Dinner off called out town send clothes and things after 
 me to Young's Boston. 
 
 VAN BIBBER. 
 
 38
 
 VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT 
 
 Walters rose involuntarily, and then sat still 
 to think about it. He would have to counter 
 mand the dinner which he had ordered over 
 half an hour before, and he would have to ex 
 plain who he was to those other servants who 
 had always regarded him as such a great gentle 
 man. It was very hard. 
 
 And then Walters was tempted. He was a 
 very good servant, and he knew his place as 
 only an English servant can, and he had always 
 accepted it, but to-night he was tempted and 
 he fell. He met the waiter's anxious look with 
 a grave smile. 
 
 "The other gentlemen will not be with me 
 to-night," he said, glancing at the note. "But 
 I will dine here as I intended. You can serve 
 for one." 
 
 That was perhaps the proudest night in the 
 history of Walters. He had always felt that he 
 was born out of his proper sphere, and to-night 
 he was assured of it. He was a little nervous 
 at first, lest some of Van Bibber's friends should 
 come in and recognize him; but as the dinner 
 progressed and the warm odor of the dishes 
 touched his sense, and the rich wines ran through 
 his veins, and the women around him smiled 
 and bent and moved like beautiful birds of 
 beautiful plumage, he became content, grandly 
 content; and he half closed his eyes and imagined 
 
 39
 
 VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT 
 
 he was giving a dinner to everybody in the 
 place. Vain and idle thoughts came to him 
 and went again, and he eyed the others about 
 him calmly and with polite courtesy, as they 
 did him, and he felt that if he must later pay 
 for this moment it was worth the paying. 
 
 Then he gave the waiter a couple of dollars 
 out of his own pocket and wrote Van Bibber's 
 name on the check, and walked in state into 
 the co/e, where he ordered a green mint and a 
 heavy, black, and expensive cigar, and seated 
 himself at the window, where he felt that he 
 should always have sat if the fates had been 
 just. The smoke hung in light clouds about 
 him, and the lights shone and glistened on the 
 white cloths and the broad shirt-fronts of the 
 smart young men and distinguished foreign- 
 looking older men at the surrounding tables. 
 
 And then, in the midst of his dreamings, he 
 heard the soft, careless drawl of his master, 
 which sounded at that time and in that place 
 like the awful voice of a condemning judge. 
 Van Bibber pulled out a chair and dropped into 
 it. His side was toward Walters, so that he 
 did not see him. He had some men with him, 
 and he was explaining how he had missed his 
 train and had come back to find that one of the 
 party had eaten the dinner without him, and 
 he wondered who it could be; and then turning 
 
 40
 
 VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT 
 
 easily in his seat he saw Walters with the green 
 mint and the cigar, trembling behind a copy of 
 the London Graphic. 
 
 "Walters!" said Van Bibber, "what are you 
 doing here?" 
 
 Walters looked his guilt and rose stiffly. He 
 began with a feeble "If you please, sir 
 
 "Go back to my rooms and wait for me 
 there," said Van Bibber, who was 00 decent a 
 fellow to scold a servant in public. 
 
 Walters rose and left the half- finished cigar 
 and the mint with the ice melting in it on the 
 table. His one evening of sublimity was over, 
 and he walked away, bending before the glance 
 of his young master and the smiles of his mas 
 ter's friends. 
 
 When Van Bibber came back he found on his 
 dressing-table a note from Walters stating that 
 he could not, of course, expect to remain longer 
 in his service, and that he left behind him the 
 twenty-eight dollars which the dinner had cost. 
 
 "If he had only gone off with all my waist 
 coats and scarf-pins, I'd have liked it better,'* 
 said Van Bibber, "than his leaving me cash for 
 infernal dinner. Why, a servant like Walters 
 is worth twenty-eight-dollar dinners twice a 
 day."
 
 THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED 
 
 YOUNG Van Bibber broke one of his rules of 
 life one day and came down-town. This un 
 usual journey into the marts of trade and 
 finance was in response to a call from his lawyer, 
 who wanted his signature to some papers. It 
 was five years since Van Bibber had been south 
 of the north side of Washington Square, except 
 as a transient traveller to the ferries on the 
 elevated road. And as he walked through the 
 City Hall Square he looked about him at the 
 new buildings in the air, and the bustle and 
 confusion of the streets, with as much interest 
 as a lately arrived immigrant. 
 
 He rather enjoyed the novelty of the situa 
 tion, and after he had completed his business 
 at the lawyer's office he tried to stroll along 
 lower Broadway as he did on the Avenue. 
 
 But people bumped against him, and carts 
 and drays tried to run him down when he 
 crossed the side streets, and those young men 
 whom he knew seemed to be in a great hurry, 
 and expressed such amused surprise at seeing 
 him that he felt very much out of place indeed. 
 
 42
 
 THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED 
 
 And so he decided to get back to his club win 
 dow and its quiet as soon as possible. 
 
 "Hello, Van Bibber," said one of the young 
 men who were speeding by, "what brings you 
 here? Have you lost your way?" 
 
 '"I think I have," said Van Bibber. "If 
 you'll kindly tell me how I can get back to civ 
 ilization again, be obliged to you." 
 
 "Take the elevated from Park Place," said 
 his friend from over his shoulder, as he nodded 
 and diyed into the crowd. 
 
 The visitor from up-town had not a very 
 distinct idea as to where Park Place was, but 
 he struck off Broadway and followed the line 
 of the elevated road along Church Street. It 
 was at the corner of Vesey Street that a miser 
 able-looking, dirty, and red-eyed object stood 
 still in his tracks and begged Van Bibber for a 
 few cents to buy food. " I've come all the way 
 from Chicago," said the Object, "and I haven't 
 tasted food for twenty-four hours." 
 
 Van Bibber drew away as though the Object 
 had a contagious disease in his rags, and handed 
 him a quarter without waiting to receive the 
 man's blessing. 
 
 "Poor devil!" said Van Bibber. "Fancy 
 going without dinner all day!" He could not 
 fancy this, though he tried, and the impossibility 
 of it impressed him so much that he amiably 
 
 43
 
 THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED 
 
 determined to go back and hunt up the Object 
 and give him more money. Van Bibber's ideas 
 of a dinner were rather exalted. He did not 
 know of places where a quarter was good for a 
 "square meal," including "one roast, three 
 vegetables, and pie." He hardly considered a 
 quarter a sufficiently large tip for the waiter 
 who served the dinner, and decidedly not 
 enough for the dinner itself. He did not see 
 his man at first, and when he did the man did 
 not see him. Van Bibber watched him stop 
 three gentlemen, two of whom gave him some 
 money, and then the Object approached Van 
 Bibber and repeated his sad tale in a monotone. 
 He evidently did not recognize Van Bibber, and 
 the clubman gave him a half-dollar and walked 
 away, feeling that the man must surely have 
 enough by this time with which to get some 
 thing to eat, if only a luncheon. 
 
 This retracing of his footsteps had confused 
 Van Bibber, and he made a complete circuit 
 of the block before he discovered that he had 
 lost his bearings. He was standing just where 
 he had started, and gazing along the line of the 
 elevated road, looking for a station, when the 
 familiar accents of the Object again saluted him. 
 
 When Van Bibber faced him the beggar looked 
 uneasy. He was not sure whether or not he 
 Lad approached this particular gentleman be- 
 
 44
 
 fore, but Van Bibber conceived an idea of much 
 subtlety, and deceived the Object by again put 
 ting his hand in his pocket. 
 
 "Nothing to eat for twenty-four hours! 
 Dear me!" drawled the clubman, sympatheti 
 cally. "Haven't you any money, either?" 
 
 "Not a cent," groaned the Object, "an* Pm 
 just faint for food, sir. S'help me. I hate to 
 beg, sir. It isn't the money I want, it's jest 
 food. I'm starvin', sir." 
 
 "Well," said Van Bibber, suddenly, "if it is 
 just something to eat you want, come in here 
 with me and I'll give you your breakfast." But 
 the man held back and began to whine and 
 complain that they wouldn't let the likes of 
 him in such a fine place. 
 
 "Oh, yes, they will," said Van Bibber, glanc 
 ing at the bill of fare in front of the place. " It 
 seems to be extremely cheap. Beefsteak fif 
 teen cents, for instance. Go in," he added, 
 and there was something in his tone which 
 made the Object move ungraciously into the 
 eating-house. 
 
 It was a very queer place, Van Bibber thought, 
 and the people stared very hard at him and 
 his gloves and the gardenia in his coat and at 
 the tramp accompanying him. 
 
 "You ain't going to eat two breakfasts, are 
 yer?" asked one of the very tough-looking 
 
 45
 
 THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED 
 
 waiters of the Object. The Object looked un 
 easy and Van Bibber, who stood beside his 
 chair, smiled in triumph. 
 
 " You're mistaken," he said to the waiter. 
 "This gentleman is starving; he has not tasted 
 food for twenty-four hours. Give him what 
 ever he asks for!" 
 
 The Object scowled and the waiter grinned 
 behind his tin tray, and had the impudence to 
 wink at Van Bibber, who recovered from this 
 in time to give the man a half-dollar and so to 
 make of him a friend for life. The Object or 
 dered milk, but Van Bibber protested and 
 ordered two beefsteaks and fried potatoes, hot 
 rolls and two omelets, coffee, and ham with 
 bacon. 
 
 "Holy smoke! watcher think I am?" yelled 
 the Object, in desperation. 
 
 "Hungry," said Van Bibber, very gently. 
 "Or else an impostor. And, you know, if you 
 should happen to be the latter I should have 
 to hand you over to the police." 
 
 Van Bibber leaned easily against the wall and 
 read the signs about him, and kept one eye on 
 a policeman across the street. The Object was 
 choking and cursing through his breakfast. It 
 did not seem to agree with him. Whenever he 
 stopped Van Bibber would point with his stick 
 to a still unfinished dish, and the Object, after 
 
 46
 
 THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED 
 
 a husky protest, would attack it as though it 
 were poison. The people sitting about were 
 laughing, and the proprietor behind the desk 
 smiling grimly. 
 
 "There, darn ye!" said the Object at last. 
 "I've eat all I can eat for a year. You think 
 you're mighty smart, don't ye? But if you 
 choose to pay that high for your fun, I s'pose 
 you can afford it. Only don't let me catch 
 you around these streets after dark, that's 
 all." 
 
 And the Object started off, shaking his fist. 
 
 "Wait a minute," said Van Bibber. "You 
 haven't paid them for your breakfast." 
 
 " Haven't what ? " shouted the Object. " Paid 
 'em ! How could I pay him ? Youse asked me 
 to come in here and eat. I didn't want no 
 breakfast, did I ? Youse' II have to pay for your 
 fun yerself, or they'll throw yer out. Don't try 
 to be too smart." 
 
 "I gave you," said Van Bibber, slowly, "sev 
 enty-five cents with which to buy a breakfast. 
 This check calls for eighty-five cents, and ex 
 tremely cheap it is," he added, with a bow to 
 the fat proprietor. "Several other gentlemen, 
 on your representation that you were starving, 
 gave you other sums to be expended on a break 
 fast. You have the money with you now. So 
 pay what you owe at once, or I'll call that officer 
 
 47
 
 THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED 
 
 across the street and tell him what I know, and 
 have you put where you belong." 
 
 "I'll see you blowed first!" gasped the Ob 
 ject. 
 
 Van Bibber turned to the waiter. "Kindly 
 beckon to that officer," said he. 
 
 The waiter ran to the door and the Object 
 ran too, but the tough waiter grabbed him by 
 the back of his neck and held him. 
 
 "Lemme go!" yelled the Object. "Lemme 
 go an* I'll pay you." 
 
 Everybody in the place came up now and 
 formed a circle around the group and watched 
 the Object count our eighty-five cents into the 
 waiter's hand, which left him just one dime to 
 himself. 
 
 "You have forgotten the waiter who served 
 you," said Van Bibber, severely pointing with 
 his stick at the dime. 
 
 "No, you don't," groaned the Object. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Van Bibber, "do the decent 
 thing now, or I'll " 
 
 The Object dropped the dime in the waiter's 
 hand, and Van Bibber, smiling and easy, made 
 his way through the admiring crowd and out 
 into the street. 
 
 "I suspect," said Mr. Van Bibber later in the 
 day, when recounting his adventure to a fellow- 
 clubman, "that, after I left, fellow tried to get 
 
 48
 
 THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED 
 
 tip back from waiter, for I saw him come out 
 of place very suddenly, you see, and without 
 touching pavement till he lit on back of his 
 head in gutter. . He was most remarkable 
 
 waiter."
 
 VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES 
 
 YOUNG Van Bibber had never spent a Fourth 
 of July in the city, as he had always understood 
 it was given over to armies of small boys on 
 that day, who sat on all the curbstones and set 
 off fire-crackers, and that the thermometer al 
 ways showed ninety degrees in the shade, and 
 cannon boomed and bells rang from daybreak 
 to midnight. He had refused all invitations to 
 join any Fourth-of-July parties at the seashore 
 or on the Sound or at Tuxedo, because he ex 
 pected his people home from Europe, and had 
 to be in New York to meet them. He was 
 accordingly greatly annoyed when he received 
 a telegram saying they would sail in a boat a 
 week later. 
 
 He finished his coffee at the club on the morn 
 ing of the Fourth about ten o'clock, in absolute 
 solitude, and with no one to expect and nothing 
 to anticipate; so he asked for a morning paper 
 and looked up the amusements offered for the 
 Fourth. There were plenty of excursions with 
 brass bands, and refreshments served on board, 
 baseball matches by the hundred, athletic meet 
 ings and picnics by the dozen, but nothing that 
 seemed to exactly please him. 
 
 5
 
 VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES 
 
 The races sounded attractive, but then he 
 always lost such a lot of money, and the crowd 
 pushed so, and the sun and the excitement made 
 his head ache between the eyes and spoiled his 
 appetite for dinner. He had vowed again and 
 again that he would not go to the races; but 
 as the day wore on and the solitude of the club 
 became oppressive and the silence of the Avenue 
 began to tell on him, he changed his mind, and 
 made his preparations accordingly. 
 
 First, he sent out after all the morning papers 
 and read their tips on the probable winners. 
 Very few of them agreed, so he took the horse 
 which most of them seemed to think was best, 
 and determined to back it, no matter what 
 might happen, or what new tips he might get 
 later. Then he put two hundred dollars in his 
 pocket-book to bet with, and twenty dollars 
 for expenses, and sent around for his field- 
 glasses. 
 
 He was rather late in starting, and he made 
 up his mind on the way to Morris Park that he 
 would be true to the list of winners he had 
 written out, and not make any side bets on any 
 suggestions or inside information given him by 
 others. He vowed a solemn vow on the rail of 
 the boat to plunge on each of the six horses he 
 had selected from the newspaper tips, and on 
 no others. He hoped in this way to win some-
 
 VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES 
 
 thing. He did not care so much to win, but he 
 hated to lose. He always felt so flat and silly 
 after it was over; and when it happened, as it 
 often did, that he had paid several hundred 
 dollars for the afternoon's sport, his sentiments 
 did him credit. 
 
 "I shall probably, or rather certainly, be 
 tramped on and shoved," soliloquized Van 
 Bibber. 
 
 "I shall smoke more cigars than are good for 
 me, and drink more than I want, owing to the 
 unnatural excitement and heat, and I shall be 
 late for my dinner. And for all this I shall 
 probably pay two hundred dollars. It really 
 seems as if I were a young man of little intellect, 
 and yet thousands of others are going to do 
 exactly the same thing." 
 
 The train was very late. One of the men in 
 front said they would probably just be able to 
 get their money up in time for the first race. 
 A horse named Firefly was Van Bibber's choice, 
 and he took one hundred dollars of his two hun 
 dred to put up on her. He had it already in 
 his hand when the train reached the track, and 
 he hurried with the rest toward the bookmakers 
 to get his one hundred on as quickly as possible. 
 But while he was crossing the lawn back of the 
 stand, he heard cheers and wild yells that told 
 him they were running the race at that moment.
 
 VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES 
 
 "Raceland!" "Raceland!" "Raceland by 
 a length!" shouted the crowd. 
 
 " Who's second?" a fat man shouted at an 
 other fat man. 
 
 "Firefly," called back the second, joyously, 
 "and I've got her for a place and I win eight 
 dollars." 
 
 "Ah !" said Van Bibber, as he slipped his one 
 hundred dollars back in his pocket, "good thing 
 I got here a bit late." 
 
 "What'd you win, Van Bibber?" asked a 
 friend who rushed past him, clutching his tickets 
 as though they were precious stones. 
 
 "I win one hundred dollars," answered Van kU 
 Bibber, calmly, as he walked on up into the * 
 boxes. It was delightfully cool up there, and 
 to his satisfaction and surprise he found several 
 people there whom he knew. He went into Her 
 box and accepted some pate sandwiches and 
 iced champagne, and chatted and laughed with 
 Her so industriously, and so much to the exclu 
 sion of all else, that the horses were at the start 
 ing-post before he was aware of it, and he had 
 to excuse himself hurriedly and run to put up 
 his money on Bugler, the second on his list. 
 He decided that as he had won one hundred 
 dollars on the first race he could afford to plunge 
 on this one, so he counted out fifty more, and 
 putting this with the original one hundred dol- 
 
 53
 
 VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES 
 
 lars, crowded into the betting-ring and said, "A 
 hundred and fifty on Bugler straight." 
 
 "Bugler's just been scratched," said the 
 bookie, leaning over Van Bibber's shoulder for 
 a greasy five-dollar bill. 
 
 "Will you play anything else?" he asked, as 
 the young gentleman stood there irresolute. 
 
 "No, thank you," said Van Bibber, remem 
 bering his vow, and turning hastily away. 
 "Well," he mused, "I'm one hundred and fifty 
 dollars better off than I might have been if 
 Bugler hadn't been scratched and hadn't won. 
 One hundred and fifty dollars added to one 
 hundred makes two hundred and fifty dollars. 
 That puts me 'way ahead of the game. I am 
 fifty dollars better off than when I left New 
 York. I'm playing in great luck." So, on the 
 strength of this, he bought out the man who 
 sells bouquets, and ordered more champagne to 
 be sent up to the box where She was sitting, 
 and they all congratulated him on his winnings, 
 which were suggested by his generous and sud 
 den expenditures. 
 
 "You must have a great eye for picking a 
 winner," said one of the older men, grudgingly. 
 
 "Y-e-s," said Van Bibber, modestly. "I 
 know a horse when I see it, I think; and," he 
 added to himself, "that's about all." 
 
 His horse for the third race was Rover, and 
 
 54
 
 the odds were five to one against him. Van 
 Bibber wanted very much to bet on Pirate 
 King instead, but he remembered his vow to 
 keep to the list he had originally prepared, 
 whether he lost or won. This running after 
 strange gods was always a losing business. He 
 took one hundred dollars in five-dollar bills, 
 and went down to the ring and put the hundred 
 up on Rover and returned to the box. The 
 horses had been weighed in and the bugle had 
 sounded, and three of the racers were making 
 their way up the track, when one of them 
 plunged suddenly forward and went down on 
 his knees and then stretched out dead. Van 
 Bibber was confident it was Rover, although 
 he had no idea which the horse was, but he 
 knew his horse would not run. There was a 
 great deal of excitement, and people who did 
 not know the rule, which requires the return of 
 all money if any accident happens to a horse on 
 the race-track between the time of weighing in 
 and arriving at the post, were needlessly alarmed. 
 Van Bibber walked down to the ring and re-' 
 ceived his money back with a smile. 
 
 "I'm just one hundred dollars better off than 
 I was three minutes ago," he said. "I've really 
 had a most remarkable day." 
 
 May fair was his choice for tue fourth race, 
 and she was selling at three to one. Van Bib- 
 
 55
 
 VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES 
 
 her determined to put one hundred and seventy- 
 five dollars up on her, for, as he said, he had 
 not lost on any one race yet. The girl in the 
 box was very interesting, though, and Van 
 Bibber found a great deal to say to her. He 
 interrupted himself once to call to one of the 
 messenger boys who ran with bets, and gave 
 him one hundred and seventy-five dollars to 
 put on Mayfair. 
 
 Several other gentlemen gave the boy large 
 sums as well, and Van Bibber continued to talk 
 earnestly with the girl. He raised his head to 
 see Mayfair straggle in a bad second, and 
 shrugged his shoulders. "How much did you 
 lose?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, 'bout two hundred dollars," said Van 
 Bibber; "but it's the first time I've lost to-day, 
 so I'm still ahead." He bent over to continue 
 what he was saying, when a rude commotion 
 and loud talking caused those in the boxes to 
 raise their heads and look around. Several gen 
 tlemen were pointing out Van Bibber to one of 
 the Pinkerton detectives, who had a struggling 
 messenger boy in his grasp. 
 
 "These gentlemen say you gave this boy 
 some money, sir," said the detective. "He 
 tried to do a welsh with it, and I caught him 
 just as he was getting over the fence. How 
 much and on what horse, sir?" 
 
 56
 
 VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES 
 
 Van Bibber showed his memoranda, and the 
 officer handed him over one hundred and sev 
 enty-five dollars. 
 
 "Now, let me see,'* said Van Bibber, shutting 
 one eye and calculating intently, "one hundred 
 and seventy-five to three hundred and fifty 
 dollars makes me a winner by five hundred and 
 twenty-five dollars. That's purty good, isn't 
 it? I'll have a great dinner at Delmonico's to 
 night. You'd better all come back with me!" 
 
 But She said he had much better come back 
 with her and her party on top of the coach and 
 take dinner in the cool country instead of the 
 hot, close city, and Van Bibber said he would 
 like to, only he did wish to get his one hundred 
 dollars up on at least one race. But they said 
 "no," they must be off at once, for the ride was 
 a long one, and Van Bibber looked at his list 
 and saw that his choice was Jack Frost, a very 
 likely winner, indeed; but, nevertheless, he 
 walked out to the enclosure with them and 
 mounted the coach beside the girl on the back 
 seat, with only the two coachmen behind to 
 hear what he chose to say. 
 
 And just as they finally were all harnessed 
 up and the horn sounded, the crowd yelled, 
 "They're off," and Van Bibber and all of them 
 turned on their high seats to look back. 
 
 "Magpie wins," said the whip. 
 57
 
 VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES 
 
 "And Jack Frost's last," said another. 
 
 "And I win my one hundred dollars," said 
 Van Bibber. "It's really very curious," he 
 added, turning to the girl. " I started out with 
 two hundred dollars to-day, I spent only twenty- 
 five dollars on flowers, I won six hundred and 
 twenty-five dollars, and I have only one 
 hundred and seventy-five dollars to show for it, 
 and yet I've had a very pleasant Fourth."
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOMY 
 
 OF course, Van Bibber lost all the money he 
 saved at the races on the Fourth of July. He 
 went to the track the next day, and he saw the 
 whole sum melt away, and in his vexation tried 
 to "get back," with the usual result. He 
 plunged desperately, and when he had reached 
 his rooms and run over his losses, he found he 
 was a financial wreck, and that he, as his sport 
 ing friends expressed it, "would have to smoke 
 a pipe" for several years to come, instead of 
 indulging in Regalias. He could not conceive 
 how he had come to make such a fool of him 
 self, and he wondered if he would have enough 
 confidence to spend a dollar on luxuries again. 
 
 It was awful to contemplate the amount he 
 had lost. He felt as if it were sinful extrava 
 gance to even pay his car-fare up-town, and he 
 contemplated giving his landlord the rent with 
 keen distress. It almost hurt him to part with 
 five cents to the conductor, and as he looked at 
 the hansoms dashing by with lucky winners 
 inside he groaned audibly. 
 
 "I've got to economize," he soliloquized. 
 "No use talking; must economize. I'll begin 
 
 59
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOMY 
 
 to-morrow morning and keep it up for a month. 
 Then I'll be on my feet again. Then I can stop 
 economizing, and enjoy myself. But no more 
 races; never, never again." 
 
 He was delighted with this idea of economiz 
 ing. He liked the idea of self-punishment that 
 it involved, and as he had never denied himself 
 anything in his life, the novelty of the idea 
 charmed him. He rolled over to sleep, feeling 
 very much happier in his mind than he had 
 been before his determination was taken, and 
 quite eager to begin on the morrow. He arose 
 very early, about ten o'clock, and recalled his 
 idea of economy for a month, as a saving clause 
 to his having lost a month's spending money. 
 
 He was in the habit of taking his coffee and 
 rolls and a parsley omelet, at Delmonico's, 
 every morning. He decided that he would 
 start out on his road of economy by omitting 
 the omelet and ordering only a pot of coffee. 
 By some rare intuition he guessed that there 
 were places up-town where things were cheaper 
 than at his usual haunt, only he did not know 
 where they were. He stumbled into a restau 
 rant on a side street finally, and ordered a cup 
 of coffee and some rolls. 
 
 The waiter seemed to think that was a very 
 poor sort of breakfast, and suggested some nice 
 chops or a bit of steak or "ham and eggs, sah," 
 
 60
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOMY 
 
 all of which made Van Bibber shudder. The 
 waiter finally concluded that Van Bibber was 
 poor and couldn't afford any more, which, as it 
 happened to be more or less true, worried that 
 young gentleman; so much so, indeed, that 
 when the waiter brought him a check for fifteen 
 cents, Van Bibber handed him a half-dollar and 
 told him to "keep the change." 
 
 The satisfaction he felt in this wore off very 
 soon when he appreciated that, while he had 
 economized in his breakfast, his vanity had 
 been very extravagantly pampered, and he felt 
 how absurd it was when he remembered he 
 would not have spent more if he had gone to 
 Delmonico's in the first place. He wanted one 
 of those large black Regalias very much, but 
 they cost entirely too much. He went carefully 
 through his pockets to see if he had one with 
 him, but he had not, and he determined to get 
 a pipe. Pipes are always cheap. 
 
 "What sort of a pipe, sir?" said the man be 
 hind the counter. 
 
 "A cheap pipe," said Van Bibber. 
 
 "But what sort?" persisted the man. 
 
 Van Bibber thought a brier pipe, with an 
 amber mouth-piece and a silver band, would 
 about suit his fancy. The man had just such a 
 pipe, with trade-marks on the brier and hall 
 marks and "Sterling" on the silver band. It 
 
 6s
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOMY 
 
 lay in a very pretty silk box, and there was 
 another mouth-piece you could screw in, and a 
 cleaner and top piece with which to press the 
 tobacco down. It was most complete, and only 
 five dollars. "Isn't that a good deal for a 
 pipe?" asked Van Bibber. The man said, being 
 entirely unprejudiced, that he thought not. It 
 was cheaper, he said, to get a good thing at the 
 start. It lasted longer. And cheap pipes bite 
 your tongue. This seemed to Van Bibber most 
 excellent reasoning. Some Oxford-Cambridge 
 mixture attracted Van Bibber on account of its 
 name. This cost one dollar more. As he left 
 the shop he saw a lot of pipes, brier and corn 
 cob and Sallie Michaels, in the window marked, 
 "Any of these for a quarter." This made him 
 feel badly, and he was conscious he was not 
 making a success of his economy. He started 
 back to the club, but it was so hot that he 
 thought he would faint before he got there; so 
 he called a hansom, on the principle that it was 
 cheaper to ride and keep well than to walk and 
 have a sunstroke. 
 
 He saw some people that he knew going by 
 in a cab with a pile of trunks on the top of it, 
 and that reminded him that they had asked 
 him to come down and see them off when the 
 steamer left that afternoon. So he waved his 
 hand when they passed, and bowed to them, 
 
 62
 
 and cried, "See you later," before he counted 
 the consequences. He did not wish to arrive 
 empty-handed, so he stopped in at a florist's 
 and got a big basket of flowers and another of 
 fruit, and piled them into the hansom. 
 
 When he came to pay the driver he found the 
 trip from Thirty-fifth Street to the foot of Lib 
 erty was two dollars and a half, and the fruit 
 and flowers came to twenty-two dollars. He 
 was greatly distressed over this, and could not 
 see how it had happened. He rode back irf the 
 elevated for five cents, and felt much better. 
 Then some men just back from a yachting trip 
 joined him at the club and ordered a great many 
 things to drink, and of course he had to do the 
 same, and seven dollars were added to his 
 economy fund. He argued that this did not 
 matter, because he signed a check for it, and 
 that he would not have to pay for it until the 
 end of the month, when the necessity of econ 
 omizing would be over. 
 
 Still, his conscience did not seem convinced, 
 and he grew very desperate. He felt he was 
 not doing it at all properly, and he determined 
 that he would spend next to nothing on his din 
 ner. He remembered with a shudder the place 
 he had taken the tramp to dinner, and he vowed 
 that before he would economize as rigidly as 
 that he would starve; but he had heard of the 
 
 63
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOMY 
 
 table d'hote places on Sixth Avenue, so he went 
 there and wandered along the street until he 
 found one that looked clean and nice. He be 
 gan w r ith a heavy soup, shoved a rich, fat, fried 
 fish over his plate, and followed it with a queer 
 entree of spaghetti with a tomato dressing that 
 satisfied his hunger and killed his appetite as if 
 with the blow of a lead pipe. But he went 
 through with the rest of it, for he felt it was the 
 truest economy to get his money's worth, and 
 the limp salad in bad oil and the ice-cream of 
 sour milk made him feel that eating was a 
 positive pain rather than a pleasure; and in 
 this state of mind and body, drugged and 
 disgusted, he lighted his pipe and walked 
 slowly toward the club along Twenty-sixth 
 Street. 
 
 He looked in at the cafe at Delmonico's with 
 envy and disgust, and, going disheartenedly on, 
 passed the dining-room windows that were wide 
 open and showed the heavy white linen, the sil 
 ver, and the women coolly dressed and every 
 body happy. 
 
 And then there was a wild waving of arms 
 inside, and white hands beckoning him, and he 
 saw with mingled feelings of regret that the 
 whole party of the Fourth of July were inside 
 and motioning to him. They made room for 
 him, and the captain's daughter helped him to 
 
 64
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOMY 
 
 olives, and the chaperon told how they had 
 come into town for the day, and had been tele 
 graphing for him and Edgar and Fred and "dear 
 Bill," and the rest said they were so glad to see 
 him because they knew he could appreciate a 
 , good dinner if any one could. 
 
 But Van Bibber only groaned, and the awful 
 memories of the lead-like spaghetti and the bad 
 oil and the queer cheese made him shudder, 
 and turned things before him into a Tantalus 
 feast of rare cruelty. There were Little Neck 
 clams, delicious cold consomme, and white fish, 
 and French chops with a dressing of truffles, 
 and Roman punch and woodcock to follow, and 
 crisp lettuce and toasted crackers-and-cheese, 
 with a most remarkable combination of fruits 
 and ices; and Van Bibber could eat nothing, 
 and sat unhappily looking at his plate and 
 shaking his head when the waiter urged him 
 gently. "Economy!" he said, w r ith disgusted 
 solemnity. "It's all tommy rot. It wouldn't 
 have cost me a cent to have eaten this dinner, 
 and yet I've paid half a dollar to make myself 
 ill so that I can't. If you know how to econo 
 mize, it may be all right; but if you don't under 
 stand it, you must leave it alone. It's danger 
 ous. I'll economize no more." 
 
 And he accordingly broke his vow by taking 
 the whole party up to see the lady who would
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOMY 
 
 not be photographed in tights, and put them 
 in a box where they were gagged by the come 
 dian, and where the soubrette smiled on them 
 and all went well. 
 
 66
 
 MR. TRAVERS'S FIRST HUNT 
 
 YOUNG Travers, who had been engaged to a 
 girl down on Long Island for the last three 
 months, only met her father and brother a few 
 weeks before the day set for the wedding. The 
 brother is a master of hounds near Southamp 
 ton, and shared the expense of importing a pack 
 from England with Van Bibber. The father 
 and son talked horse all day and until one in 
 the morning; for they owned fast thoroughbreds, 
 and entered them at the Sheepshead Bay and 
 other race-tracks. Old Mr. Paddock, the father 
 of the girl to whom Travers was engaged, had 
 often said that when a young man asked him 
 for his daughter's hand he would ask him in 
 return, not if he had lived straight, but if he 
 could ride straight. And on his answering this 
 question in the affirmative depended his gaining 
 her parent's consent. Travers had met Miss 
 Paddock and her mother in Europe, while the 
 men of the family were at home. He was in 
 vited to their place in the fall when the hunting 
 season opened, and spent the .evening most 
 pleasantly and satisfactorily with his fiancee in 
 a corner of the drawing-room. But as soon as
 
 \ 
 
 MR. TRAVERS'S FIRST HUNT 
 
 the women had gone, young Paddock joined 
 him and said, "You ride, of course?" Travers 
 had never ridden; but he had been prompted 
 how to answer by Miss Paddock, and so said 
 there was nothing he liked better. As he ex 
 pressed it, he would rather ride than sleep. 
 
 "That's good," said Paddock. "I'll give you 
 a mount on Satan to-morrow morning at the 
 meet. He is a bit nasty at the start of the 
 season; and ever since he killed Wallis, the 
 second groom, last year, none of us care much 
 to ride him. But you can manage him, no 
 doubt. He'll just carry your weight." 
 
 Mr. Travers dreamed that night of taking 
 large, desperate leaps into space on a wild horse 
 that snorted forth flames, and that rose at solid 
 stone walls as though they were hayricks. 
 
 He was tempted to say he was ill in the 
 morning which was, considering his state of 
 mind, more or less true but concluded that, 
 as he would have to ride sooner or later during 
 his visit, and that if he did break his neck it 
 would be in a good cause, he determined to do 
 his best. He did not want to ride at all, for 
 two excellent reasons first, because he wanted 
 to live for Miss Paddock's sake, and, second, 
 because he wanted to live for his own. 
 
 The next morning was a most forbidding and 
 doleful-looking morning, and young Travers had 
 
 68
 
 MR. TRAVERS'S FIRST HUNT 
 
 great hopes that the meet would be declared 
 off; but, just as he lay in doubt, the servant 
 knocked at his door with his riding things and 
 his hot water. 
 
 He came down-stairs looking very miserable 
 indeed. Satan had been taken to the place 
 where they were to meet, and Travers viewed 
 him on his arrival there with a sickening sense 
 of fear, as he saw him pulling three grooms off 
 their feet. 
 
 Travers decided that he would stay with his 
 feet on solid earth just as long as he could, and 
 when the hounds were thrown off and the rest 
 had started at a gallop he waited, under the 
 pretense of adjusting his gaiters, until they 
 were all well away. Then he clinched his 
 teeth, crammed his hat down over his ears, and 
 scrambled up on to the saddle. His feet fell 
 quite by accident into the stirrups, and the next 
 instant he was off after the others, with an in 
 distinct feeling that he was on a locomotive that 
 was jumping the ties. Satan was in among 
 and had passed the other horses in less than five 
 minutes, and was so close on the hounds that 
 the \vhippers-in gave a cry of warning. But 
 Travers could as soon have pulled a boat back 
 from going over the Niagara Falls as Satan, 
 and it was only because the hounds were well 
 ahead that saved them from having Satan ride
 
 MR. TRAVERS'S FIRST HUNT 
 
 them down. Travers had taken hold of the 
 saddle with his left hand to keep himself down, 
 and sawed and swayed on the reins with his 
 right. He shut his eyes whenever Satan 
 jumped, and never knew how he happened to 
 stick on; but he did stick on, and was so far 
 ahead that no one could see in the misty morn 
 ing just how badly he rode.. As it was, for dar 
 ing and speed he led the field, and not even 
 young Paddock was near him from the start. 
 There was a broad stream in front of him, and 
 a hill just on its other side. No one had ever 
 tried to take this at a jump. It was considered 
 more of a swim than anything else, and the 
 hunters always crossed it by the bridge, toward 
 the left. Travers saw the bridge and tried to 
 jerk Satan's head in that direction; but Satan 
 kept right on as straight as an express train 
 over the prairie. Fences and trees and furrows 
 passed by and under Travers like a panorama 
 run by electricity, and he only breathed by acci 
 dent. They went on at the stream and the hill 
 beyond as though they were riding at a stretch 
 of turf, and, though the whole field set up a 
 shout of warning and dismay, Travers could 
 only gasp and shut his eyes. He remembered 
 the fate of the second groom and shivered. 
 Then the horse rose like a rocket, lifting Travers 
 so high in the air that he thought Satan would 
 
 70
 
 MR. TRAVERSES FIRST HUNT 
 
 never come down again; but he did come down- 
 with his feet bunched, on the opposite side of 
 the stream. The next instant he was up and 
 over the hill, and had stopped panting in the 
 very centre of the pack that were snarling and 
 snapping around the fox. And then Travers 
 showed that he was a thoroughbred, even 
 though he could not ride, for he hastily fumbled 
 for his cigar-case, and when the field came 
 pounding up over the bridge and around the 
 hill, they saw him seated nonchalantly on his 
 saddle, puffing critically at a cigar and giving 
 Satan patronizing pats on the head. 
 
 "My dear girl," said old Mr. Paddock to his 
 daughter as they rode back, "if you love that 
 young man of yours and want to keep him, 
 make him promise to give up riding. A more 
 reckless and more brilliant horseman I have 
 never seen. He took that double jump at the 
 gate and that stream like a centaur. But he 
 will break his neck sooner or later, and he ought 
 to be stopped." Young Paddock was so de 
 lighted with his prospective brother-in-law's 
 great riding that that night in the smoking- 
 room he made him a present of Satan before all 
 the men. 
 
 "No," said Travers, gloomily, "I can't take 
 him. Your sister has asked me to give up 
 what is dearer to me than anything next to
 
 MR. TRAVERS'S FIRST HUNT 
 
 herself, and that is my riding. You see, she is 
 absurdly anxious for my safety, and she has 
 asked me to promise never to ride again, and 
 I have given my word." 
 
 A chorus of sympathetic remonstrance rose 
 from the men. 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Travers to her brother, 
 "it is rough, but it just shows what sacrifices a 
 man will make for the woman he loves."
 
 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG 
 
 YOUNG Van Bibber had been staying with 
 some people at Southampton, L. I., where, the 
 fall before, his friend Travers made his reputa 
 tion as a cross-country rider. He did this, it 
 may be remembered, by shutting his eyes and 
 holding on by the horse's mane and letting the 
 horse go as it pleased. His recklessness and 
 courage are still spoken of with awe; and the 
 place where he cleared the water jump that 
 every one else avoided is pointed out as Traverses 
 Leap to visiting horsemen, who look at it gloom 
 ily and shake their heads. Miss Arnett, whose 
 mother was giving the house-party, was an 
 attractive young woman, with an admiring 
 retinue of youths who gave attention without 
 intention, and for none of whom Miss Arnett 
 showed particular preference. Her whole in 
 terest, indeed, was centred in a dog, a Scotch 
 collie called Duncan. She allowed this dog 
 every liberty, and made a decided nuisance of 
 him for every one around her. He always went 
 with her when she walked* or trotted beside 
 her horse when she rode. He stretched himself 
 before the fire in the dining-room, and startled 
 
 73
 
 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG 
 
 people at table by placing his cold nose against 
 their hands or putting his paws on their gowns. 
 He was generally voted a most annoying ad 
 junct to the Arnett household; but no one 
 dared hint so to Miss Arnett, as she only loved 
 those who loved the dog, or pretended to do it. 
 On the morning of the afternoon on which Van 
 Bibber and his bag arrived, the dog disappeared 
 and could not be recovered. Van Bibber found 
 the household in a state of much excitement in 
 consequence, and his welcome was necessarily 
 brief. The arriving guest was not to be consid 
 ered at all with the departed dog. The men 
 told Van Bibber, in confidence, that the general 
 relief among the guests was something ecstatic, 
 but this was marred later by the gloom of Miss 
 Arnett and her inability to think of anything 
 else but the finding of the lost collie. Things 
 became so feverish that for the sake of rest and 
 peace the house-party proposed to contribute 
 to a joint purse for the return of the dog, as 
 even, nuisance as it was, it was not so bad as 
 having their visit spoiled by Miss Arnett's 
 abandonment to grief and crossness. 
 
 "I think," said the young woman, after 
 luncheon, "that some of you men might be 
 civil enough to offer to look for him. I'm sure 
 he can't have gone far, or, if he has been stolen, 
 the men who took him couldn't have gone very 
 
 74
 
 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG 
 
 far away either. Now which of you will vol 
 unteer? I'm sure you'll do it to please me. 
 Mr. Van Bibber, now: you say you're so clever. 
 We're all the time hearing of your adventures. 
 Why don't you show how full of expedients you 
 are and rise to the occasion?" The suggestion 
 of scorn in this speech nettled Van Bibber. 
 
 "I'm sure I never posed as being clever," he 
 said, "and finding a lost dog with all Long 
 Island to pick and choose from isn't a particu 
 larly easy thing to pull off successfully, I should 
 think." ' 
 
 " I didn't suppose you'd take a dare like that, 
 Van Bibber," said one of the men. "Why, it's 
 just the sort of thing you do so well." 
 
 "Yes," said another, "I'll back you to find 
 him if you try." 
 
 " Thanks," said Van Bibber, dryly. :< There 
 seems to be a disposition on the part of the 
 young men present to turn me into a dog- 
 catcher. I doubt whether this is altogether un 
 selfish. I do not say that they would rather 
 remain indoors and teach the girls how to play 
 billiards, but I quite appreciate their reasons 
 for not wishing to roam about in the snow and 
 whistle for a dog. However, to oblige the de 
 spondent mistress of this valuable member of 
 the household, I will risk pneumonia, and I will, 
 at the same time, in order to make the event 
 
 75
 
 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG 
 
 interesting to all concerned, back myself to 
 bring that dog back by eight o'clock. Now, 
 then, if any of you unselfish youths have any 
 sporting blood, you will just name the sum." 
 
 They named one hundred dollars, and ar 
 ranged that Van Bibber was to have the dog 
 back by eight o'clock, or just in time for dinner; 
 for Van Bibber said he wouldn't miss his dinner 
 for all the dogs in the two hemispheres, unless 
 the dogs happened to be his own. 
 
 Van Bibber put on his great-coat and told the 
 man to bring around the dog-cart; then he filled 
 his pockets with cigars and placed a flask of 
 brandy under the seat, and wrapped the robes 
 around his knees. 
 
 "I feel just like a relief expedition to the 
 North Pole. I think I ought to have some 
 lieutenants," he suggested. 
 
 "Well," cried one of the men, "suppose we 
 make a pool and each chip in fifty dollars, and 
 the man who brings the dog back in time gets 
 the whole of it?" 
 
 "That bet of mine stands, doesn't it?" asked 
 Van Bibber. 
 
 The men said it did, and went off to put on 
 their riding things, and four horses were saddled 
 and brought around from the stable. Each of 
 the four explorers was furnished with a long 
 rope to tie to Duncan's collar, and with which
 
 he was to be led back if they found him. They 
 were cheered ironically by the maidens they 
 had deserted on compulsion, and were smiled 
 upon severally by Miss Arnett. Then they 
 separated and took different roads. It was 
 snowing gently, and was very cold. Van Bibber 
 drove aimlessly ahead, looking to the right and 
 left and scanning each back yard and side street. 
 Every now and then he hailed some passing 
 farm wagon and asked the driver if he had 
 seen a stray collie dog, but the answer was in 
 variably in the negative. He soon left the vil 
 lage in the rear, and plunged out over the downs. 
 The wind was bitter cold, and swept from the 
 water with a chill that cut through his clothes. 
 
 "Oh, this is great," said Van Bibber to the 
 patient horse in front of him; "this is sport, this 
 is. The next time I come to this part of the 
 world I'll be dragged here with a rope. Nice, 
 hospitable people those Arnetts, aren't they? 
 Ask you to make yourself at home chasing dogs 
 over an ice fjord. Don't know when I've en 
 joyed myself so much." Every now and then 
 he stood up and looked all over the hills and 
 valleys to see if he could not distinguish a black 
 object running over the white surface of the 
 snow, but he saw nothing like a dog, not even 
 the track of one. 
 
 Twice he came across one of the other men, 
 
 77
 
 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG 
 
 shivering and swearing from his saddle, and 
 with teeth chattering. 
 
 "Well," said one of them, shuddering, "you 
 haven't found that dog yet, I see." 
 
 "No," said Van Bibber. "Oh, no. I've 
 given up looking for the dog. I'm just driving 
 around enjoying myself. The air's so invigorat 
 ing, and I like to feel the snow settling between 
 my collar and the back of my neck." 
 
 At four o'clock Van Bibber was about as 
 nearly frozen as a man could be after he had 
 swallowed half a bottle of brandy. It was so 
 cold that the ice formed on his cigar when he 
 took it from his lips, and his feet and the dash 
 board seemed to have become stuck together. 
 
 "I think I'll give it up," he said, finally, as he 
 turned the horse's head toward Southampton. 
 "I hate to lose three hundred and fifty dollars 
 as much as any man; but I love my fair young 
 life, and I'm not going to turn into an equestrian 
 statue in ice for anybody's collie dog." 
 
 He drove the cart to the stable and unhar 
 nessed the horse himself, as all the grooms were 
 out scouring the country, and then went up 
 stairs unobserved and locked himself in his 
 room, for he did not care to have the others 
 know that he had given out so early in the 
 chase. There was a big open fire in his room, 
 and he put on his warm things and stretched
 
 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG 
 
 out before it in a great easy-chair, and smoked 
 and sipped the brandy and chuckled with de 
 light as he thought of the four other men racing 
 around in the snow. 
 
 "They may have more nerve than I," he 
 soliloquized, "and I don't say they have not; 
 but they can have all the credit and rewards 
 they want, and I'll be satisfied to stay just 
 where I am." 
 
 At seven he saw the four riders coming back 
 dejectedly, and without the dog. As they 
 passed his room he heard one of the men ask 
 if Van Bibber had got back yet, and another 
 say yes, he had, as he had left the cart in the 
 stable, but that one of the servants had said 
 that he had started out again on foot. 
 
 "He has, has he?" said the voice. "Well, 
 he's got sporting blood, and he'll need to keep 
 it at fever heat if he expects to live. I'm frozen 
 so that I can't bend my fingers." 
 
 Van Bibber smiled, and moved comfortably 
 in the big chair; he had dozed a little, and was 
 feeling very contented. At half-past seven he 
 began to dress, and at five minutes to eight he 
 was ready for dinner and stood looking out of 
 the window at the moonlight on the white lawn 
 below. The snow had stopped falling, and 
 everything lay quiet and still as though it were 
 cut in marble. And then suddenly, across the 
 
 79
 
 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG 
 
 lawn, came a black, bedraggled object on four 
 legs, limping painfully, and lifting its feet as 
 though there were lead on them. 
 
 "Great heavens !" cried Van Bibber, "it's the 
 dog!" He was out of the room in a moment 
 and down into the hall. He heard the murmur 
 of voices in the drawing-room, and the sympa 
 thetic tones of the women who were pitying the 
 men. Van Bibber pulled on his overshoes and 
 a great-coat that covered him from his ears to 
 his ankles, and dashed out into the snow. The 
 dog had just enough spirit left to try and dodge 
 him, and with a leap to one side went off again 
 across the lawn. It was, as Van Bibber knew, 
 but three minutes to eight o'clock, and have 
 the dog he must and would. The collie sprang 
 first to one side and then to the other, and 
 snarled and snapped; but Van Bibber was keen 
 with the excitement of the chase, so he plunged 
 forward recklessly and tackled the dog around 
 the body, and they both rolled over and over 
 together. Then Van Bibber scrambled to his 
 feet and dashed up the steps and into the draw 
 ing-room just as the people were in line for 
 dinner, and while the minute-hand stood at a 
 minute to eight o'clock. 
 
 "How is this?" shouted Van Bibber, holding 
 up one hand and clasping the dog under his 
 other arm. 
 
 80
 
 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG 
 
 Miss Arnett flew at the collie and embraced 
 it, wet as it was, and ruined her gown, and all 
 the men glanced instinctively at the clock and 
 said: 
 
 "You've won, Van." 
 
 "But you must be frozen to death," said 
 Miss Arnett, looking up at him with gratitude 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Van Bibber, beginning to 
 shiver. "I've had a terrible long walk, and I 
 had to carry him all the way. If you'll excuse 
 me, I'll go change my things." 
 
 He reappeared again in a suspiciously short 
 time for one who had to change outright, and 
 the men admired his endurance and paid up 
 the bet. 
 
 "Where did you find him, Van?" one of 
 them asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes," they all chorussed. " Where was 
 he?" 
 
 "That," said Mr. Van Bibber, "is a thing 
 known to only two beings, Duncan and myself. 
 Duncan can't tell, and I won't. If I did, you'd 
 say I was trying to make myself out clever, 
 and I never boast about the things I do." 
 
 81
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 "HEFTY" BURKE was one of the best swim 
 mers in the East River. There was no regular 
 way open for him to prove this, as the gentle 
 men of the Harlem boat-clubs, under whose 
 auspices the annual races were given, called 
 him a professional and would not swim against 
 him. "They won't keep company with me on 
 land," Hefty complained, bitterly, "and they 
 can't keep company with me in the water; so I 
 lose both ways." Young Burke held these gen 
 tlemen of the rowing clubs in great contempt, 
 and their outriggers and low-necked and pic 
 turesque rowing clothes as well. They were 
 fond of lying out of the current, with the oars 
 pulled across at their backs for support, smoking 
 and commenting audibly upon the other oars 
 men who passed them by perspiring uncomfort 
 ably, and conscious that they were being criti 
 cised. Hefty said that these amateur oarsmen 
 and swimmers were only pretty boys, and that 
 he could give them two hundred yards' start in 
 a mile of rough or smooth water and pass them 
 as easily as a tug passes a lighter. 
 
 He was quite right in this latter boast; but, 
 as they would call him a professional and would 
 
 82
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 not swim against him, there was no way for 
 him to prove it. His idea of a race and their 
 idea of a race differed. They had a committee 
 to select prizes and open a book for entries, and 
 when the day of the races came they had a 
 judges' boat with gay bunting all over it, and 
 a badly frightened referee and a host of report 
 ers, and police boats to keep order. But when 
 Hefty swam, his two backers, who had chal 
 lenged some other young man through a sport 
 ing paper, rowed in a boat behind him and 
 yelled and swore directions, advice, warnings, 
 and encouragement at him, and in their excite 
 ment drank all of the whiskey that had been 
 intended for him. And the other young man's 
 backers, who had put up ten dollars on him, 
 and a tugboat filled with other rough young 
 men, kegs of beer, and three Italians with two 
 fiddles and one harp, followed close in the wake 
 of the swimmers. It was most exciting, and 
 though Hefty never had any prizes to show for 
 it, he always came in first, and so won a great 
 deal of local reputation. He also gained re 
 nown as a life-saver; for if it had not been for 
 him many a venturesome lad would have ended 
 his young life in the waters of the East River. 
 
 For this he received ornate and very thin 
 gold medals, with very little gold spread over a 
 large extent of medal, from grateful parents 
 
 83
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 and admiring friends. These were real medals, 
 and given to him, and not paid for by himself, 
 as were "Rags" Raegan's, who always bought 
 himself a medal whenever he assaulted a repu 
 table citizen and the case was up before the 
 Court of General Sessions. It was the habit of 
 Mr. Raegan's friends to fall overboard for him 
 whenever he was in difficulty of this sort, and 
 allow themselves to be saved, and to present 
 Raegan with the medal he had prepared; and 
 this act of heroism would get into the papers, 
 and Raegan's lawyer would make the most of 
 it before the judges. Rags had been Hefty's 
 foremost rival among the swimmers of the East 
 Side, but since the retirement of the former into 
 reputable and private life Hefty was the ac 
 knowledged champion of the river front. 
 
 Hefty was not at all a bad young man that 
 is, he did not expect his people to support him 
 and he worked occasionally, especially about 
 election time, and what he made in bets and in 
 backing himself to swim supplied him with 
 small change. Then he fell in love with Miss 
 Casey, and the trouble and happiness of his 
 life came to him hand and hand together; and 
 as this human feeling does away with class dis 
 tinctions, I need not feel I must apologize for 
 him any longer, but just tell his story. 
 
 He met her at the Hon. P. C. McGovern's 
 84
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 Fourth Ward Association's excursion and pic 
 nic, at which he was one of the twenty-five vice- 
 presidents. On this occasion Hefty had jumped 
 overboard after one of the Rag Gang whom the 
 members of the Half-Hose Social Club had, in 
 a spirit of merriment, dropped over the side of 
 the boat. This action and the subsequent res 
 cue and ensuing intoxication of the half-drowned 
 member of the Rag Gang had filled Miss Casey's 
 heart with admiration, and she told Hefty he 
 was a good one and ought to be proud of himself. 
 
 On the following Sunday he walked out Ave 
 nue A to Tompkins Square with Mary, and he 
 also spent a great deal of time every day on her 
 stoop when he was not working, for he was 
 working now and making ten dollars a week as 
 an assistant to an ice-driver. They had prom 
 ised to give him fifteen dollars a week and a 
 seat on the box if he proved steady. He had 
 even dreamed of wedding Mary in the spring. 
 But Casey was a particularly objectionable man 
 for a father-in-law, and his objections to Hefty 
 were equally strong. He honestly thought the 
 young man no fit match for his daughter, and 
 would only promise to allow him to "keep com 
 pany" with Mary on the condition of his living 
 steadily. 
 
 So it became Hefty's duty to behave himself. 
 He found this a little hard to do at first, but he 
 
 85
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 confessed that it grew easier as he saw more of 
 Miss Casey. He attributed his reform to her 
 entirely. She had made the semi-political, 
 semi-social organizations to which he belonged 
 appear stupid, and especially so when he lost 
 his money playing poker in the club-room (for 
 the club had only one room), when he might 
 have put it away for her. He liked to talk with 
 her about the neighbors in the tenement, and 
 his chance of political advancement to the posi 
 tion of a watchman at the Custom-house Wharf, 
 and hear her play "Mary and John" on the 
 melodeon. He boasted that she could make it 
 sound as well as it did on the barrel-organ. 
 
 He was very polite to her father and very 
 much afraid of him, for he was a most particu 
 lar old man from the North of Ireland, and 
 objected to Hefty because he was a good Cath 
 olic and fond of street fights. He also asked 
 pertinently how Hefty expected to support a 
 wife by swimming from one pier to another on 
 the chance of winning ten dollars, and pointed 
 out that even this precarious means of liveli 
 hood would be shut off when the winter came. 
 He much preferred "Patsy" Moffat as a pro 
 spective son-in-law, because Moffat was one 
 of the proprietors in a local express company 
 with a capital stock of three wagons and two 
 horses. Miss Casey herself, so it seemed to 
 
 86
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 Hefty, was rather fond of Moffat; but he could 
 not tell for whom she really cared, for she was 
 very shy, and would as soon have thought of 
 speaking a word of encouragement as of speak 
 ing with unkindness. 
 
 There was to be a ball at the Palace Garden 
 on Wednesday night, and Hefty had promised 
 to call for Mary at nine o'clock. She told him 
 to be on time, and threatened to go with her 
 old love, Patsy Moffat, if he were late. 
 
 On Monday night the foreman at the livery 
 stable of the ice company appointed Hefty a 
 driver, and, as his wages would now be fifteen 
 dollars a week, he concluded to ask Mary to 
 marry him on Wednesday night at the dance. 
 
 He was very much elated and very happy. 
 
 His fellow-workmen heard of his promotion 
 and insisted on his standing treat, which he did 
 several times, until the others became flippant 
 in their remarks and careless in their conduct. 
 In this innocent but somewhat noisy state they 
 started home, and on the way were injudicious 
 enough to say, "Ah there!" to a policeman as 
 he issued from the side door of a saloon. The 
 policeman naturally pounded the nearest of 
 them on the head with his club, and as Hefty 
 happened to be that one, and as he objected, he 
 was arrested. He gave a false name, and next 
 morning pleaded not guilty to the charge of 
 
 87
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 "assaulting an officer and causing a crowd to 
 collect." 
 
 His sentence was thirty days in default of 
 three hundred dollars, and by two o'clock he 
 was on the boat to the Island, and by three he 
 had discarded the blue shirt and red suspenders 
 of an iceman for the gray stiff cloth of a prisoner. 
 He took the whole trouble terribly to heart. 
 He knew that if Old Man Casey, as he called 
 him, heard of it there would be no winning his 
 daughter with his consent, and he feared that 
 the girl herself would have grave doubts con 
 cerning him. He was especially cast down 
 when he thought of the dance on Wednesday 
 night, and of how she would go off with Patsy 
 Moffat. And what made it worse was the 
 thought that if he did not return he would lose 
 his position at the ice company's stable, and 
 then marriage with Mary would be quite im 
 possible. He grieved over this all day, and 
 speculated as to what his family would think 
 of him. His circle of friends was so well known 
 to other mutual friends that he did not dare to 
 ask any of them to bail him out, for this would 
 have certainly come to Casey's ears. 
 
 He could do nothing but wait. And yet 
 thirty days was a significant number to his 
 friends, and an absence of that duration would 
 be hard to explain. On Wednesday morning,
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 two days after his arrest, he was put to work 
 with a gang of twenty men breaking stone on 
 the roadway that leads from the insane quarters 
 to the penitentiary. It was a warm, sunny 
 day, and the city, lying just across the narrow 
 channel, never looked more beautiful. It 
 seemed near enough for him to reach out his 
 hand and touch it. And the private yachts 
 and big excursion-boats that passed, banging 
 out popular airs and alive w^ith bunting, made 
 Hefty feel very bitter. He determined that 
 when he got back he would go look up the 
 policeman who had assaulted him and break 
 his head with a brick in a stocking; This plan 
 cheered him somewhat, until he thought again 
 of Mary Casey at the dance that night with 
 Patsy M off at, and this excited him so that he 
 determined madly to break away and escape. 
 His first impulse was to drop his crowbar and 
 jump into the river on the instant, but his cooler 
 judgment decided him to wait. 
 
 At the northern end of the Island the grass 
 runs high, and there are no houses of any sort 
 upon it. It reaches out into a rocky point, 
 where it touches the still terribly swift eddies of 
 Hell Gate, and its sharp front divides the water 
 and directs it toward Astoria on the east and 
 the city on the west. Hefty determined to 
 walk off from the gang of workmen until he
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 could drop into this grass and to lie there until 
 night. This would be easy, as there was only 
 one man to watch them, for they were all there 
 for only ten days or one month, and the idea 
 that they should try to escape was hardly con 
 sidered. So Hefty edged off farther from the 
 gang, and then, while the guard was busy light 
 ing his pipe, dropped into the long grass and 
 lay there quietly, after first ridding himself of 
 his shoes and jacket. At six o'clock a bell 
 tolled and the guard marched away, with his 
 gang shambling after him. Hefty guessed they 
 would not miss him until they came to count 
 heads at supper-time; but even now it was 
 already dark, and lights were showing on the 
 opposite bank. He had selected the place he 
 meant to swim for a green bank below a row 
 of new tenements, a place where a few bushes 
 still stood, and where the boys of Harlem hid 
 their clothes when they went in swimming. 
 
 At half-past seven it was quite dark, so dark, 
 in fact, that the three lanterns which came 
 tossing toward him told Hefty that his ab 
 sence had been discovered. He rose quickly 
 and stepped cautiously, instead of diving, into 
 the river, for he was fearful of hidden rocks. 
 The current was much stronger than he had 
 imagined, and he hesitated for a moment, with 
 
 90
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 the water pulling at his knees, but only for a 
 moment; for the men were hunting for him in 
 the grass. 
 
 He drew the gray cotton shirt from his shoul 
 ders, and threw it back of him with an exclama 
 tion of disgust, and of relief at being a free man 
 again, and struck his broad, bare chest and the 
 biceps of his arms with a little gasp of pleasure 
 in their perfect strength, and then bent forward 
 and slid into the river. 
 
 The current from the opening at Hell Gate 
 caught him up as though he had been a plank. 
 It tossed him and twisted him and sucked him 
 down. He beat his way for a second to the 
 surface and gasped for breath and was drawn 
 down again, striking savagely at the eddies 
 which seemed to twist his limbs into useless, 
 heavy masses of flesh and muscle. Then he 
 dived down and down, seeking a possibly less 
 rapid current at the muddy bottom of the river; 
 but the current drew him up again until he 
 reached the top, just in time, so it seemed to 
 him, to breathe the pure air before his lungs 
 split with the awful pressure. He was gloriously 
 and fiercely excited by the unexpected strength 
 of his opponent and the probably fatal outcome 
 of his adventure. He stopped struggling, that 
 he might gain fresh strength, and let the cur 
 rent bear him where it would, until he saw that
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 it was carrying him swiftly to the shore and to 
 the rocks of the Island. And then he dived 
 again and beat his way along the bottom, 
 clutching with his hands at the soft, thick mud, 
 and rising only to gasp for breath and sink 
 again. His eyes were smarting hotly, and his 
 head and breast ached with pressure that seemed 
 to come from the inside and threatened to burst 
 its way out. His arms had grown like lead 
 and had lost their strength, and his legs were 
 swept and twisted away from his control and 
 were numb and useless. He assured himself 
 fiercely that he could not have been in the 
 water for more than five minutes at the longest, 
 and reminded himself that he had often before 
 lived in it for hours, and that this power, \vhich 
 was so much greater than his own, could not 
 outlast him. But there was no sign of abate 
 ment in the swift, cruel uncertainty of its move 
 ment, and it bore him on and down or up as it 
 pleased. The lights on the shore became indis 
 tinct, and he finally confused the two shores, 
 and gave up hope of reaching the New York 
 side, except by accident, and hoped only to 
 reach some solid land alive. He did not go 
 over all of his past life, but the vision of Mary 
 Casey did come to him, and how she would not 
 know that he had been innocent. It was a 
 little thing to distress himself about at such a 
 
 92
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 time, but it hurt him keenly. And then the 
 lights grew blurred, and he felt that he was 
 making heavy mechanical strokes that barely 
 kept his lips above the water-line. He felt the 
 current slacken perceptibly, but he was too 
 much exhausted to take advantage of it, and 
 drifted forward with it, splashing feebly like a 
 dog, and holding his head back with a desperate 
 effort. A huge, black shadow, only a shade 
 blacker than the water around him, loomed up 
 suddenly on his right, and he saw a man's face 
 appear in the light of a hatchway and disap 
 pear again. 
 
 "Help!" he cried, "help!" but his voice 
 sounded far away and barely audible. He 
 struck out desperately against the current, and 
 turned on his back and tried to keep himself 
 afloat where he was. "Help!" he called again, 
 feebly, grudging the strength . it took to call 
 even that. "Help! Quick, for God's sake! 
 help me!" 
 
 Something heavy, black, and wet struck him 
 sharply in the face and fell with a splash on 
 the water beside him. He clutched for it 
 quickly, and clasped it with both hands and 
 felt it grow taut, and then gave up thinking, 
 and they pulled him on board. 
 
 When he came to himself, the captain of the 
 canal-boat stooped and took a fold of the gray 
 
 93
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 trousers between his thumb and finger. Then 
 he raised his head and glanced across at the big 
 black Island, where lights were still moving 
 about on the shore, and whistled softly. But 
 Hefty looked at him so beseechingly that he 
 arose and came back with a pair of old boots 
 and a suit of blue jeans. 
 
 "Will you send these back to me to-mor 
 row?" he asked. 
 
 "Sure," said Hefty. 
 
 "And what'II I do with these?" said the cap 
 tain, holding up the gray trousers. 
 
 "Anything you want, except to wear 'em," 
 said Mr. Burke, feebly, with a grin. 
 
 One hour later Miss Casey was standing up 
 with Mr. Patsy MofFat for the grand march of 
 the grand ball of the Jolly Fellows' Pleasure 
 Club of the Fourteenth Ward, held at the Pal 
 ace Garden. The band was just starting the 
 "Boulanger March," and Mr. MofFat was say 
 ing wittily that it was warm enough to eat ice, 
 when Mr. Hefty Burke shouldered in between 
 him and Miss Casey. He was dressed in his 
 best suit of clothes, and his hair was conspicu 
 ously damp. 
 
 "Excuse me, Patsy," said Mr. Burke, as he 
 took Miss Casey's arm in his, "but this march 
 is promised to me. I'm sorry I was late, and 
 
 94
 
 A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER 
 
 I'm sorry to disappoint you; but you're like the 
 lad that drives the hansom cab, see? you're 
 not in it." 
 
 "But, indeed," said Miss Casey, later, "you 
 shouldn't have kept me a-waiting. It wasn't 
 civil." 
 
 "I know," assented Hefty, gloomily, "but I 
 came as soon as I could. I even went widout 
 me supper so's to get here; an* they wuz ex- 
 pectin' me to stay to supper, too."
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 HEFTY BURKE was once clubbed by a police 
 man named McCIuire, who excused the club 
 bing to his Honor by swearing that Hefty had 
 been drunk and disorderly, which was not true. 
 Hefty got away from the Island by swimming 
 the East River, and swore to get even with the 
 policeman. This story tells how he got even. 
 
 Mr. Carstairs was an artist who had made 
 his first great success by painting figures and 
 landscapes in Brittany. He had a studio at 
 Fifty-eighth Street and Sixth Avenue, and was 
 engaged on an historical subject in which there 
 were three figures. One was a knight in full 
 armor, and the other was a Moor, and the third 
 was the figure of a woman. The suit of armor 
 had been purchased by Mr. Carstairs in Paris, 
 and was believed to have been worn by a brave 
 nobleman, one of whose extravagant descend 
 ants had sold everything belonging to his family 
 in order to get money with which to play bac 
 carat. Carstairs was at the sale and paid a 
 large price for the suit of armor which the 
 Marquis de Neuville had worn, and set it up 
 in a corner of his studio. It was in eight or a 
 
 06
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 dozen pieces, and quite heavy, but was wonder 
 fully carved and inlaid with silver, and there 
 were dents on it that showed where a Saracen's 
 scimitar had been dulled and many a brave 
 knight's spear had struck. Mr. Carstairs had 
 paid so much for it that he thought he ought 
 to make a better use of it, if possible, than sim 
 ply to keep it dusted and show it off to his 
 friends. So he began this historical picture, 
 and engaged Hefty Burke to pose as the knight 
 and wear the armor. Hefty 's features were not 
 exactly the sort of features you would imagine a 
 Marquis de Neuville would have; but as his 
 visor was down in the picture, it did not make 
 much material difference; and as his figure was 
 superb, he answered very well. Hefty drove an 
 ice-wagon during business hours, and, as a per 
 sonal favor to Mr. Carstairs, agreed to pose 
 for him, for a consideration, two afternoons of 
 each week, and to sleep in the studio at night, 
 for it was filled with valuable things. 
 
 The armor was a never-ending source of 
 amazement and bewilderment to Hefty. He 
 could not understand why a man would wear 
 such a suit, and especially when he went out 
 to fight. It was the last thing in the world he 
 would individually have selected in which to 
 make war. 
 
 "Ef I was goin' to scrap wid anybody," he 
 97
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 said to Mr. Carstairs, "I'd as lief tie meself up 
 wid dumb-bells as take to carry all this stuff on 
 me. A man wid a baseball bat and swimmin' 
 tights on could dance all around youse and 
 knock spots out of one of these things. The 
 other lad wouldn't be in it. Why, before he 
 could lift his legs or get his hands up you cud 
 hit him on his helmet, and he wouldn't know 
 what killed him. They must hev sat down to 
 fight in them days." 
 
 Mr. Carstairs painted on in silence and smiled 
 grimly. 
 
 "I'd like to have seen a go with the parties 
 fixed out in a pair of these things," continued 
 Hefty. "I'd bet on the lad that got in the 
 first whack. He wouldn't have to do nothing 
 but shove the other one over on his back and 
 fall on him. Why, I guess this weighs half a 
 ton if it weighs an ounce !" 
 
 For all his contempt, Hefty had a secret ad 
 miration for the ancient marquis who had worn 
 this suit, and had been strong enough to carry 
 its weight and demolish his enemies besides. 
 The marks on the armor interested him greatly, 
 and he was very much impressed one day when 
 he found what he declared to be blood-stains 
 on the lining of the helmet. 
 
 "I guess the old feller that wore this was a 
 sport, eh?" he said, proudly, shaking the pieces 
 
 98
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 on his arms until they rattled. "I guess he 
 done 'em up pretty well for all these handicaps. 
 I'll bet when he got to falling around on 'em 
 and butting 'em with this fire helmet he made 
 'em purty tired. Don't youse think so?" 
 
 Young Carstairs said he didn't doubt it for a 
 moment. 
 
 The Small Hours Social Club was to give a 
 prize masquerade ball at the Palace Garden on 
 New Year's Night, and Hefty had decided to 
 go. Every gentleman dancer was to get a 
 white silk badge with a gold tassel, and every 
 committeeman received a blue badge with 
 *' Committee" written across it in brass letters. 
 It cost three dollars to be a committeeman, but 
 only one dollar "for self and lady." There were 
 three prizes. One of a silver water-pitcher for 
 the "handsomest-costumed lady dancer," an 
 accordion for the "best-dressed gent," and a 
 cake for the most original idea in costume, 
 whether worn by "gent or lady." Hefty, as 
 well as many others, made up his mind to get 
 the accordion, if it cost him as much as seven 
 dollars, which was half of his week's wages. It 
 wasn't the prize he wanted so much, but he 
 thought of the impression it would make on 
 Miss Casey, whose father was the well-known 
 janitor of that name. They had been engaged 
 for some time, but the engagement hung fire, 
 
 99
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 and Hefty thought that a becoming and appro 
 priate costume might hasten matters a little. 
 He was undecided as to whether he should go 
 as an Indian or as a courtier of the time of 
 Charles II. Auchmuty Stein, of the Bowery, 
 who supplies costumes and wigs at reasonable 
 rates, was of the opinion that a neat sailor suit 
 of light blue silk and decorated with white 
 anchors was about the "brettiest thing in the 
 shop, and sheap at fife dollars"; but Hefty said 
 he never saw a sailor in silk yet, and he didn't 
 think they ever wore it. He couldn't see how 
 they could keep the tar and salt-water from 
 ruining it. 
 
 The Charles II. court suit was very handsome, 
 and consisted of red cotton tights, blue velvet 
 een doublet, and a blue cloak lined with pale 
 pink silk. A yellow wig went with this, and a 
 jewelled sword which would not come out of the 
 scabbard. It could be had for seven dollars a 
 night. Hefty was still in doubt about it and 
 was much perplexed. Auchmuty Stein told 
 him Charlie Macklin, the Third Avenue ticket- 
 chopper, was after the same suit, and that he 
 had better take it while he could get it. But 
 Hefty said he'd think about it. The next day 
 was his day for posing, and as he stood arrayed 
 in the Marquis de Neuville's suit of mail he 
 chanced to see himself in one of the long mir- 
 
 100
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 rors, and was for the first time so struck with 
 the ferocity of his appearance that he deter 
 mined to see if old man Stein had not a suit of 
 imitation armor, which would not be so heavy 
 and would look as well. But the more Hefty 
 thought of it, the more he believed that only 
 the real suit would do. Its associations, its 
 blood-stains, and the real silver tracings haunted 
 him, and he half decided to ask Mr. Carstairs 
 to lend it to him. 
 
 But then he remembered overhearing Car- 
 stairs tell a brother-artist that he had paid two 
 thousand francs for it, and, though he did not 
 know how much a franc might be, two thou 
 sand of anything was too much to wear around 
 at a masquerade ball. But the thing haunted 
 him. He was sure if Miss Casey saw him in 
 that suit she would never look at Charlie Mack- 
 lin again. 
 
 "They wouldn't be in the same town with 
 me," said Hefty. "And I'd get two of the 
 prizes, sure." 
 
 He was in great perplexity, when good luck or 
 bad luck settled it for him. 
 
 "Burke," said Mr. Carstairs, "Mrs. Carstairs 
 and I are going out of town for New Year's 
 Day, and will be gone until Sunday. Take a 
 turn through the rooms each night, will you? as 
 well as the studio, and see that everything is 
 
 101
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 all right." That clinched the matter for Hefty. 
 He determined to go as far as the Palace Gar 
 den as the Marquis de Neuville, and say noth 
 ing whatever to Mr. Carstairs about it. 
 
 Stuff McGovern, who drove a night-hawk and 
 who was a particular admirer of Hefty's, even 
 though as a cabman he was in a higher social 
 scale than the driver of an ice-cart, agreed to 
 carry Hefty and his half-ton of armor to the 
 Garden, and call for him when the ball was 
 over. 
 
 "Holee smoke!" gasped Mr. McGovern, as 
 Hefty stumbled heavily across the pavement 
 with an overcoat over his armor and his helmet 
 under his arm. "Do you expect to do much 
 dancing in that sheet-iron?" 
 
 "It's the looks of the thing I'm gambling 
 on," said Hefty. "I look like a locomoteeve 
 when I get this stovepipe on me head." 
 
 Hefty put on his helmet in the cab and pulled 
 down the visor, and when he alighted the crowd 
 around the door was too greatly awed to jeer, 
 but stood silent with breathless admiration. 
 He had great difficulty in mounting the some 
 what steep flight of stairs which led to the danc 
 ing-room, and considered gloomily that in the 
 event of a fire he would have a very small 
 chance of getting out alive. He made so much 
 noise coming up that the committeemen thought 
 
 1 02
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 some one was rolling some one else down the 
 stairs, and came out to see the fight. They 
 observed Hefty's approach with whispered awe 
 and amazement. 
 
 "Wot are you?" asked the man at the 
 door. "Youse needn't give your real name," 
 he explained, politely. " But you've got to 
 give something if youse are trying for a prize, 
 see?" 
 
 "I'm the Black Knight," said Hefty in a 
 hoarse voice, "the Marquis de Newveal; and 
 when it comes to scrappin' wid der perlice, I'm 
 de best in der business." 
 
 This last statement was entirely impromptu, 
 and inspired by the presence of Policeman Mc- 
 Cluire, who, with several others, had been de 
 tailed to keep order. McCIuire took this chal 
 lenge calmly, and looked down and smiled at 
 Hefty's feet. 
 
 "He looks like a stove on two legs," he said 
 to the crowd. The crowd, as a matter of pol 
 icy, laughed. 
 
 fe You'll look like a fool standing on his head 
 in a snow-bank if you talk impudent to me," 
 said Hefty, epigrammatically, from behind the 
 barrier of his iron mask. What might have 
 happened next did not happen, because at that 
 moment the music sounded for the grand 
 march, and Hefty and the policeman were 
 
 103
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 swept apart by the crowd of Indians, Mexicans, 
 courtiers, negro minstrels, and clowns. Hefty 
 stamped across the w r axed floor about as lightly 
 as a safe could do it if a safe could walk. He 
 found Miss Casey after the march and disclosed 
 his identity. She promised not to tell, and was 
 plainly delighted and flattered at being seen 
 with the distinct sensation of the ball. "Say, 
 Hefty," she said, "they just ain't in it with 
 you. You'll take the two prizes sure. How do 
 I look?" 
 
 "Out o' sight," said Hefty. "Never saw 
 you lookin' better." 
 
 ' That's good," said Miss Casey, simply, 
 and with a sigh of satisfaction. 
 
 Hefty was undoubtedly a great success. The 
 men came around him and pawed him, and felt 
 the dents in the armor, and tried the weight of 
 it by holding up one of his arms, and handled 
 him generally as though he were a freak in a 
 museum. "Let 'em alone," said Hefty to Miss 
 Casey, "I'm not sayin' a word. Let the judges 
 get on to the sensation I'm a-makin', and I'll 
 walk off with the prizes. The crowd is wid me 
 
 sure." 
 
 At midnight the judges pounded on a table 
 for order, and announced that after much de 
 bate they gave the first prize to Miss Lizzie 
 Cannon, of Hester Street, for "having the most 
 
 104
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 handsomest costume on the floor, that of Co 
 lumbia." The fact that Mr. "Buck" Masters, 
 who was one of the judges, and who was en 
 gaged to Miss Cannon, had said that he would 
 pound things out of the other judges if they 
 gave the prize elsewhere was not known, but 
 the decision met with as general satisfaction as 
 could well be expected. 
 
 "The second prize," said the judges, "goes to 
 the gent calling himself the Black Knight him 
 in the iron leggings and the other prize for 
 the most original costume goes to him, too." 
 Half the crowd cheered at this, and only one 
 man hissed. Hefty, filled with joy and with 
 the anticipation of the elegance the ice-pitcher 
 would lend to his flat when he married Miss 
 Casey, and how conveniently he could fill it, 
 turned on this gentleman and told him that 
 only geese hissed. 
 
 The gentleman, who had spent much time on 
 his costume, and who had been assured by 
 each judge on each occasion that evening when 
 he had treated him to beer that he would get 
 the prize, told Hefty to go lie down. It has 
 never been explained just what horrible insult 
 lies back of this advice, but it is a very danger 
 ous thing to tell a gentleman to do. Hefty 
 lifted one foot heavily and bore down on the 
 disappointed masker like an ironclad in a heavy 
 
 105
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 sea. But before he could reach him Policeman 
 McCIuire, mindful of the insult put upon him 
 by this stranger, sprang between them and said: 
 "Here, now, no scrapping here; get out of this," 
 and shoved Hefty back with his hand. Hefty 
 uttered a mighty howl of wrath and long- 
 cherished anger, and lurched forward, but be 
 fore he could reach his old-time enemy three 
 policemen had him around the arms and by 
 the leg, and he was as effectually stopped as 
 though he had been chained to the floor. 
 
 "Let go o' me," said Hefty, wildly. "You're 
 smotherin' me. Give me a fair chance at him." 
 
 But they would not give him any sort of a 
 chance. They rushed him down the steep 
 stairs, and while McCIuire ran ahead two more 
 pushed back the crowd that had surged uncer 
 tainly forward to the rescue. If Hefty had 
 declared his identity the police would have had 
 a very sad time of it; but that he must not get 
 Mr. Carstairs's two-thousand-franc suit into 
 trouble was all that filled Hefty's mind, and all 
 that he wanted was to escape. Three police 
 men walked with him down the street. They 
 said they knew where he lived, and that they 
 were only going to take him home. They said 
 this because they were afraid the crowd would 
 interfere if it imagined Hefty was being led to 
 the precinct station-house. 
 
 1 06
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 But Hefty knew where he was going as soon 
 as he turned the next corner and was started off 
 in the direction of the station-house. There 
 was still quite a small crowd at his heels, and 
 Stuff McGovern was driving along at the side 
 anxious to help, but fearful to do anything, as 
 Hefty had told him not to let any one know 
 who his fare had been and that his incognito 
 must be preserved. 
 
 The blood rushed to Hefty's head like hot 
 liquor. To be arrested for nothing, and by 
 that thing McCIuire, and to have the noble 
 coat-of-mail of the Marquis de Neuville locked 
 up in a dirty cell and probably ruined, and to 
 lose his position with Carstairs, who had always 
 treated him so well, it was terrible! It could 
 not be ! He looked through his visor; to the 
 right and to the left a policeman walked on each 
 side of him with his hand on his iron sleeve, 
 and McCIuire marched proudly before. The 
 dim lamps of McGovern's night-hawk shone at 
 the side of the procession and showed the crowd 
 trailing on behind. Suddenly Hefty threw up 
 
 his visor. "Stuff," he cried, "are youse with 
 
 ? 
 __. 
 
 He did not wait for any answer, but swung 
 back his two iron arms and then brought them 
 forward with a sweep on to the back of the necks 
 of the two policemen. They went down and 
 
 107
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 forward as if a lamp-post had fallen on them, 
 but were up again in a second. But before they 
 could rise Hefty set his teeth, and with a gurgle 
 of joy butted his iron helmet into McCIuire's 
 back and sent him flying forward into a snow 
 bank. Then he threw himself on him and 
 buried him under three hundred pounds of iron 
 and flesh and blood, and beat him with his 
 mailed hand over the head and choked the 
 snow and ice down into his throat and nos 
 trils. 
 
 "You'll club me again, will you?" he cried. 
 '' You'll send me to the Island?" The two po 
 licemen were pounding him with their night 
 sticks as effectually as though they were rap 
 ping on a door-step; and the crowd, seeing this, 
 fell on them from behind, led by Stuff McGov- 
 ern with his whip, and rolled them in the snow 
 and tried to tear off their coat-tails, which 
 means money out of the policeman's own pocket 
 for repairs, and hurts more than broken ribs, 
 as the Police Benefit Society pays for them. 
 
 "Now then, boys, get me into a cab," cried 
 Hefty. They lifted him in and obligingly blew 
 out the lights so that the police could not see its 
 number, and Stuff drove Hefty proudly home. 
 "I guess I'm even with that cop now," said 
 Hefty as he stood at the door of the studio 
 building, perspiring and happy; "but if them 
 
 1 08
 
 HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN 
 
 cops ever find out who the Black Knight was, 
 I'll go away for six months on the Island. I 
 guess," he added, thoughtfully, "I'll have to 
 give them two prizes up."
 
 VAN BIBBER AND THE 
 SWAN-BOATS 
 
 IT was very hot in the Park, and young Van 
 Bibber, who has a good heart and a great deal 
 more money than good-hearted people gener 
 ally get, was cross and somnolent. He had 
 told his groom to bring a horse he wanted to 
 try to the Fifty-ninth Street entrance at ten 
 o'clock and the groom had not appeared. 
 Hence Van Bibber's crossness. 
 
 He waited as long as his dignity would allow, 
 and then turned off into a by-lane and dropped 
 on a bench and looked gloomily at the Lohen 
 grin swans with the paddle-wheel attachment 
 that circle around the lake. They struck him 
 as the most idiotic inventions he had ever seen, 
 and he pitied, with the pity of a man who con 
 templates crossing the ocean to be measured 
 for his fall clothes, the people who could find 
 delight in having some one paddle them around 
 an artificial lake. 
 
 Two little girls from the East Side, with a 
 lunch basket, and an older girl with her hair 
 down her back, sat down on a bench beside him 
 and gazed at the swans. 
 
 The place was becoming too popular, and 
 no
 
 VAN BIBBER AND THE SWAN-BOATS 
 
 Van Bibber decided to move on. But the 
 bench on which he sat was in the shade, and 
 the asphalt walk leading to the street was in 
 the sun, and his cigarette was soothing, so he 
 ignored the near presence of the three little 
 girls, and remained where he was. 
 
 "I s'pose," said one of the two little girls, in 
 a high, public school voice, "there's lots to see 
 from those swan-boats that youse can't see 
 from the banks." 
 
 "Oh, lots," assented the girl with long hair. 
 
 "If you walked all round the lake, clear all 
 the way round, you could see all there is to 
 see," said the third, "except what there's in 
 the middle where the island is." 
 
 "I guess it's mighty wild on that island," 
 suggested the youngest. 
 
 "Eddie Case he took a trip around the lake 
 on a swan-boat the other day. He said that it 
 was grand. He said youse could see fishes and 
 ducks, and that it looked just as if there were 
 snakes and things on the island." 
 
 "What sort of things?" asked the other one, 
 in a hushed voice. 
 
 ' Well, wild things," explained the elder, 
 vaguely; "bears and animals like that, that 
 grow in wild places." 
 
 Van Bibber lit a fresh cigarette, and settled 
 himself comfortably and unreservedly to listen. 
 
 in
 
 VAN BIBBER AND THE SWAN-BOATS 
 
 "My, but I'd like to take a trip just once," 
 said the youngest, under her breath. Then she 
 clasped her fingers together and looked up 
 anxiously at the elder girl, who glanced at her 
 with severe reproach. 
 
 "Why, Mame I" she said; "ain't you ashamed! 
 Ain't you having a good time 'nuff without 
 wishing for everything you set your eyes on?" 
 
 Van Bibber wondered at this why humans 
 should want to ride around on the swans in the 
 first place, and why, if they had such a wild 
 desire, they should not gratify it. 
 
 "Why, it costs more'n it costs to come all 
 the way up- town in an open car," added the 
 elder girl, as if in answer to his unspoken ques 
 tion. 
 
 The younger girl sighed at this, and nodded 
 her head in submission, but blinked longingly 
 at the big swans and the parti-colored awning 
 and the red seats. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Van Bibber, ad 
 dressing himself uneasily to the eldest girl with 
 long hair, "but if the little girl would like to go 
 around in one of those things, and and hasn't 
 brought the change with her, you know, I'm 
 sure I should be very glad if she'd allow me to 
 send her around." 
 
 "Oh ! will you?" exclaimed the little girl, with 
 a jump, and so sharply and in such a shrill 
 
 112
 
 VAN BIBBER AND THE SWAN-BOATS 
 
 voice that Van Bibber shuddered. But the 
 elder girl objected. 
 
 "I'm afraid maw wouldn't like our taking 
 money from any one we didn't know," she said 
 with dignity; "but if you're going anyway and 
 want company " 
 
 "Oh! my, no," said Van Bibber, hurriedly. 1 
 He tried to picture himself riding around the 
 lake behind a tin swan with three little girls 
 from the East Side, and a lunch basket. 
 
 "Then," said the head of the trio, "we can't 
 
 go-" 
 
 There was such a look of uncomplaining ac 
 ceptance of this verdict on the part of the two 
 little girls, that Van Bibber felt uncomfortable. 
 He looked to the right and to the left, and then 
 said desperately, ' Well, come along." The 
 young man in a blue flannel shirt, who did the 
 paddling, smiled at Van Bibber's riding-breeches, 
 which were so very loose at one end and so 
 very tight at the other, and at his gloves and 
 crop. But Van Bibber pretended not to care. 
 The three little girls placed the awful lunch 
 basket on the front seat and sat on the middle 
 one, and Van Bibber cowered in the back. 
 They were hushed in silent ecstasy when it 
 started, and gave little gasps of pleasure when 
 it careened slightly in turning. It was shady 
 under the awning, and the motion was pleasant 
 
 "3
 
 VAN BIBBER AND THE SWAN-BOATS 
 
 enough, but Van Bibber was so afraid some one 
 would see him that he failed to enjoy it. 
 
 But as soon as they passed into the narrow 
 straits and were shut in by the bushes and were 
 out of sight of the people, he relaxed, and began 
 to play the host. He pointed out the fishes 
 among the rocks at the edges of the pool, and 
 the sparrows and robins bathing and ruffling 
 their feathers in the shallow water, and agreed 
 with them about the possibility of bears, and 
 even tigers, in the wild part of the island, al 
 though the glimpse of the gray helmet of a 
 Park policeman made such a supposition doubt 
 ful. 
 
 And it really seemed as though they were en 
 joying it more than he ever enjoyed a trip up 
 the Sound on a yacht or across the ocean on 
 a record-breaking steamship. It seemed long 
 enough before they got back to Van Bibber, 
 but his guests were evidently but barely satis 
 fied. Still, all the goodness in his nature would 
 not allow him to go through that ordeal again. 
 
 He stepped out of the boat eagerly and helped 
 out the girl with long hair as though she had 
 been a princess and tipped the rude young man 
 who had laughed at him, but who was perspir 
 ing now with the work he had done; and then 
 as he turned to leave the dock he came face to 
 face with A Girl He Knew and Her brother. 
 
 114
 
 VAN BIBBER AND THE SWAN -BOATS, 
 
 Her brother said, "How're you, Van Bibber? 
 Been taking a trip around the world in eighty 
 minutes?" And added in a low voice, "Intro 
 duce me to your young lady friends from Hes 
 ter Street." 
 
 "Ah, how' re you quite a surprise!" gasped 
 Van Bibber, while his late guests stared admir 
 ingly at the pretty young lady in the riding- 
 habit, and utterly refused to move on. "Been 
 taking ride on the lake," stammered Van Bib 
 ber; "most exhilarating. Young friends of 
 mine these young ladies never rode on lake, 
 so I took 'em. Did you see me?" 
 
 "Oh, yes,, we saw you," said Her brother, 
 dryly, while she only smiled at him, but so 
 kindly and with such perfect understanding 
 that Van Bibber grew red with pleasure and 
 bought three long strings of tickets for the swans 
 at some absurd discount, and gave each little 
 girl a string. 
 
 "There," said Her brother to the little ladies 
 from Hester Street, "now you can take trips 
 for a week without stopping. Don't try to 
 smuggle in any laces, and don't forget to fee the 
 smoking-room steward." 
 
 The Girl He Knew said they were walking 
 over to the stables, and that he had better go 
 get his other horse and join her, which was to 
 be his reward for taking care of the young 
 
 115
 
 w BIBBER AND THE SWAN-BOATS 
 
 ladies. And the three little girls proceeded 
 to use up the yards of tickets so industriously 
 that they were sunburned when they reached 
 the tenement, and went to bed dreaming of a 
 big white swan, and a beautiful young gentle 
 man in patent-leather riding-boots and baggy 
 breeches.
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 THERE had been a dance up-town, but 
 as Van Bibber could not find Her there, he 
 accepted young Travers's suggestion to go 
 over to Jersey City and see a "go" between 
 "Dutchy" Mack and a colored person profes 
 sionally known as the Black Diamond. They 
 covered up all signs of their evening dress with 
 their great-coats, and filled their pockets with 
 cigars, for the smoke which surrounds a ""go" 
 is trying to sensitive nostrils, and they also 
 fastened their watches to both key-chains. Alf 
 Alpin, who was acting as master of ceremonies, 
 was greatly pleased and flattered at their com 
 ing, and boisterously insisted on their sitting 
 on the platform. The fact was generally cir 
 culated among the spectators that the "two 
 gents in high hats" had come in a carriage, and 
 this and their patent-leather boots made them 
 objects of keen interest. It was even whispered 
 that they were the "parties" who were putting 
 up the money to back the Black Diamond 
 against the "Hester Street Jackson." This in 
 itself entitled them to respect. Van Bibber 
 was asked to hold the watch, but he wisely 
 
 117
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 declined the honor, which was given to Andy 
 Spielman, the sporting reporter of the Track 
 and Ring, whose watch-case was covered with 
 diamonds, and was just the sort of a watch a 
 timekeeper should hold. 
 
 It was two o'clock before "Dutchy" Mack's 
 backer threw the sponge into the air, and three 
 before they reached the city. They had an 
 other reporter in the cab with them besides the 
 gentleman who had bravely held the watch in 
 the face of several offers to "do for" him; and 
 as Van Bibber was ravenously hungry, and as 
 he doubted that he could get anything at that 
 hour at the club, they accepted Spielman's in 
 vitation and went for a porterhouse steak and 
 onions at the Owl's Nest, Gus McGowan's all- 
 night restaurant on Third Avenue. 
 
 It was a very dingy, dirty place, but it was 
 as warm as the engine-room of a steamboat, 
 and the steak was perfectly done and tender. 
 It was too late to go to bed, so they sat around 
 the table, with their chairs tipped back and 
 their knees against its edge. The two club men 
 had thrown off their great-coats, and their wide 
 shirt fronts and silk facings shone grandly in 
 the smoky light of the oil lamps and the red 
 glow from the grill in the corner. They talked 
 about the life the reporters led, and the Philis 
 tines asked foolish questions, which the gentle- 
 
 118
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 man of the press answered without showing 
 them how foolish they were. 
 
 "And I suppose you have all sorts of curious 
 adventures," said Van Bibber, tentatively. 
 
 "Well, no, not what I would call adventures," 
 said one of the reporters. "I have never seen 
 anything that could not be explained or attrib 
 uted directly to some known cause, such as 
 crime or poverty or drink. You may think at 
 first that you have stumbled on something 
 strange and romantic, but it comes to nothing. 
 You would suppose that in a great city like this 
 one would come across something that could 
 not be explained away something mysterious 
 or out of the common, like Stevenson's Suicide 
 Club. But I have not found it so. Dickens 
 once told James Payn that the most curious 
 thing he ever saw in his rambles around London 
 was a ragged man who stood crouching under 
 the window of a great house where the owner 
 was giving a ball. While the man hid beneath 
 a window on the ground floor, a woman wonder 
 fully dressed and very beautiful raised the sash 
 from the inside and dropped her bouquet down 
 into the man's hand, and he nodded and stuck 
 it under his coat and ran off with it. 
 
 "I call that, now, a really curious thing to 
 see. But I have never come across anything 
 like it, and I have been in every part of this 
 
 119
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 big city, and at every hour of the night and 
 morning, and I am not lacking in imagination 
 either, but no captured maidens have ever 
 beckoned to me from barred windows nor 
 * white hands waved from a passing hansom/ 
 Balzac and De Musset and Stevenson suggest 
 that they have had such adventures, but they 
 never come to me. It is all commonplace and 
 vulgar, and always ends in a police court or 
 with a 'found drowned* in the North River." 
 
 McGowan, who had fallen into a doze behind 
 the bar, woke suddenly and shivered and rubbed 
 his shut-sleeves briskly. A woman knocked at 
 the side door and begged for a drink "for the 
 love of heaven," and the man who tended the 
 grill told her to be off. They could hear her 
 feeling her way against the wall and cursing as 
 she staggered out of the alley. Three men came 
 in with a hack driver and wanted everybody 
 to drink with them, and became insolent when 
 the gentlemen declined, and were in consequence 
 'hustled out one at a time by McGowan, who 
 went to sleep again immediately, with his head 
 resting among the cigar boxes and pyramids of 
 glasses at the back of the bar, and snored. 
 
 "You see," said the reporter, "it is all like 
 this. Night in a great city is not picturesque 
 and it is not theatrical. It is sodden, some 
 times brutal, exciting enough until you get 
 
 120
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 used to it, but it runs in a groove. It is dra 
 matic, but the plot is old and the motives and 
 characters always the same." 
 
 The rumble of heavy market wagons and the 
 rattle of milk carts told them that it was morn 
 ing, and as they opened the door the cold fresh 
 air swept into the place and made them wrap 
 their collars around their throats and stamp 
 their feet. The morning wind swept down the 
 cross-street from the East River and the lights 
 of the street lamps and of the saloon looked old 
 and tawdry. Travers and the reporter went off 
 to a Turkish bath, and the gentleman who held 
 the watch, and who had been asleep for the 
 last hour, dropped into a night-hawk and told 
 the man to drive home. It was almost clear 
 now and very cold, and Van Bibber determined 
 to walk. He had the strange feeling one gets 
 when one stays up until the sun rises, of having 
 lost a day somewhere, and the dance he had 
 attended a few hours before seemed to have 
 come off long ago, and the fight in Jersey City 
 was far back in the past. 
 
 The houses along the cross-street through 
 which he walked were as dead as so many blank 
 walls, and only here and there a lace curtain 
 waved out of the open window where some 
 honest citizen was sleeping. The street was 
 quite deserted; not even a cat or a policeman 
 
 121
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 moved on it and Van Bibber's footsteps sounded 
 brisk on the sidewalk. There was a great house 
 at the corner of the avenue and the cross-street 
 on which he was walking. The house faced the 
 avenue and a stone wall ran back to the brown 
 stone stable which opened on the side street. 
 There was a door in this wall, and as Van Bib 
 ber approached it on his solitary walk it opened 
 cautiously, and a man's head appeared in it 
 for an instant and was withdrawn again like a 
 flash, and the door snapped to. Van Bibber 
 stopped and looked at the door and at the 
 house and up and down the street. The house 
 was tightly closed, as though some one was 
 lying inside dead, and the streets were still 
 empty. 
 
 Van Bibber could think of nothing in his ap 
 pearance so dreadful as to frighten an honest 
 man, so he decided the face he had had a 
 glimpse of must belong to a dishonest one. It 
 was none of his business, he assured himself, 
 but it was curious, and he liked adventure, and 
 he would have liked to prove his friend the re 
 porter, who did not believe in adventure, in 
 the wrong. So he approached the door si 
 lently, and jumped and caught at the top of 
 the wall and stuck one foot on the handle of 
 the door, and, with the other on the knocker, 
 drew himself up and looked cautiously down 
 
 122
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 on the other side. He had done this so lightly 
 that the only noise he made was the rattle of 
 the door-knob on which his foot had rested, 
 and the man inside thought that the one out 
 side was trying to open the door, and placed 
 his shoulder to it and pressed against it heavily. 
 Van Bibber, from his perch on the top of the 
 wall, looked down directly on the other's head 
 and shoulders. He could see the top of the 
 man's head only two feet below, and he also 
 saw that in one hand he held a revolver and 
 that two bags filled with projecting articles of 
 different sizes lay at his feet. 
 
 It did not need explanatory notes to tell 
 Van Bibber that the man below had robbed the 
 big house on the corner, and that if it had not 
 been for his having passed when he did the bur 
 glar would have escaped with his treasure. His 
 first thought was that he was not a policeman, 
 and that a fight with a burglar was not in his 
 line of life; and this was followed by the thought 
 that though the gentleman who owned the 
 property in the two bags was of no interest to 
 him, he was, as a respectable member of society, 
 more entitled to consideration than the man 
 with the revolver. 
 
 The fact that he was now, whether he liked 
 it or not, perched on the top of the wall like 
 Humpty Dumpty, and that the burglar might 
 
 123
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 see him and shoot him the next minute, had 
 also an immediate influence on his movements. 
 So he balanced himself cautiously and noise 
 lessly and dropped upon the man's head and 
 shoulders, bringing him down to the flagged 
 walk with him and under him. The revolver 
 went off once in the struggle, but before the 
 burglar could know how or from where his 
 assailant had come, Van Bibber was standing 
 up over him and had driven his heel down on 
 his hand and kicked the pistol out of his fingers. 
 Then he stepped quickly to where it lay and 
 picked it up and said, "Now, if you try to get 
 up I'll shoot at you." He felt an unwarranted 
 and ill-timedly humorous inclination to add, 
 "and I'll probably miss you," but subdued it. 
 The burglar, much to Van Bibber's astonish 
 ment, did not attempt to rise, but sat up with 
 his hands locked across his knees and said: 
 "Shoot ahead. I'd a damned sight rather you 
 would." 
 
 His teeth were set and his face desperate and 
 bitter, and hopeless to a degree of utter hope 
 lessness that Van Bibber had never imagined. 
 
 "Go ahead," reiterated the man, doggedly, 
 "I won't move. Shoot me." 
 
 It was a most unpleasant situation. Van 
 Bibber felt the pistol loosening in his hand, 
 and he was conscious of a strong inclination to 
 
 124
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 lay it down and ask the burglar to tell him all 
 about it. 
 
 "You haven't got much heart," said Van 
 Bibber, finally. '' You're a pretty poor sort of 
 a burglar, I should say." 
 
 "What's the use?" said the man, fiercely. 
 "I won't go back I won't go back there alive. 
 I've served my time forever in that hole. If I 
 have to go back again s'help me if I don't do 
 for a keeper and die for it. But I won't serve 
 there no more." 
 
 "Go back where?" asked Van Bibber, gently, 
 and greatly interested; "to prison?" 
 
 "To prison, yes!" cried the man, hoarsely: 
 "to a grave. That's where. Look at my 
 face," he said, "and look at my hair. That 
 ought to tell you where I've been. With all 
 the color gone out of my skin, and all the life 
 out of my legs. You needn't be afraid of me. 
 I couldn't hurt you if I wanted to. I'm a 
 skeleton and a baby, I am. I couldn't kill a 
 cat. And now you're going to send me back 
 again for another lifetime. For twenty years, 
 this time, into that cold, forsaken hole, and 
 after I done my time so well and worked so 
 hard." Van Bibber shifted the pistol from one 
 hand to the other and eyed his- prisoner doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 "How long have you been out?" he asked, 
 125
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 seating himself on the steps of the kitchen and 
 holding the revolver between his knees. The 
 sun was driving the morning mist away, and 
 he had forgotten the cold. 
 
 "I got out yesterday," said the man. 
 
 Van Bibber glanced at the bags and lifted 
 the revolver. ''You didn't waste much time," 
 he said. 
 
 "No," answered the man, sullenly, "no, I 
 didn't. I knew this place and I wanted money 
 to get West to my folks, and the Society said 
 I'd have to wait until I earned it, and I couldn't 
 wait. I haven't seen my wife for seven years, 
 nor my daughter. Seven years, young man; 
 think of that seven years. Do you know how 
 long that is? Seven years without seeing your 
 wife or your child ! And they're straight peo 
 ple, they are," he added, hastily. "My wife 
 moved West after I was put away and took 
 another name, and my girl never knew nothing 
 about me. She thinks I'm away at sea. I was 
 to join 'em. That was the plan. I was to join 
 | 'em, and I thought I could lift enough here to 
 get the fare, and now," he added, dropping his 
 face in his hands, "I've got to go back. And 
 I had meant to live straight after I got West 
 God help me, but I did ! Not that it makes 
 much difference now. An' I don't care whether 
 you believe it or not neither," he added, fiercely. 
 
 126
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 "I didn't say whether I believed it or not," 
 answered Van Bibber, with grave consideration. 
 
 He eyed the man for a brief space without 
 speaking, and the burglar looked back at him, 
 doggedly and defiantly, and with not the faint 
 est suggestion of hope in his eyes, or of appeal 
 for mercy. Perhaps it was because of this 
 fact, or perhaps it was the wife and child that 
 moved Van Bibber, but whatever his motives 
 were, he acted on them promptly. "I suppose, 
 though," he said, as though speaking to him 
 self, "that I ought to give you up." 
 
 "I'll never go back alive," said the burglar, 
 quietly. 
 
 "Well, that's bad, too," said Van Bibber. 
 "Of course I don't know whether you're lying 
 or not, and as to your meaning to live honestly, 
 I very much doubt it; but I'll give you a ticket 
 to wherever your wife is, and I'll see you on the 
 train. And you can get off at the next station 
 and rob my house to-morrow night, if you feel 
 that way about it. Throw those bags inside 
 that door where the servant will see them be 
 fore the milkman does, and walk on out ahead 
 of me, and keep your hands in your pockets, 
 and don't try to run. I have your pistol, you 
 know." 
 
 The man placed the bags inside the kitchen 
 door; and, with a doubtful look at his custodian, 
 
 127
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 stepped out into the street, and walked, as he 
 was directed to do, toward the Grand Central 
 station. Van Bibber kept just behind him, 
 and kept turning the question over in his mind 
 as to what he ought to do. He felt very guilty 
 as he passed each policeman, but he recovered 
 himself when he thought of the wife and child 
 who lived in the West, and who were " straight." 
 
 "Where to?" asked Van Bibber, as he stood 
 at the ticket-office window. "Helena, Mon 
 tana," answered the man with, for the first 
 time, a look of relief. Van Bibber bought the 
 ticket and handed it to the burglar. "I sup 
 pose you know," he said, "that you can sell that 
 at a place down- town for half the money." 
 "Yes, I know that," said the burglar. There 
 was a half-hour before the train left, and Van 
 Bibber took his charge into the restaurant and 
 watched him eat everything placed before him, 
 with his eyes glancing all the while to the right 
 or left. Then Van Bibber gave him some 
 money and told him to write to him, and shook 
 hands with him. The man nodded eagerly and 
 pulled off his hat as the car drew out of the sta* 
 tion; and Van Bibber came down- town again 
 with the shop girls and clerks going to jvork, 
 still wondering if he had done the right thing. 
 
 He went to his rooms and changed his clothes, 
 took a cold bath, and crossed over to Delmon- 
 
 128
 
 VAN BIBBER'S BURGLAR 
 
 !co's for his breakfast, and, while the waiter 
 laid the cloth in the cafe, glanced at the head 
 ings in one of the papers. He scanned first 
 with polite interest the account of the dance on 
 the night previous and noticed his name among 
 ; those present. With greater interest he read 
 of the fight between "Dutchy" Mack and the 
 "Black Diamond," and then he read carefully 
 how "Abe" Hubbard, alias " Jimmie the Gent," 
 a burglar, had broken jail in New Jersey, and 
 had been traced to New York. There was a 
 description of the man, and Van Bibber breathed 
 quickly as he read it. "The detectives have a 
 clew of his whereabouts," the account said; "if 
 he is still in the city they are confident of re 
 capturing him. But they fear that the same 
 friends who helped him to break jail will prob 
 ably assist him from the country or to get out 
 West." 
 
 "They may do that," murmured Van Bibber 
 to himself, with a smile of grim contentment; 
 "they probably will." 
 
 Then he said to the waiter, "Oh, I don't 
 know. Some bacon and eggs and green things 
 and coffee." 
 
 129
 
 VAN BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 YOUNG Van Bibber came up to town in 
 June from Newport to see his lawyer about the 
 preparation of some papers that needed his 
 signature. He found the city very hot and 
 close, and as dreary and as empty as a house 
 that has been shut up for some time while its 
 usual occupants are away in the country. 
 
 As he had to wait over for an afternoon train, 
 and as he was down-town, he decided to lunch 
 at a French restaurant near Washington Square, 
 where some one had told him you could get 
 particular things particularly well cooked. The 
 tables were set on a terrace with plants and 
 flowers about them, and covered with a tri- 
 colored awning. There were no jangling horse- 
 , car bells nor dust to disturb him, and almost 
 all the other tables were unoccupied. The 
 waiters leaned against these tables and chatted 
 in a French argot; and a cool breeze blew through 
 the plants and billowed the awning, so that, on 
 the whole, Van Bibber was glad he had come. 
 
 There was, beside himself, an old Frenchman 
 scolding over his late breakfast; two young art 
 ists with Van Dyke beards, who ordered the 
 
 130
 
 VAN BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 most remarkable things in the same French 
 argot that the waiters spoke; and a young lady 
 and a young gentleman at the table next to 
 his own. The young man's back was toward 
 him, and he could only see the girl when the 
 youth moved to one side. She was very young 
 and very pretty, and she seemed in a most ex 
 cited state of mind from the tip of her wide- 
 brimmed, pointed French hat to the points of 
 her patent-leather ties. She was strikingly 
 well-bred in appearance, and Van Bibber won 
 dered why she should be dining alone with so 
 young a man. 
 
 "It wasn't my fault," he heard the youth 
 say earnestly. "How could I know he would 
 be out of town? and anyway it really doesn't 
 matter. Your cousin is not the only clergyman 
 in the city." 
 
 "Of course not," said the girl, almost tear 
 fully, "but they're not my cousins and he is, 
 and that would have made it so much, oh, so 
 very much different. I'm awfully frightened!" 
 
 "Runaway couple," commented Van Bibber. 
 "Most interesting. Read about 'em often; 
 never seen 'em. Most interesting." 
 
 He bent his head over an entree, but he could 
 not help hearing what followed, for the young 
 runaways were indifferent to all around them, 
 and though he rattled his knife and fork in a
 
 VAN BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 most vulgar manner, they did not heed him 
 nor lower their voices. 
 
 "Well, what are you going to do?" said the 
 girl, severely but not unkindly. "It doesn't 
 seem to me that you are exactly rising to the 
 
 occasion." 
 
 "Well, I don't know," answered the youth, 
 easily. "We're safe here anyway. Nobody we 
 know ever comes here, and if they did they are 
 out of town now. You go on and eat some 
 thing, and PII get a directory and look up a 
 lot of clergymen's addresses, and then we can 
 make out a list and drive around in a cab until 
 we find one who has not gone off on his vaca 
 tion. We ought to be able to catch the Fall 
 River boat back at five this afternoon; then we 
 can go right on to Boston from Fall River to 
 morrow morning and run down to Narragansett 
 during the day." 
 
 "They'll never forgive us," said the girl. 
 
 "Oh, well, that's all right," exclaimed the 
 young man, cheerfully. "Really, you're the 
 most uncomfortable young person I ever ran 
 away with. One might think you were going 
 to a funeral. You were willing enough two 
 days ago, and now you don't help me at all. 
 Are you sorry?" he asked, and then added, 
 "but please don't say so, even if you are." 
 
 "No, not sorry, exactly," said the girl; "but, 
 132
 
 VAN BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 indeed, Ted, it is going to make so much talk. 
 If we only had a girl with us, or if you had a 
 best man, or if we had witnesses, as they do in 
 England, and a parish registry, or something 
 of that sort; or if Cousin Harold had only been 
 at home to do the marrying." 
 
 The young gentleman called Ted did not look, 
 judging from the expression of his shoulders, as 
 if he were having a very good time. 
 
 He picked at the food on his plate gloomily, 
 and the girl took out her handkerchief and then 
 put it resolutely back again and smiled at him. 
 The youth called the waiter and told him to 
 bring a directory, and as he turned to give the 
 order Van Bibber recognized him and he recog 
 nized Van Bibber. Van Bibber knew him for 
 a very nice boy, of a very good Boston family 
 named Standish, and the younger of two sons. 
 It was the elder who was Van Bibber's particu 
 lar friend. The girl saw nothing of this mutual 
 recognition, for she was looking with startled 
 eyes at a hansom that had dashed up the side 
 street and was turning the corner. 
 
 "Ted, O Ted!" she gasped. "It's your 
 brother. There ! In that hansom. I saw him 
 perfectly plainly. Oh, how did he find us? 
 What shall we do?" 
 
 Ted grew very red and then very white. 
 
 "Standish," said Van Bibber, jumping up 
 
 133
 
 VAN BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 and reaching for his hat, "pay this chap for 
 these things, will you, and I'll get rid of your 
 brother." 
 
 Van Bibber descended the steps lighting a 
 cigar as the elder Standish came up them on a 
 jump. 
 
 "Hello, Standish!" shouted the New Yorker. 
 "Wait a minute; where are you going? Why, 
 it seems to rain Standishes to-day ! First see 
 your brother; then I see you. What's on?" 
 
 "You've seen him?" cried the Boston man, 
 eagerly. ''Yes, and where is he? Was she 
 with him? Are they married? Am I in time?" 
 
 Van Bibber answered these different questions 
 to the effect that he had seen young Standish 
 and Mrs. Standish not half an hour before, 
 and that they were just then taking a cab for 
 Jersey City, whence they were to depart for 
 Chicago. 
 
 "The driver who brought them here, and 
 who told me where they were, said they could 
 not have left this place by the time I would 
 reach it," said the elder brother, doubtfully. 
 
 "That's so," said the driver of the cab, who 
 had listened curiously. "I brought 'em here 
 not more'n half an hour ago. Just had time to 
 get back to the depot. They can't have gone 
 long." 
 
 "Yes, but they have," said Van Bibber. 
 
 134
 
 VAN BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 "However, if you get over to Jersey City in 
 time for the 2. 30, you can reach Chicago almost 
 as soon as they do. They are going to the 
 Palmer House, they said." 
 
 'Thank you, old fellow," shouted Standish, 
 jumping back into his hansom. "It's a terrible 
 business. Pair of young fools. Nobody ob 
 jected to the marriage, only too young, you 
 know. Ever so much obliged." 
 
 "Don't mention it," said Van Bibber, politely. 
 
 "Now, then," said that young man, as he .ap 
 proached the frightened couple trembling on the 
 terrace, " I've sent your brother off to Chicago. 
 I do not know why I selected Chicago as a 
 place where one would go on a honeymoon. But 
 I'm not used to lying, and I'm not very good at 
 it. Now, if you will introduce me, I'll see what 
 can be done toward getting you two babes out 
 of the woods." 
 
 Standish said, "Miss Cambridge, this is Mr. 
 Cortlandt Van Bibber, of whom you have heard 
 my brother speak," and Miss Cambridge said 
 she was very glad to meet Mr. Van Bibber even 
 under such peculiarly trying circumstances. 
 
 "Now what you two want to do," said Van 
 Bibber, addressing them as though they were 
 just about fifteen years old and he were at 
 least forty, "is to give this thing all the pub 
 licity you can." 
 
 135
 
 VAN BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 "What?" chorussed the two runaways, in 
 violent protest. 
 
 "Certainly," said Van Bibber. "You were 
 about to make a fatal mistake. You were about 
 to go to some unknown clergyman of an un 
 known parish, who would have married you in 
 a back room, without a certificate or a witness, 
 just like any eloping farmer's daughter and 
 lightning-rod agent. Now it's different with 
 you two. Why you were not married respect 
 ably in church I don't know, and I do not 
 intend to ask, but a kind Providence has sent 
 me to you to see that there is no talk nor scan 
 dal, which is such bad form, and which would 
 have got your names into all the papers. I am 
 going to arrange this wedding properly, and 
 you will kindly remain here until I send a car 
 riage for you. Now just rely on me entirely 
 and eat your luncheon in peace. It's all going 
 to come out right and allow me to recommend 
 the salad, which is especially good." 
 
 Van Bibber first drove madly to the Little 
 Church Around the Corner, where he told the 
 kind old rector all about it, and arranged to 
 have the church open and the assistant organist 
 in her place, and a district-messenger boy to 
 blow the bellows, punctually at three o'clock. 
 "And now," he soliloquized, "I must get some 
 names. It doesn't matter much whether they 
 
 136
 
 VAN BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 happen to know the high contracting parties or 
 not, but they must be names that everybody 
 knows. Whoever is in town will be lunching 
 at Delmonico's, and the men will be at the 
 clubs." So he first went to the big restaurant, 
 where, as good luck would have it, he found 
 Mrs. "Regy" Van Arnt and Mrs. "Jack" Pea- 
 body, and the Misses Brookline, who had run 
 up the Sound for the day on the yacht Minerva 
 of the Boston Yacht Club, and he told them 
 how things were and swore them to secrecy, and 
 told them to bring what men they could pick up. 
 
 At the club he pressed four men into service 
 who knew everybody and whom everybody 
 knew, and when they protested that they had 
 not been properly invited and that they only 
 knew the bride and groom by sight, he told 
 them that made no difference, as it was only 
 their names he wanted. Then he sent a mes 
 senger boy to get the biggest suite of rooms on 
 the Fall River boat, and another one for flow 
 ers, and then he put Mrs. "Regy" Van Arnt 
 into a cab and sent her after the bride, and, as 
 best man, he got into another cab and carried 
 off the groom. 
 
 "I have acted either as best man or usher 
 forty-two times now," said Van Bibber, as they 
 drove to the church, "and this is the first time 
 I ever appeared in either capacity in Russia- 
 
 137
 
 VAN BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 leather shoes and a blue serge yachting suit. 
 But then," he added, contentedly, "you ought 
 to see the other fellows. One of them is in a 
 striped flannel." 
 
 Mrs. "Regy" and Miss Cambridge wept a 
 great deal on the way up-town, but the bride 
 was smiling and happy when she walked up the 
 aisle to meet her prospective husband, who 
 looked exceedingly conscious before the eyes of 
 the men, all of whom he knew by sight or by 
 name, and not one of whom he had ever met 
 before. But they all shook hands after it was 
 over, and the assistant organist played the 
 Wedding March, and one of the club men in 
 sisted in pulling a cheerful and jerky peal on 
 the church bell in the absence of the janitor, 
 and then Van Bibber hurled an old shoe and a 
 handful of rice which he had thoughtfully col 
 lected from the chef at the club after them as 
 they drove off to the boat. 
 
 "Now," said Van Bibber, with a proud sigh 
 of relief and satisfaction, "I will send that to 
 the papers, and when it is printed to-morrow it 
 will read like one of the most orthodox and one 
 of the smartest weddings of the season. And 
 yet I can't help thinking " 
 
 "Well?" said Mrs. "Regy," as he paused 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "Well, I can't help thinking," continued Van 
 
 138
 
 VAN BIBBER AS BEST MAN 
 
 Bibber, "of Standish's older brother racing 
 around Chicago with the thermometer at 102 
 in the shade. I wish I had only sent him to 
 Jersey City. It just shows," he added, mourn 
 fully, "that when a man is not practised in 
 lying, he should leave it alone." 
 
 139
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 GUIDO stood on the curb-stone in Fourteenth 
 Street, between Fifth Avenue and Sixth Avenue, 
 with a row of plaster figures drawn up on the 
 sidewalk in front of him. It was snowing, and 
 they looked cold in consequence, especially the 
 Night and Morning. A line of men and boys 
 stretched on either side of Guido all along the 
 curb-stone, with toys and dolls, and guns that 
 shot corks into the air with a loud report, and 
 glittering dressings for the Christmas-trees. It 
 was the day before Christmas. The man who 
 stood next in line to Guido had hideous black 
 monkeys that danced from the end of a rubber 
 string. The man danced up and down too, 
 very much, so Guido thought, as the monkeys 
 did, and stamped his feet on the icy pavement, 
 and shouted: "Here yer are, lady, for five cents. 
 Take them home to the children." There were 
 hundreds and hundreds of ladies and little girls 
 crowding by all of the time; some of them were 
 a little cross and a little tired, as if Christmas 
 shopping had told on their nerves, but the 
 greater number were happy-looking and warm, 
 and some stopped and laughed at the monkeys 
 
 140
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 dancing on the rubber strings, and at the man 
 with the frost on his mustache, who jumped 
 too, and cried, "Only five cents, lady nice 
 Christmas presents for the children." 
 
 Sometimes the ladies bought the monkeys, 
 but no one looked at the cold plaster figures of 
 St. Joseph, and Diana, and Night and Morning, 
 nor at the heads of Mars and Minerva not 
 even at the figure of the Virgin, with her two 
 hands held out, which Guido pressed in his arms 
 against his breast. 
 
 Guido had been in New York city just one 
 month. He was very young so young that he 
 had never done anything at home but sit on 
 the wharfs and watch the ships come in and 
 out of the great harbor of Genoa. He never 
 had wished to depart with these ships when 
 they sailed away, nor wondered greatly as to 
 where they went. He was content with the 
 wharfs and with the narrow streets near by, 
 and to look up from the bulkheads at the sailors 
 working in the rigging, and the 'longshoremen 
 rolling the casks on board, or lowering great 
 square boxes into the holds. 
 
 He would have liked, could he have had his 
 way, to live so for the rest of his life; but they 
 would not let him have his way, and coaxed 
 him on a ship to go to the New World to meet 
 his uncle. He was not a real uncle, but only 
 
 141
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 a make-believe one, to satisfy those who ob 
 jected to assisted immigrants, and who wished 
 to be assured against having to support Guido, 
 and others like him. But they were not half 
 so anxious to keep Guido at home as he him 
 self was to stay there. 
 
 The new uncle met him at Ellis Island, and 
 embraced him affectionately, and put him in 
 an express wagon, and drove him with a great 
 many more of his countrymen to where Mul 
 berry Street makes a bend and joins Hester. 
 And in the Bend Guido found thousands of his 
 fellows sleeping twenty in a room and over 
 crowded into the street; some who had but just 
 arrived, and others who had already learned to 
 swear in English, and had their street-cleaning 
 badges and their pedler's licenses, to show that 
 they had not been overlooked by the kindly 
 society of Tammany, which sees that no free 
 and independent voter shall go unrewarded. 
 
 New York affected Guido like a bad dream. 
 It was cold and muddy, and the snow when it 
 fell turned to mud so quickly that Guido be 
 lieved they were one and the same. He did 
 not dare to think of the place he knew as home. 
 And the sight of the colored advertisements of 
 the steamship lines that hung in the windows of 
 the Italian bankers hurt him as the sound of 
 traffic on the street cuts to the heart of a pris- 
 
 142
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 oner in the Tombs. Many of his countrymen 
 bade good-by to Mulberry Street and sailed 
 away; but they had grown rich through obeying 
 the padrones, and working night and morning 
 sweeping the Avenue up-town, and by living on 
 the refuse from the scows at Canal Street. 
 Guido never hoped to grow rich, and no one 
 stopped to buy his uncle's wares. 
 
 The electric lights came out, and still the 
 crowd passed and thronged before him, and the 
 snow fell and left no mark on the white figures. 
 Guido was growing cold, and the bustle of the 
 hurrying hundreds which had entertained him 
 earlier in the day had ceased to interest him, 
 and his amusement had given place to the fear 
 that no one of them would ever stop, and that 
 he would return to his uncle empty-handed. 
 He was hungry now, as well as cold, and though 
 there was not much rich food in the Bend at 
 any time, to-day he had had nothing of any 
 quality to eat since early morning. The man 
 with the monkeys turned his head from time to 
 time, and spoke to him in a language that he 
 could not understand; although he saw that it 
 was something amusing and well meant that 
 the man said, and so smiled back and nodded. 
 He felt it to be quite a loss when the man moved 
 away. 
 
 Guido thought very slowly, but he at last 
 143
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 began to feel a certain contempt for the stiff 
 statues and busts which no one wanted, and 
 buttoned the figure of the one of the woman 
 with her arms held out inside of his jacket, and 
 tucked his scarf in around it, so that it might 
 not be broken, and also that it might not bear 
 the ignominy with the others of being over 
 looked. Guido was a gentle, slow-thinking boy, 
 and could not have told you why he did this, 
 but he knew that this figure was of different 
 clay from the others. He had seen it placed 
 high in the cathedrals at home, and he had 
 been told that if you ask certain things of it it 
 will listen to you. 
 
 The women and children began to disappear 
 from the crowd, and the necessity of selling 
 some of his wares impressed itself more urgently 
 upon him as the night grew darker and possible 
 customers fewer. He decided that he had taken 
 up a bad position, and that instead of waiting 
 for customers to come to him, he ought to go 
 seek for them. With this purpose in his mind 
 he gathered the figures together upon his tray, 
 and, resting it upon his shoulder, moved further 
 along the street, to Broadway, where the crowd 
 was greater and the shops more brilliantly 
 lighted. He had good cause to be watchful, for 
 the sidewalks were slippery with ice, and the 
 people rushed and hurried and brushed past 
 
 144
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 him without noticing the burden he carried on 
 one shoulder. He wished now that he knew 
 some words of this new language, that he might 
 call his wares and challenge the notice of the 
 passers-by, as did the other men who shouted 
 so continually and vehemently at the hurrying 
 crowds. He did not know what might happen 
 if he failed to sell one of his statues; it was a 
 possibility so awful that he did not dare con 
 ceive of its punishment. But he could do noth 
 ing, and so stood silent, dumbly presenting his 
 tray to the people near him. 
 
 His wanderings brought him to the corner of 
 a street, and he started to cross it, in the hope 
 of better fortune in untried territory. There 
 was no need of his hurrying to do this, although 
 a car was coming toward him, so he stepped 
 carefully but surely. But as he reached the 
 middle of the track a man came toward him 
 from the opposite pavement; they met and 
 hesitated, and then both jumped to the same 
 side, and the man's shoulder struck the tray 
 and threw the white figures flying to the track, 
 where the horses tramped over them on their 
 way. Guido fell backward, frightened and 
 shaken, and the car stopped, and the driver and 
 the conductor leaned out anxiously from each 
 end. 
 
 There seemed to be hundreds of people all 
 145
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 around Guido, and some of them picked him up 
 and asked him questions in a very loud voice, as 
 though that would make the language they 
 spoke more intelligible. Two men took him by 
 each arm and talked with him in earnest tones, 
 and punctuated their questions by shaking him 
 gently. He could not answer them, but only 
 sobbed, and beat his hands softly together, and 
 looked about him for a chance to escape. The 
 conductor of the car jerked the strap violently, 
 and the car went on its way. Guido watched 
 the conductor, as he stood with his hands in his 
 pockets looking back at him. Guido had a 
 confused idea that the people on the car might 
 pay him for the plaster figures which had been 
 scattered in the slush and snow, so that the 
 heads and arms and legs lay on every side or 
 were ground into heaps of white powder. But 
 when the car disappeared into the night he 
 gave up this hope, and pulling himself free 
 from his captor, slipped through the crowd and 
 ran off into a side street. A man who had seen 
 the accident had been trying to take up a col 
 lection in the crowd, which had grown less sym 
 pathetic and less numerous in consequence, and 
 had gathered more than the plaster casts were 
 worth; but Guido did not know this, and when 
 they came to look for him he was gone, and the 
 bareheaded gentleman, with his hat full of cop- 
 
 146
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 pers and dimes, was left in much embarrass 
 ment. 
 
 Guido walked to Washington Square, and sat 
 down on a bench to rest, and then curled over 
 quickly, and, stretching himself out at full 
 length, wept bitterly. When any one passed he 
 held his breath and pretended to be asleep. He 
 did not know what he was to do or where he 
 was to go. Such a calamity as this had never 
 entered into his calculations of the evils which 
 might overtake him, and it overwhelmed him 
 utterly. A policeman touched him with his 
 night-stick, and spoke to him kindly enough, 
 but the boy only backed away from the man 
 until he was out of his reach, and then ran on 
 again, slipping and stumbling on the ice and 
 snow. He ran to Christopher Street, through 
 Greenwich Village, and on to the wharfs. 
 
 It was quite late, and he had recovered from 
 his hunger, and only felt a sick tired ache at his 
 heart. His feet were heavy and numb, and he 
 was very sleepy. People passed him continu 
 ally, and doors opened into churches and into 
 noisy, glaring saloons and crowded shops, but 
 it did not seem possible to him that there could 
 be any relief from any source for the sorrow 
 that had befallen him. It seemed too awful, 
 and as impossible to mend as it would be to 
 bring the crushed plaster into shape again. He 
 
 147
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 considered dully that his uncle would miss him 
 and wait for him, and that his anger would in 
 crease with every moment of his delay. He 
 felt that he could never return to his uncle again. 
 
 Then he came to another park, opening into 
 a square, with lighted saloons on one side, and 
 on the other great sheds, with ships lying beside 
 them, and the electric lights showing their spars 
 and masts against the sky. It had ceased snow 
 ing, but the air from the river was piercing and 
 cold, and swept through the wires overhead 
 with a ceaseless moaning. The numbness had 
 crept from his feet up over the whole extent of 
 his little body, and he dropped upon a flight of 
 steps back of a sailors' boarding-house, and 
 shoved his hands inside of his jacket for possible 
 warmth. His fingers touched the figure he had 
 hidden there and closed upon it lightly, and 
 then his head dropped back against the wall, 
 and he fell into a heavy sleep. The night 
 passed on and grew colder, and the wind came 
 across the ice-blocked river with shriller, sharper 
 blasts, but Guido did not hear it. 
 
 "Chuckey" Martin, who blacked boots in 
 front of the corner saloon in summer and swept 
 out the barroom in winter, came out through 
 the family entrance and dumped a pan of hot 
 ashes into the snow-bank, and then turned into 
 the house with a shiver. He saw a mass of 
 
 148
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 something lying curled up on the steps of the 
 next house, and remembered it after he had 
 closed the door of the family entrance behind 
 him and shoved the pan under the stove. He 
 decided at last that it might be one of the sa 
 loon's customers, or a stray sailor with loose 
 change in his pockets, which he would not miss 
 when he awoke. So he went out again, and 
 picking Guido up, brought him in in his arms 
 and laid him out on, the floor. 
 
 There were over thirty men in the place; they 
 had been celebrating the coming of Christmas; 
 and three of them pushed each other out of the 
 way in their eagerness to pour very bad brandy 
 between Guide's teeth. "Chuckey" Martin 
 felt a sense of proprietorship in Guido, by the 
 right of discovery, and resented this, pushing 
 them away, and protesting that the thing to do 
 was to rub his feet with snow. 
 
 A fat, oily chief engineer of an Italian tramp 
 steamer dropped on his knees beside Guido and 
 beat the boy's hands, and with unsteady fingers 
 tore open his scarf and jacket, and as he did 
 this the figure of the plaster Virgin with her 
 hands stretched out looked up at him from its 
 bed on Guide's chest. 
 
 Some of the sailors drew their hands quickly 
 across their breasts, and others swore in some 
 alarm, and the barkeeper drank the glass of 
 
 149
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 whiskey he had brought for Guido at a gulp, 
 and then readjusted his apron to show that 
 nothing had disturbed his equanimity. Guido 
 sat up, with his head against the chief engineer's 
 knees, and opened his eyes, and his ears were 
 greeted with words in his own tongue. They 
 gave him hot coffee and hot soup and more 
 brandy, and he told his story in a burst of words 
 that flowed like a torrent of tears how he had 
 been stolen from his home at Genoa, where he 
 used to watch the boats from the stone pier in 
 front of the custom-house, at which the sailors 
 nodded, and how the padrone, who was not 
 his uncle, finding he could not black boots nor 
 sell papers, had given him these plaster casts to 
 sell, and how he had whipped him when people 
 would not buy them, and how at last he had 
 tripped and broken them all except this one 
 hidden in his breast, and how he had gone to 
 sleep, and he asked now why had they wakened 
 him, for he had no place to go. 
 
 Guido remembered telling them this, and 
 following them by their gestures as they retold 
 it to the others in a strange language, and then 
 the lights began to spin, and the faces grew 
 distant, and he reached out his hand for the fat 
 chief engineer, and felt his arms tightening 
 around him. 
 
 A cold wind woke Guido, and the sound of 
 150
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 something throbbing and beating like a great 
 clock. He was very warm and tired and lazy, 
 and when he raised his head he touched the 
 ceiling close above him, and when he opened 
 his eyes he found himself in a little room with 
 a square table covered with oilcloth in the cen 
 tre, and rows of beds like shelves around the 
 walls. The room rose and fell as the streets 
 did when he had had nothing to eat, and he 
 scrambled out of the warm blankets and crawled 
 fearfully up a flight of narrow stairs. There 
 was water on either side of him, beyond and 
 behind him water blue and white and dancing 
 in the sun, with great blocks of dirty ice tossing 
 on its surface. 
 
 And behind him lay the odious city of New 
 York, with its great bridge and high buildingSj 
 and before him the open sea. The chief en 
 gineer crawled up from the engine-room and 
 came toward him, rubbing the perspiration 
 from his face with a dirty towel. 
 
 "Good-morning," he called out. "You are 
 feeling pretty well?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It is Christmas day. Do you know where 
 you are going? You are going to Italy, to 
 Genoa. It is over there," he said, pointing 
 with his finger. "Go back to your bed and 
 keep warm."
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT 
 
 He picked Guido up in his arms, and ran 
 with him down the companion-way, and tossed 
 him back into his berth. Then he pointed to 
 the shelf at one end of the little room, above the 
 sheet-iron stove. The plaster figure that Guido 
 had wrapped in his breast had been put there 
 and lashed to its place. 
 
 "That will bring us good luck and a quick 
 voyage," said the chief engineer. 
 
 Guido lay quite still until the fat engineer 
 had climbed up the companion-way again and 
 permitted the sunlight to once more enter the 
 cabin. Then he crawled out of his berth and 
 dropped on his knees, and raised up his hands 
 to the plaster figure which no one would buy. 
 
 152
 
 MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 RAGS RAEGEN was out of his element. The 
 water was his proper element the water of the 
 East River by preference. And when it came 
 to "running the roofs," as he would have him 
 self expressed it, he was " not in it." 
 
 On those other occasions when he had been 
 followed by the police, he had raced them 
 toward the river front and had dived boldly in 
 from the wharf, leaving them staring blankly 
 and in some alarm as to his safety. Indeed, 
 three different men in the precinct, who did 
 not know of young Raegen's aquatic prowess, 
 had returned to the station-house and seriously 
 reported him to the sergeant as lost, and re 
 gretted having driven a citizen into the river, 
 where he had been unfortunately drowned. It 
 was even told how, on one occasion, when hotly 
 followed, young Raegen had dived off Wake- 
 man's Slip, at East Thirty-third Street, and had 
 then swum back under water to the landing- 
 steps, while the policeman and a crowd of 
 stevedores stood watching for him to reappear 
 where he had sunk. It is further related that 
 
 153
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 he had then, in a spirit of recklessness, and in 
 the possibility of the policeman's failing to 
 recognize him, pushed his way through the 
 crowd from the rear and plunged in to rescue 
 the supposedly drowned man. And that after 
 two or three futile attempts to find his own 
 corpse, he had climbed up on the dock and 
 told the officer that he had touched the body 
 sticking in the mud. And, as a result of this 
 fiction, the river-police dragged the river-bed 
 around Wakeman's Slip with grappling irons 
 for four hours, while Rags sat on the wharf and 
 directed their movements. 
 
 But on this present occasion the police were 
 standing between him and the river, and so cut 
 off his escape in that direction, and as they had 
 seen him strike McGonegal and had seen Mc- 
 Gonegal fall, he had to run for it and seek 
 refuge on the roofs. What made it worse was 
 that he was not in his own hunting-grounds, 
 but in McGonegaPs, and while any tenement 
 on Cherry Street would have given him shelter, 
 either for love of him or fear of him, these of 
 Thirty-third Street were against him and "all 
 that Cherry Street gang," while "Pike" Mc 
 Gonegal was their darling and their hero. And, 
 if Rags had known it, any tenement on the 
 block was better than Case's, into which he 
 first turned, for Case's was empty and unten- 
 
 154
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 anted, save in one or two rooms, and the oppor 
 tunities for dodging from one to another were 
 in consequence very few. But he could not 
 know this, and so he plunged into the dark hall 
 way and sprang up the first four flights of stairs, 
 three steps at a jump, with one arm stretched 
 out in front of him, for it was very dark and the 
 turns were short. On the fourth floor he fell 
 headlong over a bucket with a broom sticking 
 in it, and cursed whoever left it there. There 
 was a ladder leading from the sixth floor to the 
 roof, and he ran up this and drew it after him 
 as he fell forward out of the wooden trap that 
 opened on the flat tin roof like a companion- 
 way of a ship. The chimneys would have hid 
 den him, but there was a policeman's helmet 
 coming up from another companion-way, and 
 he saw that the Italians hanging out of the win 
 dows of the other tenements were pointing at 
 him and showing him to the officer. So he 
 hung by his hands and dropped back again. 
 It was not much of a fall, but it jarred him, 
 and the race he had already run had nearly 
 taken his breath from him. For Rags did not 
 live a life calculated to fit young men for sud 
 den trials of speed. 
 
 He stumbled back down the narrow stairs, 
 and, with a vivid recollection of the bucket he 
 had already fallen upon, felt his way cautiously 
 
 155
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 with his hands and with one foot stuck out in 
 front of him. If he had been in his own baili 
 wick, he would have rather enjoyed the tense 
 excitement of the chase than otherwise, for 
 there he was at home and knew all the cross 
 cuts and where to find each broken paling in 
 the roof-fences, and all the traps in the roofs. 
 But here he was running in a maze, and what 
 looked like a safe passage-way might throw 
 him head on into the outstretched arms of the 
 officers. 
 
 And while he felt his way his mind was ter 
 ribly acute to the fact that as yet no door on 
 any of the landings had been thrown open to 
 him, either curiously or hospitably as offering a 
 place of refuge. He did not want to be taken, 
 but in spite of this he was quite cool, and so, 
 when he heard quick, heavy footsteps beating 
 up the stairs, he stopped himself suddenly by 
 placing one hand on the side of the wall and 
 the other on the banister and halted, panting. 
 He could distinguish from below the high voices 
 of women and children and excited men in the 
 street, and as the steps came nearer he heard 
 some one lowering the ladder he had thrown 
 upon the roof to the sixth floor and preparing 
 to descend. "Ah!" snarled Raegen, panting 
 and desperate, "youse think you have me now, 
 sure, don't you?" It rather frightened him 
 
 156
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 to find the house so silent, for, save the footsteps 
 of the officers, descending and ascending upon 
 him, he seemed to be the only living person in 
 all the dark, silent building. 
 
 He did not want to fight. 
 
 He was under heavy bonds already to keep 
 the peace, and this last had surely been in self- 
 defense, and he felt he could prove it. What 
 he wanted now was to get away, to get back 
 to his own people and to lie hidden in his own 
 cellar or garret, where they would feed and 
 guard him until the trouble was over. And 
 still, like the two ends of a vise, the representa 
 tives of the law were closing in upon him. He 
 turned the knob of the door opening to the 
 landing on which he stood, and tried to push it 
 in, but it was locked. Then he stepped quickly 
 to the door on the opposite side and threw his 
 shoulder against it. The door opened, and he 
 stumbled forward sprawling. The room in 
 which he had taken refuge was almost bare, 
 and very dark; but in a little room leading from 
 it he saw a pile of tossed-up bedding on the 
 floor, and he dived at this as though it was 
 water, and crawled far under it until he reached 
 the wall beyond, squirming on his face and 
 stomach, and flattening out his arms and legs. 
 Then he lay motionless, holding back his breath, 
 and listening to the beating of his heart and to 
 
 157
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 the footsteps on the stairs. The footsteps 
 stopped on the landing leading to the outer 
 room, and he could hear the murmur of voices 
 as the two men questioned one another. Then 
 the door was kicked open, and there was a long 
 silence, broken sharply by the click of a revolver. 
 
 "Maybe he's in there," said a bass voice. 
 The men stamped across the floor leading into 
 the dark room in which he lay, and halted at 
 the entrance. They did not stand there over a 
 moment before they turned and moved away 
 again; but to Raegen, lying with blood-vessels 
 choked, and with his hand pressed across his 
 mouth, it seemed as if they had been contem 
 plating and enjoying his agony for over an 
 hour. "I was in this place not more than 
 twelve hours ago," said one of them easily. " I 
 come in to take a couple out for fighting. They 
 were yelling * murder' and * police,' and break 
 ing things; but they went quiet enough. The 
 man is a stevedore, I guess, and him and his 
 wife used to get drunk regular and carry on 
 up here every night or so. They got thirty days 
 on the Island." 
 
 "Who's taking care of the rooms?" asked the 
 bass voice. The first voice said he guessed "no 
 one was," and added: "There ain't much to 
 take care of, that I can see." " That's so," 
 assented the bass voice. * : WeII," he went on
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 briskly, "he's not here; but he's in the building, 
 sure, for he put back when he seen me coming 
 over the roof. And he didn't pass me, neither, 
 I know that, anyway," protested the bass voice. 
 Then the bass voice said that he must have 
 slipped into the flat below, and added some 
 thing that Raegen could not hear distinctly, 
 about Schaffer on the roof, and their having 
 him safe enough, as that red-headed cop from 
 the Eighteenth Precinct was watching on the 
 street. They closed the door behind them, and 
 their footsteps clattered down the stairs, leav 
 ing the big house silent and apparently deserted.. 
 Young Raegen raised his head, and let his 
 breath escape with a great gasp of relief, as 
 when he had been a long time under water, and 
 cautiously rubbed the perspiration out of his 
 eyes and from his forehead. It had been a 
 cruelly hot, close afternoon, and the stifling 
 burial under the heavy bedding, and the excite 
 ment, had left him feverishly hot and trem 
 bling. It was already growing dark outside, 
 although he could not know that until he lifted 
 the quilts an inch or two and peered up at the 
 dirty window-panes. He was afraid to rise, as 
 yet, and flattened himself out with an impatient 
 sigh, as he gathered the bedding over his head 
 again and held back his breath to listen. There 
 may have been a minute or more of absolute 
 
 159
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 silence in which he lay there, and then his 
 blood froze to ice in his veins, his breath stopped, 
 and he heard, with a quick gasp of terror, the 
 sound of something crawling toward him across 
 the floor of the outer room. The instinct of 
 self-defense moved him first to leap to his feet, 
 and to face and fight it, and then followed as 
 quickly a foolish sense of safety in his hiding- 
 place; and he called upon his greatest strength, 
 and, by his mere brute will alone, forced his 
 forehead down to the bare floor and lay rigid, 
 though his nerves jerked with unknown, un 
 reasoning fear. And still he heard the sound of 
 this living thing coming creeping toward him 
 until the instinctive terror that shook him over 
 came his will, and he threw the bed-clothes from 
 him with a hoarse cry, and sprang up trembling 
 to his feet, with his back against the wall, and 
 with his arms thrown out in front of him wildly* 
 and with the willingness in them and the power 
 in them to do murder. 
 
 The room was very dark, but the windows of 
 the one beyond let in a little stream of light 
 across the floor, and in this light he saw mov 
 ing toward him on its hands and knees a little 
 baby who smiled and nodded at him with a 
 pleased look of recognition and kindly welcome. 
 
 The fear upon Raegen had been so strong and 
 the reaction was so great that he dropped to a 
 
 1 60
 
 He sprang up trembling to his feet.
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 sitting posture on the heap of bedding and 
 laughed long and weakly, and still with a feel^ 
 ing in his heart that this apparition was some 
 thing strangely unreal and menacing. 
 
 But the baby seemed well pleased with his 
 laughter, and stopped to throw back its head 
 and smile and coo and laugh gently with him, 
 as though the joke was a very good one which 
 they shared in common. Then it struggled 
 solemnly to its feet and came pattering toward 
 him on a run, with both bare arms held out, 
 and with a look of such confidence in him, and 
 welcome in its face, that Raegen stretched out 
 his arms and closed the baby's fingers fearfully 
 and gently in his own. 
 
 He had never seen so beautiful a child. There 
 was dirt enough on its hands and face, and its 
 torn dress was soiled with streaks of coal and 
 ashes. The dust of the floor had rubbed into 
 its bare knees, but the face was like no other 
 face that Rags had ever seen. And then it 
 looked at him as though it trusted him, and 
 just as though they had known each other at 
 some time long before, but the eyes of the baby 
 somehow seemed to hurt him so that he had 
 to turn his face away, and when he looked 
 again it was with a strangely new feeling of dis 
 satisfaction with himself and of wishing to ask 
 pardon. They were wonderful eyes, black and 
 
 161
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 rich, and with a deep superiority of knowledge 
 in them, a knowledge that seemed to be above 
 the knowledge of evil; and when the baby 
 smiled at him, the eyes smiled too with con 
 fidence and tenderness in them that in some 
 way frightened Rags and made him move 
 uncomfortablyo "Did you know that youse 
 scared me so that I was going to kill you?" 
 whispered Rags, apologetically, as he carefully 
 held the baby from him at arm's length. "Did 
 you?" But the baby only smiled at this and 
 reached out its hand and stroked Rags's cheek 
 with its fingers. There was something so won 
 derfully soft and sweet in this that Rags drew 
 the baby nearer and gave a quick, strange gasp 
 of pleasure as it threw its arms around his neck 
 and brought the face up close to his chin and 
 hugged him tightly. The baby's arms were 
 very soft and plump, and its cheek and tangled 
 hair were warm and moist with perspiration, 
 and the breath that fell on Raegen's face was 
 sweeter than anything he had ever known. He 
 felt wonderfully and for some reason uncom 
 fortably happy, but the silence was oppressive. 
 
 "What's your name, little 'un?" said Rags. 
 
 The baby ran its arms more closely around 
 Raegen's neck and did not speak, unless its coo 
 ing in Raegen's ear was an answer. "What 
 did you say your name was?" persisted Raegen, 
 
 162
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 in a whisper. The baby frowned at this and 
 stopped cooing long enough to say: "Marg'ret," 
 mechanically and without apparently associat 
 ing the name with herself or anything else. 
 "Margaret, eh!" said Raegen, with grave con 
 sideration. "It's a very pretty name," he 
 added, politely, for he could not shake off the 
 feeling that he was in the presence of a superior 
 being. "An* what did you say your dad's 
 name was?" asked Raegen, awkwardly. But 
 this w r as beyond the baby's patience or knowl 
 edge, and she waived the question aside with 
 both arms and began to beat a tattoo gently 
 with her two closed fists on Raegen's chin and 
 throat. " You're mighty strong now, ain't 
 you?" mocked the young giant, laughing. 
 "Perhaps you don't know, Missie," he added, 
 gravely, "that your dad and mar are doing 
 time on the Island, and you won't see 'em again 
 for a month." No, the baby did not know this 
 nor care apparently; she seemed content with 
 Rags and with his company. Sometimes she 
 drew away and looked at him long and dubi 
 ously, and this cut Rags to the heart, and he 
 felt guilty, and unreasonably anxious until she 
 smiled reassuringly again and ran back into his 
 arms, nestling her face against his and stroking 
 his rough chin wonderingly with her little fin 
 gers.
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 Rags forgot the lateness of the night and the 
 darkness that fell upon the room in the interest 
 of this strange entertainment, which was so 
 much more absorbing, and so much more inno 
 cent than any other he had ever known. He 
 almost forgot the fact that he lay in hiding, 
 that he was surrounded by unfriendly neigh 
 bors, and that at any moment the representa 
 tives of local justice might come in and rudely 
 lead him away. For this reason he dared not 
 make a light, but he moved his position so that 
 the glare from an electric lamp on the street 
 outside might fall across the baby's face, as it 
 lay alternately dozing and awakening, to smile 
 up at him in the bend of his arm. Once it 
 reached inside the collar of his shirt and pulled 
 out the scapular that hung around his neck, 
 and looked at it so long, and with such appar 
 ent seriousness, that Rags was confirmed in his 
 fear that this kindly visitor was something 
 more or less of a superhuman agent, and his 
 efforts to make this supposition coincide with 
 the fact that the angel's parents were on Black- 
 well's Island, proved one of the severest strug 
 gles his mind had ever experienced. He had 
 forgotten to feel hungry, and the knowledge 
 that he was acutely so, first came to him with 
 the thought that the baby must obviously be in 
 greatest need of food herself. This pained him 
 
 164
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 greatly, and he laid his burden down upon the 
 bedding, and after slipping off his shoes, tiptoed 
 his way across the room on a foraging expedi 
 tion after something she could eat. There was 
 a half of a ham-bone, and a half loaf of hard 
 bread in a cupboard, and on the table he found 
 a bottle quite filled with wretched whiskey. 
 That the police had failed to see the baby had 
 not appealed to him in any way, but that they 
 should have allowed this last find to remain 
 unnoticed pleased him intensely, not because it 
 now fell to him, but because they had been 
 cheated of it. It really struck him as so humor 
 ous that he stood laughing silently for several 
 minutes, slapping his thigh with every outward 
 exhibition of the keenest mirth. But when he 
 found that the room and cupboard were bare 
 of anything else that might be eaten Tie sobered 
 suddenly. It was very hot, and though the 
 windows were open, the perspiration stood upon 
 his face, and the foul close air that rose from 
 the court and street below made him gasp and 
 pant for breath. He dipped a wash rag in the 
 water from the spigot in the hall, and filled a 
 cup with it and bathed the baby's face and 
 wrists. She woke and sipped up the water 
 from the cup eagerly, and then looked up at 
 him, as if to ask for something more. Rags 
 soaked the crusty bread in the water, and put 
 
 165
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 it to the baby's lips, but after nibbling at it 
 eagerly she shook her head and looked up at 
 him again with such reproachful pleading in her 
 eyes, that Rags felt her silence more keenly 
 than the worst abuse he had ever received. 
 
 It hurt him so, that the pain brought tears 
 to his eyes. 
 
 "Deary girl," he cried, "I'd give you any 
 thing you could think of if I had it. But I 
 can't get it, see? It ain't that I don't want to 
 good Lord, little 'un, you don't think that, do 
 you?" 
 
 The baby smiled at this, just as though she 
 understood him, and touched his face as if to 
 comfort him, so that Rags felt that same ex 
 quisite content again, which moved him so 
 strangely whenever the child caressed him, and 
 which left him soberly wondering. Then the 
 baby crawled up onto his lap and dropped 
 asleep, while Rags sat motionless and fanned 
 her with a folded newspaper, stopping every 
 now and then to pass the damp cloth over her 
 warm face and arms. It was quite late now. 
 Outside he could hear the neighbors laughing 
 and talking on the roofs, and when one group 
 sang hilariously to an accordion, he cursed them 
 under his breath for noisy, drunken fools, and 
 in his anger lest they should disturb the child 
 in his arms, expressed an anxious hope that 
 
 166
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 they would fall off and break their useless 
 necks. It grew silent and much cooler as the 
 night ran out, but Rags still sat immovable, 
 shivering slightly every now and then, and cau 
 tiously stretching his stiff legs and body. The 
 arm that held the child grew stiff and numb 
 with the light burden, but he took a fierce 
 pleasure in the pain, and became hardened to 
 it, and at last fell into an uneasy slumber from 
 which he awoke to pass his hands gently over 
 the soft yielding body, and to draw it slowly 
 and closer to him. And then, from very weari 
 ness, his eyes closed and his head fell back 
 heavily against the wall, and the man and the 
 child in his arms slept peacefully in the dark 
 corner of the deserted tenement. 
 
 The sun rose hissing out of the East River, a 
 broad, red disk of heat. It swept the cross- 
 streets of the city as pitilessly as the search 
 light of a man-of-war sweeps the ocean. It 
 blazed brazenly into open windows, and changed 
 beds into gridirons on which the sleepers tossed 
 and turned and woke unrefreshed and with 
 throats dry and parched. Its glare awakened 
 Rags into a startled belief that the place about 
 him was on fire, and he stared wildly until the 
 child in his arms brought him back to the 
 knowledge of where he was. He ached in every 
 joint and limb, and his eyes smarted with the 
 
 167
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 dry heat, but the baby concerned him most, 
 for she was breathing with hard, long, irregular 
 gasps, her mouth was open and her absurdly 
 small fists were clinched, and around her closed 
 eyes were deep blue rings. Rags felt a cold 
 rush of fear and uncertainty come over him as 
 he stared about him helplessly for aid. He had 
 seen babies look like this before, in the tene 
 ments; they were like this when the young doc 
 tors of the Health Board climbed to the roofs 
 to see them, and they were like this, only quiet 
 and still, when the ambulance came clattering 
 up the narrow streets, and bore them away. 
 Rags carried the baby into the outer room, 
 where the sun had not yet penetrated, and laid 
 her down gently on the coverlets; then he let 
 the water in the sink run until it was fairly cool, 
 and with this bathed the baby's face and hands 
 and feet, and lifted a cup of the water to her 
 open lips. She woke at this and smiled again, 
 but very faintly, and when she looked at him 
 he felt fearfully sure that she did not know him, 
 and that she was looking through and past him 
 at something he could not see. 
 
 He did not know what to do, and he wanted 
 to do so much. Milk was the only thing he 
 was quite sure babies cared for, but in want of 
 this he made a mess of bits of the dry ham and 
 crumbs of bread, moistened with the raw whis- 
 
 168
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 key, and put it to her lips on the end of a spoon. 
 The baby tasted this, and pushed his hand 
 away, and then looked up and gave a feeble 
 cry, and seemed to say, as plainly as a grown 
 woman could have said or written, "It isn't 
 any use, Rags. You are very good to me, but, 
 indeed, I cannot do it. Don't worry, please; I 
 don't blame you." 
 
 "Great Lord," gasped Rags, with a queer 
 choking in his throat, "but ain't she got grit." 
 Then he bethought him of the people who he 
 still believed inhabited the rest of the tenement, 
 and he concluded that as the day was yet so 
 early they might still be asleep, and that while 
 they slept, he could "lift" as he mentally 
 described the act whatever they might have 
 laid away for breakfast. Excited with this 
 hope, he ran noiselessly down the stairs in his 
 bare feet, and tried the doors of the different 
 landings. But each he found open and each 
 room bare and deserted. Then it occurred to 
 him that at this hour he might even risk a sally 
 into the street. He had money with him, and 
 the milk-carts and bakers' wagons must be 
 passing every minute. He ran back to get the 
 money out of his coat, delighted with the chance 
 and chiding himself for not having dared to do 
 it sooner. He stood over the baby a moment 
 before he left the room, and flushed like a girl 
 
 169
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 as he stooped and kissed one of the bare arms. 
 "I'm going out to get you some breakfast," he 
 said. "I won't be gone long, but if I should," 
 he added, as he paused and shrugged his shoul 
 ders, "I'll send the sergeant after you from the 
 station-house. If I only wasn't under bonds," 
 he muttered, as he slipped down the stairs. 
 "If it wasn't for that they couldn't give me 
 more'n a month at the most, even knowing all 
 they do of me. It was only a street fight, any 
 way, and there was some there that must have 
 seen him pull his pistol." He stopped at the 
 top of the first flight of stairs and sat down to 
 wait. He could see below the top of the open 
 front door, the pavement and a part of the 
 street beyond, and when he heard the rattle of 
 an approaching cart he ran on down and then, 
 with an oath, turned and broke up-stairs again. 
 He had seen the ward detectives standing to 
 gether on the opposite side of the street. 
 
 "Wot are they doing out a bed at this hour?" 
 he demanded angrily. "Don't they make trou 
 ble enough through the day, without prowling 
 around before decent people are up? I won 
 der, now, if they're after me." He dropped on 
 his knees when he reached the room where the 
 baby lay, and peered cautiously out of the win 
 dow at the detectives, who had been joined by 
 two other men, with whom they were talking 
 
 170
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 earnestly. Raegen knew the new-comers for 
 two of McGonegal's friends, and concluded, 
 with a momentary flush of pride and self- 
 importance, that the detectives were forced to 
 be up at this early hour solely on his account. 
 But this was followed by the afterthought that 
 he must have hurt McGonegal seriously, and 
 that he was wanted in consequence very much. 
 This disturbed him most, he was surprised to 
 find, because it precluded his going forth in 
 search of food. "I guess I can't get you that 
 milk I was looking for," he said, jocularly, to 
 the baby, for the excitement elated him. "The 
 sun outside isn't good for me health." The 
 baby settled herself in his arms and slept again, 
 which sobered Rags, for he argued it was a 
 bad sign, and his own ravenous appetite warned 
 him how the child suffered. When he again 
 offered her the mixture he had prepared for her, 
 she took it eagerly, and Rags breathed a sigh of 
 satisfaction. Then he ate some of the bread 
 and ham himself and swallowed half the whis 
 key, and stretched out beside the child and 
 fanned her while she slept. It was something 
 strangely incomprehensible to Rags that he 
 should feel so keen a satisfaction in doing even 
 this little for her, but he gave up wondering, 
 and forgot everything else in watching the 
 strange beauty of the sleeping baby and in the 
 
 171
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 odd feeling of responsibility and self-respect 
 she had brought to him. 
 
 He did not feel it coming on, or he would 
 have fought against it, but the heat of the day 
 and the sleeplessness of the night before, and 
 the fumes of the whiskey on his empty stomach, 
 drew him unconsciously into a dull stupor, so 
 that the paper fan slipped from his hand, and 
 he sank back on the bedding into a heavy sleep. 
 When he awoke it was nearly dusk and past 
 six o'clock, as he knew by the newsboys calling 
 the sporting extras on the street below. He 
 sprang up, cursing himself, and filled with bit 
 ter remorse. 
 
 "I'm a drunken fool, that's what I am," said 
 Rags, savagely. "I've let her lie here all day 
 in the heat with no one to watch her." Mar 
 garet was breathing so softly that he could 
 hardly discern any life at all, and his heart al 
 most stopped with fear. He picked her up and 
 fanned and patted her into wakefulness again 
 and then turned desperately to the window and 
 looked down. There was no one he knew or 
 who knew him as far as he could tell on the 
 street, and he determined recklessly to risk 
 another sortie for food. 
 
 "Why, it's been near two days that child's 
 gone without eating," he said, with keen self- 
 reproach, "and here you've let her suffer to 
 
 172
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 save yourself a trip to the Island. You're a 
 hulking big loafer, you are," he ran on, mutter 
 ing, "and after her coming to you and taking 
 notice of you and putting her face to yours 
 like an angel." He slipped off his shoes and 
 picked his way cautiously down the stairs. 
 
 As he reached the top of the first flight a 
 newsboy passed, calling the evening papers, and 
 shouted something which Rags could not dis 
 tinguish. He wished he could get a copy of the 
 paper. It might tell him, he thought, some 
 thing about himself. The boy was coming 
 nearer, and Rags stopped and leaned forward 
 to listen. 
 
 " Extry ! Extry !" shouted the newsboy, run 
 ning. "Sun, World, and Mail. Full account 
 of the murder of Pike McGonegal by Ragsey 
 Raegen." 
 
 . The lights in the street seemed to flash up 
 suddenly and grow dim again, leaving Rags 
 blind and dizzy. 
 
 "Stop," he yelled, "stop. Murdered, no, by 
 God, no," he cried, staggering half-way down 
 the stairs; "stop, stop!" But no one heard 
 Rags, and the sound of his own voice halted him. 
 He sank back weak and sick upon the top step 
 of the stairs and beat his hands together upon 
 his head. 
 
 "It's a lie, it's a lie," he whispered, thickly. 
 
 173
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 r^ 
 
 "I struck him in self-defense, s'help me. I 
 struck him in self-defense. He drove me to it. 
 He pulled his gun on me. I done it in self- 
 defense." 
 
 And then the whole appearance of the young 
 tough changed, and the terror and horror that 
 
 ihad showed on his face turned to one of low 
 sharpness and evil cunning. His lips drew to 
 gether tightly and he breathed quickly through 
 his nostrils, while his fingers locked and un 
 locked around his knees. All that he had 
 learned on the streets and wharfs and roof 
 tops, all that pitiable experience and dangerous 
 knowledge that had made him a leader and a 
 hero among the thieves and bullies of the river 
 front he called to his assistance now. He faced 
 the fact flatly and with the cool consideration of 
 an uninterested counsellor. He knew that the 
 history of his life was written on Police Court 
 blotters from the day that he was ten years old, 
 and with pitiless detail; that what friends he 
 had he held more by fear than by affection, 
 and that his enemies, who were many, only 
 wanted just such a chance as this to revenge 
 
 'injuries long suffered and bitterly cherished, 
 and that his only safety lay in secret and in 
 stant flight. The ferries were watched, of 
 course; he knew that the depots, too, were cov 
 ered by the men whose only duty was to watch 
 
 174
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 the coming and to halt the departing criminal. 
 But he knew of one old man who was too wise 
 to ask questions and who would row him over 
 the East River to Astoria, and of another on 
 the west side whose boat was always at the 
 disposal of silent white-faced young men who 
 might come at any hour of the night or morn 
 ing, and whom he would pilot across to the 
 Jersey shore and keep well away from the lights 
 of the passing ferries and the green lamp of the 
 police boat. And once across, he had only to 
 change his name and write for money to be 
 forwarded to that name, and turn to work until 
 the thing was covered up and forgotten. He 
 rose to his feet in his full strength again, and 
 intensely and agreeably excited with the danger, 
 and possibly fatal termination of his adventure, 
 and then there fell upon him, with the sudden 
 ness of a blow, the remembrance of the little 
 child lying on the dirty bedding in the room 
 above. 
 
 "I can't do it," he muttered fiercely; "I can't 
 do it," he cried, as if he argued with some other 
 presence. " There's a rope around me neck, 
 and the chances are all against me; it's every 
 man for himself and no favor." He threw his 
 arms out before him as if to push the thought 
 away from him and ran his fingers through his 
 hair and over his face. All of his old self rose 
 
 175
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 in him and mocked him for a weak fool, and 
 showed him just how great his personal danger 
 was, and so he turned and dashed forward on a 
 run, not only to the street, but as if to escape 
 from the other self that held him back. He was 
 still without his shoes, and in his bare feet, and 
 he stopped as he noticed this and turned to go 
 up-stairs for them, and then he pictured to 
 himself the baby lying as he had left her, weakly 
 unconscious and with dark rims around her 
 eyes, and he asked himself excitedly what 
 he would do, if, on his return, she should 
 wake and smile and reach out her hands to 
 him. 
 
 "I don't dare go back," he said, breathlessly. 
 "I don't dare do it; killing!s too good for the 
 likes of Pike McGonegal, but I'm not fighting 
 babies. An' maybe, if I went back, maybe I 
 wouldn't have the nerve to leave her; I can't 
 do it," he muttered, "I don't dare go back." 
 But still he did not stir, but stood motionless, 
 with one hand trembling on the stair-rail and 
 the other clinched beside him, and so fought it 
 on alone in the silence of the empty building. 
 
 The lights in the stores below came out one 
 by one, and the minutes passed into half-hours, 
 and still he stood there with the noise of the 
 streets coming up to him below speaking of 
 escape and of a long life of ill-regulated plea- 
 
 76
 
 MR. RAEGEN . 
 
 sures, and up above him the baby lay in the 
 darkness and reached out her hands to him in 
 her sleep. 
 
 The surly old sergeant of the Twenty-first 
 Precinct station-house had read the evening 
 papers through for the third time and was doz 
 ing in the fierce lights of the gas-jet over the 
 high desk when a young man with a white, hag 
 gard face came in from the street with a baby 
 in his arms. 
 
 " I want to see the woman thet look after the 
 station-house quick," he said. 
 
 The surly old sergeant did not like the per 
 emptory tone of the young man nor his general 
 appearance, for he had no hat, nor coat, and his 
 feet were bare; so he said, with deliberate dig 
 nity, that the char-woman was up-stairs lying 
 down, and what did the young man want with 
 her? "This child," said the visitor, in a. queer 
 thick voice, "she's sick. The heat's come over 
 her, and she ain't had anything to eat for two 
 days, an' she's starving. Ring the bell for the 
 matron, will yer, and send one of your men 
 around for the house surgeon." The sergeant 
 leaned forward comfortably on his elbows, with 
 his hands under his chin so that the gold lace 
 on his cuffs shone effectively in the gas 
 light. He believed he had a sense of humor 
 
 177
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 and he chose this unfortunate moment to ex 
 hibit it. 
 
 "Did you take this for a dispensary, young 
 man?'* he asked; "or," he continued, with 
 added facetiousness, "a foundling hospital?" 
 
 The young man made a savage spring at the 
 barrier in front of the high desk. "Damn you," 
 he panted, "ring that bell, do you hear me, or 
 I'll pull you off that seat and twist your heart 
 out." 
 
 The baby cried at this sudden outburst, and 
 Rags fell back, patting it with his hand and 
 muttering between his closed teeth. The ser 
 geant called to the men of the reserve squad in 
 the reading-room beyond, and to humor this 
 desperate visitor, sounded the gong for the 
 janitress. The reserve squad trooped in lei 
 surely with the playing-cards in their hands and 
 with their pipes in their mouths. 
 
 "This man," growled the sergeant, pointing 
 with the end of his cigar to Rags, "is either 
 drunk, or crazy, or a bit of both." 
 
 The char- woman came down-stairs majesti 
 cally, in a long, loose wrapper, fanning herself 
 with a palm-leaf fan, but when she saw the 
 child, her majesty dropped from her like a cloak, 
 and she ran toward her and caught the baby 
 up in her arms. "You poor little thing," she 
 murmured, "and, oh, how beautiful!" Then
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 she whirled about on the men of the reserve 
 squad: "You, Conners," she said, "run up to 
 my room and get the milk out of my ice-chest; 
 and, Moore, put on your coat and go around 
 and tell the surgeon I want to see him. And 
 one of you crack some ice up fine in a towel. 
 Take it out of the cooler. Quick, now." 
 
 Raegen came up to her fearfully. "Is she 
 very sick?" he begged; "she ain't going to die, 
 is she?" 
 
 "Of course not," said the woman, promptly, 
 "but she's down with the heat, and she hasn't 
 been properly cared for; the child looks half- 
 starved. Are you her father?" she asked, 
 sharply. But Rags did not speak, for at the 
 moment she had answered his question and 
 had said the baby would not die, he had reached 
 out swiftly, and taken the child out of her 
 arms and held it hard against his breast, as 
 though he had lost her and some one had been 
 just giving her back to him. 
 
 His head was bending over hers, and so he 
 did not see Wade and HefFner, the two ward 
 detectives, as they came in from the street, look 
 ing hot, and tired, and anxious. They gave a 
 careless glance at the group, and then stopped 
 with a start, and one of them gave a long, low 
 whistle. 
 
 "Well," exclaimed Wade, with a gasp of 
 179
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 prise and relief. "So, Raegen, you're here, 
 after all, are you? Well, you did give us a 
 chase, you did. Who took you?" 
 
 The men of the reserve squad, when they 
 heard the name of the man for whom the whole 
 force had been looking for the past two days, 
 shifted their positions slightly, and looked curi 
 ously at Rags, and the woman stopped pouring 
 out the milk from the bottle in her hand, and 
 stared at him in frank astonishment. Raegen 
 threw back his head and shoulders, and ran his 
 eyes coldly over the faces of the semicircle of 
 men around him. 
 
 "Who took me?" he began, defiantly, with a 
 swagger of braggadocio, and then, as though it 
 were hardly worth while, and as though the 
 presence of the baby lifted him above every 
 thing else, he stopped, and raised her until her 
 cheek touched his own. It rested there a mo 
 ment, while Rags stood silent. 
 
 "Who took me?" he repeated, quietly, and 
 without lifting his eyes from the baby's face. 
 "Nobody took me," he said. "I gave myself 
 up." 
 
 One morning, three months later, when 
 Raegen had stopped his ice-cart in front of my 
 door, I asked him whether at any time he had 
 ever regretted what he had done. 
 
 1 80
 
 'She'd reach out her hands and kiss me."
 
 MR. RAEGEN 
 
 "Well, sir," he said, with easy superiority, 
 "seeing that I've shook the gang, and that the 
 Society's decided her folks ain't fit to take care 
 of her, we can't help thinking we are better off, 
 see? 
 
 "But, as for my ever regretting it, why, even 
 when things was at the worst, when the case 
 was going dead against me, and before that 
 cop, you remember, swore to McGonegal's 
 drawing the pistol, and when I used to sit in 
 the Tombs expecting I'd have to hang for it, 
 well, even then, they used to bring her to see 
 me every day, and when they'd lift her up, and 
 she'd reach out her hands and kiss me through 
 the bars, why they could have took me out 
 and hung me, and been damned to 'em, for all 
 I'd have cared."
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE 
 
 HE came down the steps slowly, and pulling 
 mechanically at his gloves. 
 
 He remembered afterward that some wom 
 an's face had nodded brightly to him from a 
 passing brougham, and that he had lifted his 
 hat through force of habit, and without knowing 
 who she was. 
 
 He stopped at the bottom of the steps, and 
 stood for a moment uncertainly, and then 
 turned toward the north, not because he had 
 any definite goal in his mind, but because the 
 other way led toward his rooms, and he did 
 not want to go there yet. 
 
 He was conscious of a strange feeling of ela 
 tion, which he attributed to his being free, and 
 to the fact that he was his own master again in 
 everything. And with this he confessed to a 
 distinct feeling of littleness, of having acted 
 meanly or unworthily of himself or of her. 
 
 And yet he had behaved well, even quixoti 
 cally. He had tried to leave the impression 
 with her that it was her wish, and that she had 
 broken with him, not he with her. 
 
 He held a man who threw a girl over as some- 
 182
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE 
 
 thing contemptible, and he certainly did not 
 want to appear to himself in that light; or, for 
 her sake, that people should think he had tired 
 of her, or found her wanting in any one particu 
 lar. He knew only too well how people would 
 talk. How they would say he had never really 
 cared for her; that he didn't know his own mind 
 when he had proposed to her; and that it was 
 a great deal better for her as it is than if he had 
 grown out of humor with her later. As to their , 
 saying she had jilted him, he didn't mind that. 
 He much preferred they should take that view 
 of it, and he was chivalrous enough to hope she 
 would think so too. 
 
 He was walking slowly, and had reached 
 Thirtieth Street. A great many young girls 
 and women had bowed to him or nodded from 
 the passing carriages, but it did not tend to 
 disturb the measure of his thoughts. He was 
 used to having people put themselves out to 
 speak to him; everybody made a point of know 
 ing him, not because he was so very handsome 
 and well-looking, and an over-popular youth, 
 but because he was as yet unspoiled by it. 
 
 But, in any event, he concluded, it was a mis 
 erable business. Still, he had only done what 
 was right. He had seen it coming on for a 
 month now, and how much better it was that 
 they should separate now than later, or that 
 
 183
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE 
 
 they should have had to live separated in all 
 but location for the rest of their lives ! Yes, he 
 had done the right thing decidedly the only 
 thing to do. 
 
 He was still walking up the Avenue, and had 
 reached Thirty-second Street, at which point his 
 thoughts received a sudden turn. A half-dozen 
 men in a club window nodded to him, and 
 brought to him sharply what he was going back 
 to. He had dropped out of their lives as en 
 tirely of late as though he had been living in a 
 distant city. When he had met them he had 
 found their company uninteresting and unprof 
 itable. He had wondered how he had ever 
 cared for that sort of thing, and where had 
 been the pleasure of it. Was he going back 
 now to the gossip of that window, to the heavy 
 discussions of traps and horses, to late break 
 fasts and early suppers? Must he listen to 
 their congratulations on his being one of them 
 again, and must he guess at their whispered 
 conjectures as to how soon it would be before 
 he again took up the chains and harness of 
 their fashion? He struck the pavement sharply 
 with his stick. No, he was not going back. 
 
 She had taught him to find amusement and 
 occupation in many things that were better and 
 higher than any pleasures or pursuits he had 
 known before, and he could not give them up. 
 
 184
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE 
 
 He had her to thank for that at least. And he 
 would give her credit for it, too, and gratefully. 
 He would always remember it, and he would 
 show in his way of living the influence and the 
 good effects of these three months in which they 
 had been continually together. 
 
 He had reached Forty-second Street now. 
 
 Well, it was over with, and he would get to 
 work at something or other. This experience 
 had shown him that he was not meant for mar 
 riage; that he was intended to live alone. Be 
 cause, if he found that a girl as lovely as she 
 undeniably was palled on him after three 
 months, it was evident that he would never live 
 through life with any other one. Yes, he would 
 always be a bachelor. He had lived his life, 
 had told his story at the age of twenty-five, 
 and would wait patiently for the end, a marked 
 and gloomy man. He would travel now and 
 see the world. He would go to that hotel in 
 Cairo she was always talking about, where they 
 were to have gone on their honeymoon; or he 
 might strike further into Africa, and come back 
 bronzed and worn with long marches and jungle 
 fever, and with his hair prematurely white. He 
 even considered himself, with great self-pity, 
 returning and finding her married and happy, 
 of course. And he enjoyed, in anticipation, 
 the secret doubts she would have of her later
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE 
 
 choice when she heard on all sides praise of this 
 distinguished traveller. 
 
 And he pictured himself meeting her reproach 
 ful glances with fatherly friendliness, and pre 
 senting her husband with tiger-skins, and buy 
 ing her children extravagant presents. 
 
 This was at Forty-fifth Street. 
 
 Yes, that was decidedly the best thing to do. 
 To go away and improve himself, and study up 
 all those painters and cathedrals with which 
 she was so hopelessly conversant. 
 
 He remembered how out of it she had once 
 made him feel, and how secretly he had admired 
 her when she had referred to a modern painting 
 as looking like those in the long gallery of the 
 Louvre. He thought he knew all about the 
 Louvre, but he would go over again and locate 
 that long gallery, and become able to talk to her 
 understandingly about it. 
 
 And then it came over him like a blast of icy 
 air that he could never talk over things with 
 her again. He had reached Fifty-fifth Street 
 now, and the shock brought him to a standstill 
 on the corner, where he stood gazing blankly 
 before him. He felt rather weak physically, 
 and decided to go back to his rooms, and then 
 he pictured how cheerless they would look, and 
 how little of comfort they contained. He had 
 used them only to dress and sleep in of late, 
 
 1 86
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE 
 
 and the distaste with which he regarded the 
 idea that he must go back to them to read and 
 sit and live in them, showed him how utterly 
 his life had become bound up with the house on 
 Twenty-seventh Street. 
 
 "Where was he to go in the evening?" he 
 asked himself, with pathetic hopelessness, "or 
 in the morning or afternoon for that matter?" 
 Were there to be no more of those journeys to 
 picture-galleries and to the big publishing 
 houses, where they used to hover over the new 
 book counter and pull the books about, and. 
 make each other innumerable presents of daintily 
 bound volumes, until the clerks grew to know 
 them so well that they never went through the 
 form of asking where the books were to be sent ? 
 And those tete-a-tete luncheons at her house 
 when her mother was up-stairs with a headache 
 or a dressmaker, and the long rides and walks 
 in the Park in the afternoon, and the rush 
 down-town to dress, only to return to dine with 
 them, ten minutes late always, and always with 
 some new excuse, which was allowed if it was 
 clever, and frowned at if it was commonplace 
 was all this really over? 
 
 Why, the town had only run on because she 
 was in it, and as he walked the streets the very 
 shop windows had suggested her to him 
 florists only existed that he might send her 
 
 187
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE 
 
 flowers, and gowns and bonnets in the milliners' 
 windows were only pretty as they would become 
 her; and as for the theatres and the newspapers, 
 they were only worth while as they gave her 
 pleasure. And he had given all this up, and for 
 what, he asked himself, and why? 
 
 He could not answer that now. It was sim 
 ply because he had been surfeited with too 
 much content, he replied, passionately. He had 
 not appreciated how happy he had been. She 
 had been too kind, too gracious. He had never 
 known until he had quarrelled with her and 
 lost her how precious and dear she had been 
 to him. 
 
 He was at the entrance to the Park now, and 
 he strode on along the walk, bitterly upbraiding 
 himself for being worse than a criminal a fool, 
 a common blind mortal to whom a goddess had 
 stooped. 
 
 He remembered with bitter regret a turn off 
 the drive into which they had wandered one 
 day, a secluded, pretty spot with a circle of box 
 around it, and into the turf of which he had 
 driven his stick, and claimed it for them both 
 by the right of discovery. And he recalled how 
 they had used to go there, just out of sight of 
 their friends in the ride, and sit and chatter on 
 a green bench beneath a bush of box, like any 
 nursery maid and her young man, while her 
 
 1 88
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE 
 
 groom stood at the brougham door in the bridle 
 path beyond. He had broken off a sprig of the 
 box one day and given it to her, and she had 
 kissed it foolishly, and laughed, and hidden it in 
 the folds of her riding-skirt, in burlesque fear 
 lest the guards should arrest them for breaking 
 the much-advertised ordinance. 
 
 And he remembered with a miserable smile 
 how she had delighted him with her account of 
 her adventure to her mother, and described 
 them as fleeing down the Avenue with their 
 treasure, pursued by a squadron of mounted 
 policemen. 
 
 This and a hundred other of the foolish, 
 happy fancies they had shared in common came 
 back to him, and he remembered how she had 
 stopped one cold afternoon just outside of this 
 favorite spot, beside an open iron grating sunk 
 in the path, into which the rain had washed 
 the autumn leaves, and pretended it was a 
 steam radiator, and held her slim gloved hands 
 out over it as if to warm them. 
 
 How absurdly happy she used to make him, 
 and how light-hearted she had been ! He de 
 termined suddenly and sentimentally to go to 
 that secret place now, and bury the engagement 
 ring she had handed back to him under that 
 bush as he had buried his hopes of happiness, 
 and he pictured how some day when he was 
 
 189
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE 
 
 dead she would read of this in his will, and go 
 and dig up the ring, and remember and forgive 
 him. He struck off from the walk across the 
 turf straight toward this dell, taking the ring 
 from his waistcoat pocket and clinching it in 
 his hand. He was walking quickly with rapt 
 interest in this idea of abnegation when he 
 noticed, unconsciously at first and then with 
 a start, the familiar outlines and colors of her 
 brougham drawn up in the drive not twenty 
 yards from their old meeting-place. He could 
 not be mistaken; he knew the horses well 
 enough, and there was old Wallis on the box 
 and young Wallis on the path. 
 
 He stopped breathlessly, and then tipped on 
 cautiously, keeping the encircling line of bushes 
 between him and the carriage. And then he 
 saw through the leaves that there was some 
 one in the place, and that it was she. He 
 stopped, confused and amazed. He could not 
 comprehend it. She must have driven to the 
 place immediately on his departure. But why? 
 And why to that place of all others? 
 
 He parted the bushes with his hands, and" 
 saw her lovely and sweet-looking as she had 
 always been, standing under the box bush be 
 side the bench, and breaking off one of the 
 green branches. The branch parted and the 
 stem flew back to its place again, leaving a 
 
 190
 
 A WALK UP THE AVENUE 
 
 green sprig in her hand. She turned at that 
 moment directly toward him, and he could see 
 from his hiding-place how she lifted the leaves 
 to her lips, and that a tear was creeping down 
 her cheek. 
 
 Then he dashed the bushes aside with both 
 arms, and with a cry that no one but she heard 
 sprang toward her. 
 
 Young Van Bibber stopped his mail phaeton 
 in front of the club, and went inside to recuper 
 ate, and told how he had seen them driving 
 home through the Park in her brougham and 
 unchaperoned. 
 
 "Which I call very bad form," said the punc 
 tilious Van Bibber, "even though they are en 
 gaged." ft >
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 THE servants of the Hotel Salisbury, which is 
 so called because it is situated on Broadway 
 and conducted on the American plan by a man 
 named Riggs, had agreed upon a date for their 
 annual ball and volunteer concert, and had 
 announced that it would eclipse every other 
 annual ball in the history of the hotel. As the 
 Hotel Salisbury had been only two years in 
 existence, this was not an idle boast, and it had 
 the effect of inducing many people to buy the 
 tickets, which sold at a dollar apiece, and were 
 good for "one gent and a lady," and entitled 
 the bearer to a hat-check without extra charge. 
 
 In the flutter of preparation all ranks were 
 temporarily levelled, and social barriers taken 
 down with the mutual consent of those sepa 
 rated by them; the night-clerk so far unbent as 
 to personally request the colored hall-boy Num 
 ber Eight to play a banjo-solo at the concert, 
 which was to fill in the pauses between the 
 dances, and the chamber-maids timidly con 
 sulted with the lady telegraph-operator and the 
 lady in charge of the telephone, as to whether 
 or not they intended to wear hats. 
 
 192
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 And so every employee on every floor of the 
 hotel was working individually for the success of 
 the ball, from the engineers in charge of the 
 electric-light plant in the cellar to the night- 
 watchman on the ninth story, and the elevator- 
 boys, who belonged to no floor in particular. 
 
 Miss Celestine Terrell, who was Mrs. Grahame 
 West in private life, and young Grahame West, 
 who played the part opposite to hers in the 
 Gilbert and Sullivan Opera that was then in 
 the third month of its New York run, were 
 among the honored patrons of the Hotel Salis 
 bury. Miss Terrell, in her utter inability to 
 adjust the American coinage to English stand 
 ards, and also in the kindness of her heart, had 
 given too generous tips to all of the hotel wait 
 ers, and some of this money had passed into 
 the gallery window of the Broadway Theatre, 
 where the hotel waiters had heard her sing and 
 seen her dance, and had failed to recognize her 
 young husband in the Lord Chancellor's wig 
 and black silk court-dress. So they knew that 
 she was a celebrated personage, and they urged 
 the maitre d' hotel to invite her to the ball, and 
 then persuade her to take a part in their vol 
 unteer concert. 
 
 Paul, the head-waiter, or "Pierrot," as Gra 
 hame West called him, because it was shorter, 
 as he explained, hovered over the two young
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 English people one night at supper, and served 
 them lavishly with his own hands. 
 
 "Miss Terrell," said Paul, nervously "I beg 
 pardon, Madam, Mrs. Grahame West, I should 
 say I would like to make an invitation to 
 you." 
 
 Celestine looked at her husband inquiringly, 
 #nd bowed her head for Paul to continue. 
 
 "The employees of the Salisbury give the 
 annual ball and concert on the sixteenth of 
 December, and the committee have inquired 
 and requested of me, on account of your kind 
 ness, to ask you would you be so polite as to 
 sing a little song for us at the night of our ball?" 
 
 The head-waiter drew a long breath and 
 straightened himself with a sense of relief at 
 having done his part, whether the Grahame 
 Wests did theirs or not. 
 
 As a rule, Miss Terrell did not sing in private, 
 and had only broken this rule twice, when the 
 inducements which led her to do so were forty 
 pounds for each performance, and the fact that 
 her beloved Princess of Wales was to be present. 
 So she hesitated for an instant. 
 
 "Why, you are very good," she said, doubt 
 fully. "Will there be any other people there 
 any one not an employee, I mean?" 
 
 Paul misunderstood her and became a ser 
 vant again. 
 
 194
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 "No, I am afraid there will be only the em 
 ployees, Madam," he said. 
 
 "Oh, then, I should be very glad to come,'* 
 murmured Celestine, sweetly. "But I never 
 sing out of the theatre, so you mustn't mind if 
 it is not good." 
 
 The head-waiter played a violent tattoo on 
 the back of the chair in his delight, and bal 
 anced and bowed. 
 
 "Ah, we are very proud and pleased that we 
 can induce Madam to make so great excep 
 tions," he declared. "The committee will be 
 most happy. We will send a carriage for Ma 
 dam, and a bouquet for Madam also," he added, 
 grandly, as one who was not to be denied the 
 etiquette to which he plainly showed he was 
 used. 
 
 "Will we come?" cried Van Bibber, incredu 
 lously, as he and Travers sat watching Grahame 
 make up in his dressing-room. "I should say 
 we would come. And you must all take supper 
 with us first, and we will get Letty Chamber- 
 Iain from the Gaiety Company and Lester to 
 come, too, and make them each do a turn." 
 
 "And we can dance on the floor ourselves, 
 can't we?" asked Grahame West, "as they do 
 at home Christmas-eve in the servants' hall, 
 when her ladyship dances in the same set 
 
 195
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 > 
 
 with the butler, and the men waltz with the 
 ook." 
 
 "Well, over here," said Van Bibber, "you'll 
 have to be careful that you're properly pre 
 sented to the cook first, or she'll appeal to the 
 floor committee and have you thrown out." 
 
 "The interesting thing about that ball," said 
 Travers, as he and Van Bibber walked home 
 that night, "is the fact that those hotel people 
 are getting a galaxy of stars to amuse them for 
 nothing who wouldn't exhibit themselves at a 
 Fifth Avenue dance for all the money in Wall 
 Street. And the joke of it is going to be that 
 the servants will vastly prefer the banjo-solo 
 by hall-boy Number Eight." 
 
 Lyric Hall lies just this side of the Forty- 
 second Street station along the line of the Sixth 
 Avenue Elevated road, and you can look into 
 its windows from the passing train. It was 
 after one o'clock when the invited guests and 
 their friends pushed open the storm-doors and 
 were recognized by the anxious committee-men 
 who were taking tickets at the top of the stairs. 
 The committee-men fled in different directions, 
 shouting for Mr. Paul, and Mr. Paul arrived 
 beaming with delight and moisture, and pre 
 sented a huge bouquet to Mrs. West, and wel 
 comed her friends with hospitable warmth. 
 
 Mrs. West and Miss Chamberlain took off 
 196
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 their hats and the men gave up their ca^ not 
 without misgivings, to a sleepy young man who 
 said pleasantly, as he dragged them into the 
 coat-room window, "that they would be play 
 ing in great luck if they ever saw them 
 again." 
 
 " I don't need to give you no checks," he ex 
 plained; "just ask for the coats with real fur on 
 'em. Nobody else has any." 
 
 There was a balcony overhanging the floor, 
 and the invited guests were escorted to it, and 
 given seats where they could look down upon 
 the dancers below, and the committee-men, in 
 dangling badges with edges of silver fringe, 
 stood behind their chairs and poured out cham 
 pagne for them lavishly, and tore up the wine- 
 check which the barkeeper brought with it, 
 with princely hospitality. 
 
 The entrance of the invited guests created 
 but small interest, and neither the beauty of 
 the two English girls nor Lester's well-known 
 features, which smiled from shop-windows and 
 on every ash-barrel in the New York streets, 
 aroused any particular comment. The employ 
 ees were much more occupied with the lancers 
 then in progress and with the joyful actions of 
 one of their number who was playing blind- 
 man's-buff with himself, and swaying from set 
 to set in search of his partner, who had given 
 
 197
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 him up as hopeless and retired to the supper- 
 room for crackers and beer. 
 
 Some of the ladies wore bonnets, and others 
 wore flowers in their hair, and a half-dozen 
 were in gowns which were obviously intended 
 for dancing and nothing else. But none of 
 them were in decollete gowns. A few wore 
 gloves. They had copied the fashions of their 
 richer sisters with the intuitive taste of the 
 American girl of their class, and they waltzed 
 quite as well as the ladies whose dresses they 
 copied, and many of them were exceedingly 
 pretty. The costumes of the gentlemen varied 
 from the clothes they wore nightly when wait 
 ing on the table, to cutaway coats with white 
 satin ties, and the regular blue and brass-but 
 toned uniform of the hotel. 
 
 "I am going to dance," said Van Bibber, "if 
 Mr. Pierrot will present me to one of the ladies." 
 
 Paul introduced him to a lady in a white 
 
 cheese-cloth dress and black walking-shoes, 
 
 'with whom no one else would dance, and the 
 
 musicians struck up "The Band Played On," 
 
 and they launched out upon a slippery floor. 
 
 Van Bibber was conscious that his friends 
 were applauding him in dumb show from the 
 balcony, and when his partner asked who they 
 were, he repudiated them altogether, and said 
 he could not imagine, but that he guessed from 
 
 198
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 their bad manners they were professional enter 
 tainers hired for the evening. 
 
 The music stopped abruptly, and as he saw 
 Mrs. West leaving the balcony, he knew that 
 his turn had come, and as she passed him he 
 applauded her vociferously, and as no one else 
 applauded even slightly, she grew very red. 
 
 Her friends knew that they formed the audi 
 ence which she dreaded, and she knew that they 
 were rejoicing in her embarrassment, which the 
 head of the down-stairs department, as Mr. Paul 
 described him, increased to an hysterical point 
 by introducing her as "Miss Ellen Terry, the 
 great English actress, who would now oblige 
 with a song." 
 
 The man had seen the name of the wonderful 
 English actress on the bill-boards in front of 
 Abbey's Theatre, and he had been told that 
 Miss Terrell was English, and confused the two 
 names. As he passed Van Bibber he drew his 
 waistcoat into shape with a proud shrug of his 
 shoulders, and said, anxiously, "I gave your 
 friend a good introduction, anyway, didn't I?" 
 
 "You did, indeed," Van Bibber answered.. 
 "You couldn't have surprised her more; and it 
 made a great hit with me, too." 
 
 No one in the room listened to the singing. 
 The gentlemen had crossed their legs comfort 
 ably and were expressing their regret to thai? 
 
 199
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 partners that so much time was wasted in sand 
 wiching songs between the waltzes, and the 
 ladies were engaged in criticising Celestine's 
 ,hair, which she wore in a bun. They thought 
 that it might be English, but it certainly was 
 not their idea of good style. 
 
 Celestine was conscious of the fact that her 
 husband and Lester were hanging far over the 
 balcony, holding their hands to their eyes as 
 though they were opera-glasses, and exclaiming 
 with admiration and delight; and when she had 
 finished the first verse, they pretended to think 
 that the song was over, and shouted, "Bravo, 
 encore!" and applauded frantically, and then, 
 apparently overcome with confusion at their 
 mistake, sank back entirely from sight. 
 
 "I think Miss Terrell's an elegant singer," 
 Van Bibber's partner said to him. "I seen her 
 at the hotel frequently. She has such a pleas 
 ant way with her, quite lady-like. She's the 
 only actress I ever saw that has retained her 
 timidity. She acts as though she were shy, 
 don't she?" 
 
 Van Bibber, who had spent a month on the 
 Thames the summer before with the Grahame 
 Wests, surveyed Celestine with sudden interest, 
 as though he had never seen her before until 
 that moment, and agreed that she did look shy, 
 one might almost say frightened to death. Mrs. 
 
 200
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 West rushed through the second verse of the 
 song, bowed breathlessly, and ran down the 
 steps of the stage and back to the refuge of the 
 balcony, while the audience applauded with 
 perfunctory politeness and called clamorously 
 to the musicians to "Let her go !" 
 
 "And that is the song," commented Van 
 Bibber, "that gets six encores and three calls 
 every night on Broadway!" 
 
 Grahame West affected to be greatly cha 
 grined at his wife's failure to charm the cham 
 bermaids and porters with her little love-song, 
 and when his turn came, he left them with alac 
 rity, assuring them that they would now see 
 the difference, as he would sing a song better 
 suited to their level. 
 
 But the song that had charmed London and 
 captured the unprotected coast-town of New 
 York, fell on heedless ears; and, except the evil 
 ones in the gallery, no one laughed and no one 
 listened, and Lester declared with tears in his 
 eyes that he would not go through such an or 
 deal for the receipts of an Actors' Fund Benefit. 
 
 Van Bibber's partner caught him laughing at 
 Grahame West's vain efforts to amuse, and 
 said, tolerantly, that Mr. West was certainly 
 comical, but that she had a lady friend with 
 her who could recite pieces which were that 
 comic that you'd die of laughing. She pre- 
 201
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 sented her friend to Van Bibber, and he said he 
 hoped that they were going to hear her recite, 
 as laughing must be a pleasant death. But the 
 young lady explained that she had had the mis 
 fortune to lose her only brother that summer, 
 and that she had given up everything but danc 
 ing in consequence. She said she did not think 
 it looked right to see a girl in mourning recite 
 comic monologues. 
 
 Van Bibber struggled to be sympathetic, and 
 asked what her brother had died of. She told 
 him that "he died of a Thursday," and the 
 conversation came to an embarrassing pause. 
 
 Van Bibber's partner had another friend in a 
 gray corduroy waistcoat and tan shoes, who was 
 of Hebraic appearance. He also wore several 
 very fine rings, and officiated with what was 
 certainly religious tolerance at the M. E. Bethel 
 Church. She said he was an elegant or gan 
 ist, putting the emphasis on the second syllable, 
 which made Van Bibber think that she was 
 speaking of some religious body to which he 
 belonged. But the organist made his profession 
 clear by explaining that the committee had just 
 invited him to oblige the company with a solo 
 on the piano, but that he had been hitting the 
 champagne so hard that he doubted if he could 
 tell the keys from the pedals, and he added 
 that if they'd excuse him he would go to sleep, 
 
 202
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 which he immediately cTid with his head on the 
 shoulder of the lady recitationist, who tactfully 
 tried not to notice that he was there. 
 
 They were all waltzing again, and as Van 
 Bibber guided his partner for a second time 
 around the room, he noticed a particularly 
 handsome girl in a walking-dress, who was 
 doing some sort of a fancy step with a solemn, 
 grave-faced young man in the hotel livery. 
 They seemed by their manner to know each 
 other very well, and they had apparently prac^ 
 tised the step that they were doing often before. 
 
 The girl was much taller than the man, and 
 was superior to him in every way. Her move 
 ments were freer and less conscious, and she 
 carried her head and shoulders as though she 
 had never bent them above a broom. Her com 
 plexion was soft and her hair of the finest, deep 
 est auburn. Among all the girls upon the floor 
 she was the most remarkable, even if her danc 
 ing had not immediately distinguished her. 
 
 The step which she and her partner were ex- 
 hibiting was one that probably had been taught 
 her by a professor of dancing at some East Side 
 academy, at the rate of fifty cents per hour, 
 and which she no doubt believed was the latest 
 step danced in the gilded halls of the Few 
 Hundred. In this waltz the two dancers held 
 each other's hands, and the man swung his 
 
 203
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 partner behind him, and then would turn and 
 take up the step with her where they had 
 dropped it; or they swung around and around 
 each other several times, as people do in fancy 
 skating, and sometimes he spun her so quickly 
 one way that the skirt of her walking-dress was 
 wound as tightly around her legs and ankles as 
 a cord around a top, and then as he swung her 
 in the opposite direction, it unwound again, and 
 wrapped about her from the other side. They 
 varied this when it pleased them with balanc 
 ings and steps and posturings that were not 
 sufficiently extravagant to bring any comment 
 from the other dancers, but which were so full 
 of grace and feeling for time and rhythm, that 
 Van Bibber continually reversed his partner so 
 that he might not for an instant lose sight of the 
 girl with auburn hair. 
 
 "She is a very remarkable dancer," he said 
 at last, apologetically. "Do you know who 
 she is?" 
 
 His partner had observed his interest with in 
 creasing disapproval, and she smiled trium 
 phantly now at the chance that his question 
 gave her. 
 
 "She is the seventh-floor chambermaid," she 
 said. "I," she added in a tone which marked 
 the social superiority, "am a checker and 
 marker." 
 
 204
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 "Really?" said Van Bibber, with a polite 
 accent of proper awe. 
 
 He decided that he must see more of this Cin 
 derella of the Hotel Salisbury; and dropping his 
 partner by the side of the lady recitationist, he 
 bowed his thanks and hurried to the gallery for 
 a better view. 
 
 When he reached it he found his professional 
 friends hanging over the railing, watching every 
 movement which the girl made with an intense 
 and unaffected interest. 
 
 "Have you noticed that girl with red hair?" 
 he asked, as he pulled up a chair beside them. 
 
 But they only nodded and kept their eyes 
 fastened on the opening in the crowd through 
 which she had disappeared. 
 
 "There she is!" Grahame West cried, ex 
 citedly, as the girl swept out from the mass of 
 dancers into the clear space. "Now you can 
 see what I mean, Celestine," he said. "Where 
 he turns her like that. We could do it in the 
 shadow-dance in the second act. It's very 
 pretty. She lets go his right hand and then he 
 swings her and balances backward until she takes 
 up the step again, when she faces him. It is very 
 simple and very effective. Isn't it, George?" 
 
 Lester nodded and said, "Yes, very. She's a 
 born dancer. You can teach people steps, but 
 you can't teach them to be graceful." 
 
 205
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 "She reminds me of Sylvia Grey," said Miss 
 Chamberlain. "There's nothing violent about 
 it, or faked, is there? It's just the poetry of 
 motion, without any tricks." 
 
 Lester, who was a trick-dancer himself, and 
 Grahame West, who was one of the best eccentric 
 dancers in England, assented to this cheerfully. 
 
 Van Bibber listened to the comments of the 
 authorities and smiled grimly. The contrast 
 which their lives presented to that of the young 
 girl whom they praised so highly, struck him as 
 being most interesting. Here were two men 
 who had made comic dances a profound and 
 serious study, and the two women who had 
 lifted dancing to the plane of a fine art, all 
 envying and complimenting a girl who was 
 doing for her own pleasure that which was to 
 them hard work and a livelihood. But while 
 they were going back the next day to be ap 
 plauded and petted and praised by a friendly 
 public, she was to fly like Cinderella, to take 
 up her sweeping and dusting and the making 
 of beds, and the answering of peremptory sum 
 monses from electric buttons. 
 
 "A good teacher could make her worth one 
 hundred dollars a week in six lessons," said 
 Lester, dispassionately. "I'd be willing to 
 make her an offer myself, if I hadn't too many 
 dancers in the piece already." 
 
 206
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 "A hundred dollars that's twenty pounds," 
 said Mrs. Grahame West. "You do pay such 
 prices over here ! But I quite agree that she is 
 very graceful; and she is so unconscious, too, 
 isn't she?" 
 
 The interest in Cinderella ceased when the 
 waltzing stopped, and the attention of those in 
 the gallery was riveted with equal intensity 
 upon Miss Chamberlain and Travers, who had 
 faced each other in a quadrille, Miss Chamber- 
 Iain having accepted the assistant barkeeper for 
 a partner, while Travers contented himself with 
 a tall, elderly female, who in business hours 
 had entire charge of the linen department. The 
 barkeeper was a melancholy man with a dyed 
 mustache, and when he asked the English 
 dancer from what hotel she came, and she, 
 thinking he meant at what hotel was she stop 
 ping, told him, he said that that was a slow 
 place, and that if she would let him know when 
 she had her night off, he would be pleased to 
 meet her at the Twenty-third Street station of 
 the Sixth Avenue road on the up-town side, and 
 would take her to the theatre, for which, he ex 
 plained, he was able to obtain tickets for noth 
 ing, as so many men gave him their return 
 checks for drinks. 
 
 Miss Chamberlain told him in return that she 
 just doted on the theatre, and promised to meet 
 
 207
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 him the very next evening. She sent him anon 
 ymously instead two seats in the front row for 
 her performance. She had much delight the 
 next night in watching his countenance when, 
 after arriving somewhat late and cross, he 
 recognized the radiant beauty on the stage as 
 the young person with whom he had conde 
 scended to dance. 
 
 When the quadrille was over she introduced 
 him to Travers, and Travers told him he mixed 
 drinks at the Knickerbocker Club, and that his 
 greatest work was a Van Bibber cocktail. And 
 when the barkeeper asked for the recipe and 
 promised to "push it along," Travers told him 
 he never made it twice the same, as it depended 
 entirely on his mood. 
 
 Mrs. Grahame West and Lester were scan 
 dalized at the conduct of these two young peo 
 ple and ordered the party home, and as the 
 dance was growing somewhat noisy and the 
 gentlemen were smoking as they danced, the 
 invited guests made their bows to Mr. Paul and 
 went out into cold, silent streets, followed by 
 the thanks and compliments of seven bare 
 headed and swaying committee-men. 
 
 The next week Lester went on the road with 
 his comic opera company; the Grahame Wests 
 sailed to England; Letty Chamberlain and the 
 other "Gee Gees," as Travers called the Gaiety 
 
 208
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 Girls, departed for Chicago, and Travers and 
 Van Bibber were left alone. 
 
 The annual ball was a month in the past when 
 Van Bibber found Travers at breakfast at their 
 club, and dropped into a chair beside him with 
 a sigh of weariness and indecision. 
 
 "What's the trouble? Have some break 
 fast?" said Travers, cheerfully. 
 
 "Thank you, no," said Van Bibber, gazing at 
 his friend doubtfully; "I want to ask you what 
 you think of this. Do you remember that girl 
 at that servants' ball?" 
 
 "Which girl? Tall girl with red hair did 
 fancy dance? Yes why?" 
 
 "Well, I've been thinking about her lately," 
 said Van Bibber, "and what they said of her 
 dancing. It seems to me that if it's as good as 
 they thought it was, the girl ought to be told 
 of it and encouraged. They evidently meant 
 what they said. It wasn't as though they were 
 talking about her to her relatives and had to 
 say something pleasant. Lester thought she 
 could make a hundred dollars a week if she had 
 had six lessons. Well, six lessons wouldn't cost 
 much, not more than ten dollars at the most, 
 and a hundred a week for an original outlay of 
 ten is a good investment." 
 
 Travers nodded his head in assent, and 
 whacked an egg viciously with his spoon. 
 
 209
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 "What's your scheme?" he said. "Is your 
 idea to help the lady for her own sake sort of 
 a philanthropic snap or as a speculation? We 
 might make it pay as a speculation. You see 
 nobody knows about her except you and me. 
 We might form her into a sort of stock company 
 and teach her to dance, and secure her engage 
 ments and then take our commission out of her 
 salary. Is that what you were thinking of 
 doing?" 
 
 "No, that was not my idea," said Van Bibber, 
 smiling. "I hadn't any plan. I just thought 
 I'd go down to that hotel and tell her that in the 
 opinion of the four people best qualified to know 
 what good dancing is, she is a good dancer, and 
 then leave the rest to her. She must have some 
 friends or relations who would help her to make 
 a start. If it's true that she can make a hit 
 as a dancer, it seems a pity that she shouldn't 
 know it, doesn't it? If she succeeded, she'd 
 make a pot of money, and if she failed, she'd 
 be just where she is now." 
 
 Travers considered this subject deeply, with 
 knit brows. 
 
 "That's so," he said. "I'll tell you what 
 let's do. Let's go see some of the managers of 
 those continuous performance places, and tell 
 them we have a dark horse that the Grahame 
 Wests and Letty Chamberlain herself and 
 
 210
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 George Lester think is the coming dancer of the 
 age, and ask them to give her a chance. And 
 we'll make some sort of a contract with them. 
 We ought to fix it so that she is to get bigger 
 money the longer they keep her in the bill, have 
 her salary on a rising scale. Come on," he ex 
 claimed, warming to the idea. "Let's go now. 
 What have you got to do?" 
 
 "I've got nothing better to do than just 
 that," Van Bibber declared, .briskly. 
 
 The managers whom they interviewed were 
 interested but non-committal. They agreed 
 that the girl must be a remarkable dancer in 
 deed to warrant such praise from such authori 
 ties, but they wanted to see her and judge for 
 themselves, and they asked to be given her ad 
 dress, which the impresarios refused to disclose. 
 But they secured from the managers the names 
 of several men who taught fancy dancing, and 
 who prepared aspirants for the vaudeville stage, 
 and having obtained from them their prices and 
 their opinion as to how long a time would be 
 required to give the finishing touches to a dancer 
 already accomplished in the art, they directed 
 their steps to the Hotel Salisbury. 
 
 "From the Seventh Story to the Stage," 
 said Travers. "She will make very good 
 newspaper paragraphs, won't she? 'The New 
 American Dancer, indorsed by Celestine Ter- 
 
 211
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 rell, Letty Chamberlain, and Cortlandt Van 
 Bibber/ And we could get her outside engage 
 ments to dance at studios and evening parties 
 after her regular performance, couldn't we?" he 
 continued. "She ought to ask from fifty to a 
 hundred dollars a night. With her regular 
 salary that would average about three hundred 
 and fifty a week. She is probably making three 
 dollars a week now, and eats in the servants' 
 hall." 
 
 "And then we will send her abroad," inter 
 rupted Van Bibber, taking up the tale, "and 
 she will do the music-halls in London. If she 
 plays three halls a night, say one on the Surrey 
 Side, and Islington, and a smart West End hall 
 like the Empire or the Alhambra, at fifteen 
 guineas a turn, that would bring her in five hun 
 dred and twenty-five dollars a week. And then 
 she would go to the Folies Bergere in Paris, and 
 finally to St. Petersburg and Milan, and then 
 come back to dance in the Grand Opera season, 
 under Gus Harris, with a great international 
 reputation, and hung with flowers and medals 
 and diamond sunbursts and things." 
 
 "Rather," said Travers, shaking his head en 
 thusiastically. "And after that we must invent 
 a new dance for her, with colored lights and 
 mechanical snaps and things, and have it pat 
 ented; and finally she will get her picture on 
 
 212
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 soda-cracker boxes and cigarette advertise 
 ments, and have a race-horse named after her, 
 and give testimonials for nerve-tonics and soap. 
 Does fame reach farther than that ?" 
 
 "I think not," said Van Bibber, "unless they 
 give her name to a new make of bicycle. We 
 must give her a new name, anyway, and re- 
 christen her, whatever her name may be. We'll 
 call her Cinderella La Cinderella. That 
 sounds fine, doesn't it, even if it is rather long 
 for the very largest type." 
 
 " It isn't much longer than Carmencita," sug 
 gested the other. "And people who have the 
 proud knowledge of knowing her like you and 
 me will call her * Cinders' for short. And when 
 we read of her dancing before the Czar of AH 
 the Russias, and leading the ballet at the Grand 
 Opera House in Paris, we'll say, 'that is our 
 handiwork,' and we will feel that we have not 
 lived in vain." 
 
 "Seventh floor, please," said Van Bibber to 
 the elevator-boy. 
 
 The elevator-boy was a young man of serious 
 demeanor, with a smooth-shaven face and a 
 square, determined jaw. There was something 
 about him which seemed familiar, but Van Bib 
 ber could not determine just what it was. The 
 elevator stopped to allow some people to leave 
 
 213
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 it at the second floor, and as the young man 
 shoved the door to again, Van Bibber asked him 
 if he happened to know of a chambermaid with 
 red hair a tall girl on the seventh floor, a girl 
 who danced very well. 
 
 The wire rope of the elevator slipped less rap 
 idly through the hands of the young man who 
 controlled it, and he turned and fixed his eyes 
 with sudden interest on Van Bibber's face, and 
 scrutinized him and his companion with serious 
 consideration. 
 
 "Yes, I know her I know who you mean, 
 anyway," he said. "Why?" 
 
 "Why?" echoed Van Bibber, raising his eyes. 
 "We wish to see her on a matter of business. 
 Can you tell me her name?" 
 
 The elevator was running so slowly now that 
 its movement upward was barely perceptible. 
 
 "Her name's Annie Annie Crehan. Excuse 
 me," said the young man, doubtfully, "ain't 
 you the young fellows who came to our ball 
 with that English lady, the one that sung?" 
 
 "Yes," Van Bibber assented, pleasantly. 
 "We were there. That's where I've seen you 
 before. You were there, too, weren't you?" 
 
 "Me and Annie was dancing together most all 
 the evening. I seen all youse watching her." 
 
 "Of course," exclaimed Van Bibber. "I re 
 member you now. Oh, then you must know 
 
 214
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 her quite well. Maybe you can help us. We 
 want to put her on the stage." 
 
 The elevator came to a stop with an abrupt 
 jerk, and the young man shoved his hands be 
 hind him, and leaned back against one of the 
 mirrors in its side. 
 
 "On the stage," he repeated. "Why?" 
 
 Van Bibber smiled and shrugged his shoulders 
 in some embarrassment at this peremptory chal 
 lenge. But there was nothing in the young 
 man's tone or manner that could give offense. 
 He seemed much in earnest, and spoke as 
 though they must understand that he had some 
 right to question. 
 
 "Why? Because of her dancing. She is a 
 very remarkable dancer. All of those actors 
 with us that night said so. You must know 
 that yourself better than any one else, since you 
 can dance with her. She could make quite a 
 fortune as a dancer, and we have persuaded 
 several managers to promise to give her a trial. 
 And if she needs money to pay for lessons, or 
 to buy the proper dresses and slippers and 
 things, we are willing to give it to her, or to 
 lend it to her,- if she would like that better." 
 
 "Why?" repeated the young man, immov 
 ably. His manner was not encouraging. 
 
 "Why what?" interrupted Travers, with 
 growing impatience. 
 
 215
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 "Why are you willing to give her money? 
 You don't know her." 
 
 Van Bibber looked at Travers, and Travers 
 smiled in some annoyance. The electric bell 
 rang violently from different floors, but the 
 young man did not heed it. He had halted the 
 elevator between two landings, and he now 
 seated himself on the^ velvet cushions and 
 crossed one leg over the other, as though for a 
 protracted debate. Travers gazed about him in 
 humorous apprehension, as though alarmed at 
 the position in which he found himself, hung as 
 it were between the earth and sky. 
 
 "I swear I am an unarmed man," he said, in 
 a whisper. 
 
 "Our intentions are well meant, I assure you," 
 said Van Bibber, with an amused smile. "The 
 girl is working ten hours a day for very little 
 money, isn't she? You know she is, when she 
 could make a great deal of money by working 
 half as hard. We have some influence with 
 theatrical people, and we meant merely to put 
 her in the way of bettering her position, and to 
 give her the chance to do something which she 
 can do better than many others, while almost 
 any one, I take it, can sweep and make beds. If 
 she were properly managed, she could become a 
 ^reat dancer, and delight thousands of people 
 add to the gayety of nations, as it were. She's 
 
 216
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 hardly doing that now, is she? Have you any 
 objections to that? What right have you to 
 make objections, anyway?" 
 
 The young man regarded the two young gen 
 tlemen before him with a dogged countenance, 
 but there was now in his eyes a look of helpless 
 ness and of great disquietude. 
 
 "We're engaged to be married, Annie and 
 me," he said. "That's it." 
 
 "Oh," exclaimed Van Bibber, "I beg your 
 pardon. That's different. Well, in that case, 
 you can help us very much, if you wish. We 
 leave it entirely with you !" 
 
 "I don't want that you should leave it with 
 me," said the young man, harshly. "I don't 
 want to have nothing to do with it. Annie can 
 speak for herself. I knew it was coming to 
 this," he said, leaning forward and clasping his 
 hands together, "or something like this. I've 
 never felt dead sure of Annie, never once. I 
 always knew something would happen." 
 
 "Why, nothing has happened," said Van Bib 
 ber, soothingly. "You would both benefit by 
 it. We would be as willing to help two as one. 
 You would both be better off." 
 
 The young man raised his head and stared 
 at Van Bibber reprovingly. 
 
 "You know better than that," he said. "You 
 know what I'd look like. Of course she could 
 
 217
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 make money as a dancer I've known that for 
 some time but she hasn't thought of it yet, 
 and she'd never have thought of it herself. But 
 the question isn't me or what I want. It's 
 Annie. Is she going to be happier or not, that's 
 the question. And I'm telling you that she 
 couldn't be any happier than she is now. I 
 know that, too. We're just as contented as 
 two folks ever was. We've been saving for 
 three months, and buying furniture from the 
 instalment people, and next month we were 
 going to move into a flat on Seventh Avenue, 
 quite handy to the hotel. If she goes onto the 
 stage could she be any happier? And if you're 
 honest in saying you're thinking of the two of 
 us I ask you where would I come in? I'll be 
 pulling this wire rope and she'll be all over the 
 country, and her friends won't be my friends 
 and her ways won't be my ways. She'll get 
 out of reach of me in a week, and I won't be in 
 it. I'm not the sort to go loafing round while 
 my wife supports me, carrying her satchel for 
 her. And there's nothing I can do but just 
 this. She'd come back here some day and live 
 in the front floor suite, and I'd pull her up and 
 down in this elevator. That's what will hap 
 pen. Here's what you two gentlemen are do 
 ing." The young man leaned forward eagerly. 
 " You're offering a change to two people that 
 
 218
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 are as well off now as they ever hope to be, and 
 they're contented. We don't know nothin' 
 better. Now, are you dead sure that you're 
 giving us something better than what we've 
 got? You can't make me any happier than I 
 am, and as far as Annie knows, up to now, she 
 couldn't be better fixed, and no one could care 
 for her more. 
 
 "My God ! gentlemen," he cried, desperately, 
 "think! She's all I've got. There's lots of 
 dancers, but she's not a dancer to me, she's just 
 Annie. I don't want her to delight the gayety 
 of nations. I want her for myself. Maybe I'm 
 selfish, but I can't help that. She's mine, and 
 you're trying to take her away from me. Sup 
 pose she was your girl, and some one was sneak 
 ing her away from you. You'd try to stop it, 
 wouldn't you, if she was all you had?" He 
 stopped breathlessly and stared alternately from 
 one to the other of the young men before him. 
 Their countenances showed an expression of 
 well-bred concern. 
 
 "It's for you to judge," he went on, helplessly; 
 "if you want to take the responsibility, well and 
 good, that's for you to say. I'm not stopping 
 you, but she's all I've got." 
 
 The young man stopped, and there was a 
 pause while he eyed them eagerly. The eleva 
 tor-bell rang out again with vicious indignation. 
 
 219
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 Travers struck at the toe of his boot with his 
 stick and straightened his shoulders. 
 
 "I think you're extremely selfish, if you ask 
 me," he said. 
 
 The young man stood up quickly and took his 
 elevator-rope in both hands. "All right," he 
 said, quietly, "that settles it. I'll take you up 
 to Annie now, and you can arrange it with her. 
 I'm not standing in her way." 
 
 "Hold on," protested Van Bibber and Travers 
 in a breath. "Don't be in such a hurry," 
 growled Travers. 
 
 The young man stood immovable, with his 
 hands on the wire and looking down on them, 
 his face full of doubt and distress. 
 
 "I don't want to stand in Annie's way," he 
 repeated, as though to himself. "I'll do what 
 ever you say. I'll take you to the seventh floor 
 or I'll drop you to the street. It's up to you, 
 gentlemen," he added, helplessly, and turning 
 his back to them threw his arm against the wall 
 of the elevator and buried his face upon it. 
 
 There was an embarrassing pause, during 
 which Van Bibber scowled at himself in the mir 
 ror opposite as though to ask it what a man 
 who looked like that should do under such try 
 ing circumstances. 
 
 He turned at last and stared at Travers. 
 
 ' Where ignorance is bliss, it's folly to be wise," 
 
 220
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 he whispered, keeping his face toward his friend. 
 "What do you say? Personally I don't see 
 myself in the part of Providence. It's the case 
 of the poor man and his one ewe Iamb, isn't it?" 
 
 "We don't want his ewe Iamb, do we?" 
 growled Travers. "It's a case of the dog in a 
 manger, I say. I thought we were going to be 
 fairy godfathers to 'La Cinderella." 
 
 "The lady seems to be supplied with a most 
 determined godfather as it is," returned Van 
 Bibber. 
 
 The elevator-boy raised his face and stared at 
 them with haggard eyes. 
 
 "Well?" he begged. 
 
 Van Bibber srniled upon him reassuringly, 
 with a look partly of respect and partly of pity. 
 
 "You can drop us to the street," he said. 
 
 221
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 THE mass-meeting in the Madison Square 
 Garden which was to help set Cuba free was 
 finished, and the people were pushing their way 
 out of the overheated building into the snow and 
 sleet of the streets. They had been greatly 
 stirred and the spell of the last speaker still 
 hung so heavily upon them that as they pressed 
 down the long corridor they were still speaking 
 loudly in his praise. 
 
 A young man moved eagerly among them, and 
 pushed his way to wherever a voice was raised 
 above the rest. He strained forward, listening 
 openly, as though he tried to judge the effect of 
 the meeting by the verdict of those about him. 
 
 But the words he overheard seemed to clash 
 with what he wished them to be, and the eager 
 look on his face changed to one of doubt and of 
 grave disappointment. When he had reached 
 the sidewalk he stopped and stood looking back 
 alternately into the lighted hall and at the hurry 
 ing crowds which were dispersing rapidly. He 
 made a movement as though he would recall 
 them, as though he felt they were still uncon 
 vinced, as though there was much still left un 
 said. 
 
 222
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 A fat stranger halted at his elbow to light his 
 cigar, and glancing up nodded his head approv 
 ing^ 
 
 "Fine speaker, Senator Stanton, ain't he?" 
 he said. 
 
 The young man answered eagerly. "Yes," 
 he assented, "he is a great orator, but how could 
 he help but speak well with such a subject?" 
 
 "Oh, you ought to have heard him last No 
 vember at Tammany Hall," the fat stranger an 
 swered. "He wasn't quite up to himself to 
 night. He wasn't so interested. Those Cubans 
 are foreigners, you see, but you ought to have 
 heard him last St. Patrick's day on Home Rule 
 for Ireland. Then he was talking ! That 
 speech made him a United States senator, I 
 guess. I don't just see how he expects to win 
 out on this Cuba game. The Cubans haven't 
 got no votes." 
 
 The young man opened his eyes in some be 
 wilderment. 
 
 "He speaks for the good of Cuba, for the 
 sake of humanity," he ventured. 
 
 "What?" inquired the fat stranger. "Oh, 
 yes, of course. Well, I must be getting on. 
 Good-night, sir." 
 
 The stranger moved on his way, but the young 
 man still lingered uncertainly in the snow-swept 
 corridor, shivering violently with the cold and 
 
 223
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 stamping his feet for greater comfort. His face 
 was burned to a deep red, which seemed to have 
 come from some long exposure to a tropical sun, 
 but which held no sign of health. His cheeks 
 were hollow and his eyes were lighted with the 
 fire of fever, and from time to time he was 
 shaken by violent bursts of coughing which 
 caused him to reach toward one of the pillars 
 for support. 
 
 As the last of the lights went out in the Gar 
 den, the speaker of the evening and three of his 
 friends came laughing and talking down the 
 long corridor. Senator Stanton was a conspicu 
 ous figure at any time, and even in those places , 
 where his portraits had not penetrated he was 
 at once recognized as a personage. Something 
 in his erect carriage and an unusual grace of 
 movement, and the power and success in his 
 face, made men turn to look at him. He had 
 been told that he resembled the early portraits 
 of Henry Clay, and he had never quite for 
 gotten the coincidence. 
 
 The senator was wrapping the collar of his 
 fur coat around his throat and puffing content 
 edly at a fresh cigar, and as he passed, the night- 
 watchman and the ushers bowed to the great 
 man and stood looking after him with the half- 
 humorous, half-envious deference that the Amer 
 ican voter pays to the successful politician. At 
 
 224
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 the sidewalk, the policemen hurried to open the 
 door of his carriage, and in their eagerness made 
 a double line, through which he passed nodding 
 to them gravely. The young man who had 
 stood so long in waiting pushed his way through 
 the line to his side. 
 
 "Senator Stanton," he began timidly, "might 
 I speak to you a moment? My name is Ark- 
 wright; I am just back from Cuba, and I want 
 to thank you for your speech. I am an Ameri 
 can, and I thank God that I am since you are 
 too, sir. No one has said anything since the 
 war began that compares with what you said 
 to-night. You put it nobly, and I know, for 
 I've been there for three years, only I can't 
 make other people understand it, and I am 
 thankful that some one can. You'll forgive my, 
 stopping you, sir, but I wanted to thank you. 
 I feel it very much." 
 
 Senator Stanton's friends had already seated 
 themselves in his carriage and were looking out 
 of the door and smiling with mock patience. 
 But the senator made no move to follow them. 
 Though they were his admirers they were some 
 times sceptical, and he was not sorry that they 
 should hear this uninvited tribute. So he made 
 a pretense of buttoning his long coat about him, 
 and nodded encouragingly to Arkwright to con 
 tinue. "I'm glad you liked it, sir," he said 
 
 225
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 with the pleasant, gracious smile that had won 
 him a friend wherever it had won him a vote. 
 "It is very satisfactory to know from one who 
 is well informed on the subject that what I 
 have said is correct. The situation there is 
 truly terrible. You have just returned, you 
 say? Where were you in Havana?" 
 
 "No, in the other provinces, sir," Arkwright 
 answered. "I have been all over the island; I 
 am a civil engineer. The truth has not been 
 half told about Cuba, I assure you, sir. It is 
 massacre there, not war. It is partly so through 
 ignorance, but nevertheless it is massacre. And 
 what makes it worse is, that it is the massacre 
 of the innocents. That is what I liked best of 
 what you said in that great speech, the part 
 about the women and children." 
 
 He reached out his hands detainingly, and 
 then drew back as though in apology for having 
 already kept the great man so long waiting in 
 the cold. " I wish I could tell you some of the 
 terrible things I have seen," he began again, 
 eagerly, as Stanton made no movement to de 
 part. "They are much worse than those you 
 instanced to-night, and you could make so much 
 better use of them than any one else. I have 
 seen starving women nursing dead babies, and 
 sometimes starving babies sucking their dead 
 mothers' breasts; I have seen men cut down in 
 
 226
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 the open roads and while digging in the fields 
 and two hundred women imprisoned in one 
 room without food and eaten with smallpox, 
 and huts burned while the people in them 
 slept " 
 
 The young man had been speaking impetu 
 ously, but he stopped as suddenly, for the sen 
 ator was not listening to him. He had lowered 
 his eyes and was looking with a glance of min 
 gled fascination and disgust at Arkwright's 
 hands. In his earnestness the young man had 
 stretched them out, and as they showed behind 
 the line of his ragged sleeves the others could 
 see, even in the blurred light and falling snow, 
 that the wrists of each hand were gashed and 
 cut in dark-brown lines like the skin of a mu 
 latto, and in places were a raw red, where the 
 fresh skin had but just closed over. The young 
 man paused and stood shivering, still holding 
 his hands out rigidly before him. 
 
 The senator raised his eyes slowly and drew 
 away. 
 
 "What is that?" he said in a low voice, 
 pointing with a gloved finger at the black lines 
 on the wrists. 
 
 A sergeant in the group of policemen who 
 had closed around the speakers answered him 
 promptly from his profound fund of professional 
 knowledge. 
 
 227
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 " That's handcuffs, senator," he said impor 
 tantly, and glanced at Stanton as though to 
 signify that at a word from him he would take 
 this suspicious character into custody. The 
 young man pulled the frayed cuffs of his shirt 
 over his wrists and tucked his hands, which the 
 cold had frozen into an ashy blue, under his 
 armpits to warm them. 
 
 "No, they don't use handcuffs in the field," 
 he said in the same low, eager tone; "they use 
 ropes and leather thongs; they fastened me be 
 hind a horse, and when he stumbled going down 
 the trail it jerked me forward and the cords 
 would tighten and tear the flesh.' But they 
 have had a long time to heal now. I have been 
 eight months in prison." 
 
 The young men at the carriage window had 
 ceased smiling and were listening intently. One 
 of them stepped out and stood beside the car 
 riage door looking down at the shivering fig 
 ure before him with a close and curious scru 
 tiny. 
 
 "Eight months in prison!" echoed the police 
 sergeant with a note of triumph; "what did I 
 tell you?" 
 
 "Hold your tongue!" said the young man at 
 the carriage door. There was silence for a 
 moment, while the men looked at the senator, 
 as though waiting for him to speak. 
 
 228
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 "Where were you in prison, Mr. Arkwright?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "First in the calaboose at Santa Clara for two 
 months, and then in Cabanas. The Cubans 
 who were taken when I was were shot by the 
 fusillade on different days during this last 
 month. Two of them, the Ezetas, were father 
 and son, and the Volunteer band played all the 
 time the execution was going on, so that the 
 other prisoners might not hear them cry 'Cuba 
 Libre!' when the order came to fire. But we 
 heard them." 
 
 The senator shivered slightly and pulled his 
 fur collar up farther around his face. "I'd like 
 to talk with you," he said, "if you have noth 
 ing to do to-morrow. I'd like to go into this 
 thing thoroughly. Congress must be made to 
 take some action." 
 
 The young man clasped his hands eagerly. 
 "Ah, Mr. Stanton, if you would," he cried, "if 
 you would only give me an hour! I could tell 
 you so much that you could use. And you can 
 believe what I say, sir it is not necessary to 
 lie God knows the truth is bad enough. I can 
 give you names and dates for everything I say. 
 Or I can do better than that, sir. I can take you 
 there yourself in three months I can show you 
 all you need to see, without danger to you in any 
 way. And they would not know me, now that 
 
 229
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 I have grown a beard, and I am a skeleton to 
 what I was. I can speak the language well, 
 and I know just what you should see, and then 
 you could come back as one speaking with au 
 thority and not have to say, *I have read,' or 
 /have been told/ but you can say, 'These are 
 the things I have seen' and you could free 
 Cuba." 
 
 The senator coughed and put the question 
 aside for the moment with a wave of the hand 
 that held his cigar. "We will talk of that to 
 morrow also. Come to lunch with me at one. 
 My apartments are in the Berkeley on Fifth 
 Avenue. But aren't you afraid to go back 
 there?" he asked curiously. "I should think 
 you'd had enough of it. And you've got a 
 touch of fever, haven't you?" He leaned for 
 ward and peered into the other's eyes. 
 
 "It is only the prison fever," the young man 
 answered; "food and this cold will drive that 
 out of me. And I must go back. There is so 
 much to do there," he added. "Ah, if I could 
 tell them, as you can tell them, what I feel 
 here." He struck his chest sharply with his 
 hand, and on the instant fell into a fit of cough 
 ing so violent that the young man at the car 
 riage door caught him around the waist, and 
 one of the policemen supported him from the 
 other side. 
 
 230
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 " You need a doctor," said the senator, kindly. 
 "I'll ask mine to have a look at you. Don't 
 forget, then, at one o'clock to-morrow. We will 
 go into this thing thoroughly." He shook Ark- 
 wright warmly by the hand and, stooping, 
 stepped into the carriage. The young man 
 who had stood at the door followed him and 
 crowded back luxuriously against the cushions. 
 The footman swung himself up beside the 
 driver, and said, "Up- town Delmonico's," as he 
 wrapped the fur rug around his legs, and with a 
 salute from the policemen and a scraping of hoofs 
 on the slippery asphalt the great man was gone. 
 
 "That poor fellow needs a doctor," he said as 
 the carriage rolled up the avenue, "and he 
 needs an overcoat, and he needs food. He needs 
 about almost everything, by the looks of him." 
 
 But the voice of the young man in the corner 
 of the carriage objected drowsily 
 
 "On the contrary," he said, "it seemed to me 
 that he had the one thing needful." 
 
 By one o'clock of the day following, Senator 
 Stanton, having read the reports of his speech in 
 the morning papers, punctuated with "Cheers," 
 "Tremendous enthusiasm" and more "Cheers," 
 was still in a willing frame of mind toward Cuba 
 and her self-appointed envoy, young Mr. Ark- 
 wright. 
 
 Over night he had had doubts but that the 
 231
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE -TALENT 
 
 young man's enthusiasm would bore him on the 
 morrow, but Mr. Arkwright, when he appeared, 
 developed, on the contrary, a practical turn of 
 mind which rendered his suggestions both flat 
 tering and feasible. He was still terribly in 
 earnest, but he was clever enough or serious 
 enough to see that the motives which appealed 
 to him might not have sufficient force to move 
 a successful statesman into action. So he placed 
 before the senator only those arguments and 
 reasons which he guessed were the best adapted 
 to secure his interest and his help. His proposal 
 as he set it forth was simplicity itself. 
 
 "Here is a map of the island," he said; "on it 
 I have marked the places you can visit in safety, 
 and where you will meet the people you ought 
 to see. If you leave New York at midnight you 
 can reach Tampa on the second day. From 
 Tampa we cross in another day to Havana. 
 There you can visit the Americans imprisoned 
 in Morro and Cabanas, and in the streets you 
 can see the starving pacificos. From Havana I 
 shall take you by rail to Jucaro, Matanzas, 
 Santa Clara, and Cienfuegos. You will not be 
 able to see the insurgents in the fields it is not 
 necessary that you should but you can visit 
 one of the sugar plantations and some of the 
 insurgent chiefs will run the forts by night and 
 come in to talk with you. I will show you 
 
 232
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 burning fields and houses, and starving men 
 and women by the thousands, and men and 
 women dying of fevers. You can see Cuban 
 prisoners shot by a firing squad and you can 
 note how these rebels meet death. You can 
 see all this in three weeks and be back in New 
 York in a month, as any one can see it who 
 wishes to learn the truth. Why, English mem 
 bers of Parliament go all the way to India and 
 British Columbia to inform themselves about 
 those countries, they travel thousands of miles, 
 but only one member of either of our houses of 
 Congress has taken the trouble to cross these 
 eighty miles of water that lie between us and 
 Cuba. You can either go quietly and incog 
 nito, as it were, or you can advertise the fact of 
 your going, which would be better. And from 
 the moment you start the interest in your visit 
 will grow and increase until there will be no 
 topic discussed in any of our papers except your 
 self, and what you are doing and what you 
 mean to do. 
 
 "By the time you return the people will be 
 waiting, ready and eager to hear whatever you 
 may have to say. Your word will be the last 
 word for them. It is not as though you were 
 some demagogue seeking notoriety, or a hotel 
 piazza correspondent at Key West or Jackson 
 ville. You are the only statesman we have, the 
 
 233
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 only orator Americans will listen to, and I tell 
 you that when you come before them and bring 
 home to them as only you can the horrors of 
 this war, you will be the only man in this coun 
 try. You will be the Patrick Henry of Cuba; 
 you can go down to history as the man who 
 added the most beautiful island in the seas to 
 the territory of the United States, who saved 
 thousands of innocent children and women, and 
 who dared to do what no other politician has 
 dared to do to go and see for himself and to 
 come back and speak the truth. It only means 
 a month out of your life, a month's trouble and 
 discomfort, but with no risk. What is a month 
 out of a lifetime, when that month means im 
 mortality to you and life to thousands? In a 
 month you would make a half dozen after- 
 dinner speeches and cause your friends to laugh 
 and applaud. Why not wring their hearts in 
 stead, and hold this thing up before them as it 
 is, and shake it in their faces? Show it to them 
 in all its horror bleeding, diseased, and naked, 
 an offense to our humanity, and to our prated 
 love of liberty, and to our God." 
 
 The young man threw himself eagerly for 
 ward and beat the map with his open palm. 
 But the senator sat apparently unmoved, gaz 
 ing thoughtfully into the open fire, and shook 
 his head. 
 
 234
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 While the luncheon was in progress the young 
 gentleman who the night before had left the 
 carriage and stood at Arkwright's side had 
 entered the room and was listening intently. 
 He had invited himself to some fresh coffee, 
 and had then relapsed into an attentive silence, 
 following what the others said with an amused 
 and interested countenance. Stanton had in 
 troduced him as Mr. Livingstone, and appeared 
 to take it for granted that Arkwright would 
 know who he was. He seemed to regard him 
 with a certain deference which Arkwright judged 
 was due to some fixed position the young man 
 held, either of social or of political value. 
 
 " I do not know," said Stanton with consider 
 ation, "that I am prepared to advocate the 
 annexation of the island. It is a serious prob 
 lem." 
 
 "I am not urging that," Arkwright inter 
 rupted anxiously; "the Cubans themselves do 
 not agree as to that, and in any event it is an 
 afterthought. Our object now should be to 
 prevent further bloodshed. If you see a man 
 beating a boy to death, you first save the boy's 1 
 life and decide afterward where he is to go to 
 school. If there were any one else, senator," 
 Arkwright continued earnestly, "I would not 
 trouble you. But we all know your strength 
 in this country. You are independent and 
 
 235
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 fearless, and men of both parties listen to you. 
 Surely, God has given you this great gift of 
 oratory (if you will forgive my speaking so) to 
 use only in a great cause. A grand organ in a 
 cathedral is placed there to lift men's thoughts 
 to high resolves and purposes, not to make 
 people dance. A street organ can do that. 
 Now, here is a cause worthy of your great tal 
 ents, worthy of a Daniel Webster, of a Henry 
 Clay." 
 
 The senator frowned at the fire and shook 
 his head doubtfully. 
 
 "If they knew what I was down there for," 
 he asked, "wouldn't they put me in prison too?" 
 
 Arkwright laughed incredulously. 
 
 "Certainly not," he said; "you would go 
 there as a private citizen, as a tourist to look on 
 and observe. Spain is not seeking complica 
 tions of that sort. She has troubles enough 
 without imprisoning United States senators." 
 
 'Yes; but these fevers now," persisted Stan- 
 ton, "they're no respecter of persons, I imagine. 
 A United States senator is not above small-pox 
 or cholera." 
 
 Arkwright shook his head impatiently and 
 sighed. 
 
 " It is difficult to make it clear to one who has 
 not been there," he said. "These people and 
 soldiers are dying of fever because they are 
 
 236
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 forced to live like pigs, . and they are already 
 sick with starvation. A healthy man like your 
 self would be in no more danger than you would 
 be in walking through the wards of a New York 
 hospital." 
 
 Senator Stanton turned in his arm-chair, and 
 held up his hand impressively. 
 
 "If I were to tell them the things you have 
 told me," he said warningly; "if I were to say 
 I have seen such things American property in 
 flames, American interests ruined, and that five 
 times as many women and children have died of 
 fever and starvation in three months in Cuba as 
 the Sultan has massacred in Armenia in three 
 years it would mean war with Spain." 
 
 "Well?" said Arkwright. 
 
 Stanton shrugged his shoulders and sank back 
 again in his chair. 
 
 " It would either mean war," Arkwright went 
 on, "or it might mean the sending of the Red 
 Cross army to Cuba. It went to Constanti 
 nople, five thousand miles away, to help the 
 Armenian Christians why has it waited three 
 years to go eighty miles to feed and clothe the 
 Cuban women and children? It is like sending 
 help to a hungry peasant in Russia while a man 
 dies on your door-step." 
 
 "Well," said the senator, rising, "I will let 
 you know to-morrow. If it is the right thing 
 
 237
 
 to do, and if I can do it, of course it must be 
 done. We start from Tampa, you say? I 
 know the presidents of all of those roads and 
 they'll probably give me a private car for the 
 trip down. Shall we take any newspaper men 
 with us, or shall I wait until I get back and be 
 interviewed? What do you think?" 
 
 "I would wait until my return," Arkwright 
 answered, his eyes glowing with the hope the 
 senator's words had inspired, "and then speak 
 to a mass-meeting here and in Boston and in 
 Chicago. Three speeches will be enough. Be 
 fore you have finished your last one the Ameri 
 can warships will be in the harbor of Havana." 
 
 "Ah, youth, youth!" said the senator, smil 
 ing gravely, "it is no light responsibility to 
 urge a country into war." 
 
 "It is no light responsibility," Arkwright an 
 swered, "to know you have the chance to save 
 the lives of thousands of little children and help 
 less women and to let the chance pass." 
 
 "Quite so, that is quite true," said the senator. 
 "Well, good-morning. I shall let you know to 
 morrow." 
 
 Young Livingstone went down in the elevator 
 with Arkwright, and when they had reached 
 the sidewalk stood regarding him for a moment 
 in silence. 
 
 "You mustn't count too much on Stanton, 
 238
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 you know,'* he said kindly; "he has a way of 
 disappointing people." 
 
 "Ah, he can never disappoint me," Arkwright 
 answered confidently, "no matter how much I 
 expected. Besides, I have already heard him 
 speak." 
 
 "I don't mean that; I don't mean he is disap 
 pointing as a speaker. Stanton is a great ora 
 tor, I think. Most of those Southerners are, 
 and he's the only real orator I ever heard. But 
 what I mean is, that he doesn't go into things 
 impulsively; he first considers himself, and then 
 he considers every other side of the question 
 before he commits himself to it. Before he 
 launches out on a popular'wave he tries to find 
 out where it is going to land him. He likes the 
 sort of popular wave that carries him along with 
 it where every one can see him; he doesn't fancy 
 being hurled up on the beach with his mouth 
 full of sand." 
 
 "You are saying that he is selfish, self-seek 
 ing?" Arkwright demanded, with a challenge 
 in his voice. "I thought you were his friend." 
 
 "Yes, he is selfish, and, yes, I am his friend," 
 the young man answered, smiling; "at least, he 
 seems willing to be mine. I am saying nothing 
 against him that I have not said to him. If 
 you'll come back with me up the elevator I'll 
 tell him he's a self-seeker and selfish, and with 
 
 239
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 no thought above his own interests. He won't 
 mind. He'd say I cannot comprehend his mo 
 tives. Why, you've only to look at his record. 
 When the Venezuelan message came out he 
 attacked the President and declared he was 
 trying to make political capital and to drag us 
 into war, and that what we wanted was arbitra 
 tion; but when the President brought out the 
 Arbitration Treaty he attacked that too in the 
 Senate and destroyed it. Why? Not because 
 he had convictions, but because the President 
 had refused a foreign appointment to a friend 
 of his in the South. He has been a free-silver 
 man for the last ten years, he comes from a 
 free-silver state, and the members of the legis 
 lature that elected him were all for silver, but 
 this last election his Wall Street friends got 
 hold of him and worked on his feelings, and he 
 repudiated his party, his state, and his con 
 stituents, and came out for gold." 
 
 "Well, but surely," Arkwright objected, "that 
 took courage? To own that for ten years you 
 had been wrong, and to come out for the right 
 at the last." 
 
 Livingstone stared and shrugged his shoulders. 
 " It's all a question of motives," he said indiffer 
 ently. "I don't want to shatter your idol; I 
 only want to save you from counting too much 
 on him." 
 
 240
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 When Arkwright called on the morrow Senator 
 Stanton was not at home, and the day following 
 he was busy, and could give him only a brief 
 interview. There were previous engagements 
 and other difficulties in the way of his going 
 which he had not foreseen, he said, and he 
 feared he should have to postpone his visit to 
 Cuba indefinitely. He asked if Mr. Arkwright 
 would be so kind as to call again within a week; 
 he would then be better able to give him a 
 definite answer. 
 
 Arkwright left the apartment with a sensation 
 of such keen disappointment that it turned him 
 ill and dizzy. He felt that the great purpose of 
 his life was being played with and put aside. 
 But he had not selfish resentment on his own 
 account; he was only the more determined to 
 persevere. He considered new arguments and 
 framed new appeals; and one moment blamed 
 himself bitterly for having foolishly discouraged 
 the statesman by too vivid pictures of the hor 
 rors he might encounter, and the next, ques 
 tioned if he had not been too practical and so 
 failed because he had not made the terrible need 
 of immediate help his sole argument. Every 
 hour wasted in delay meant, as he knew, the 
 sacrifice of many lives, and there were other, 
 more sordid and more practical, reasons for 
 speedy action. For his supply of money was 
 
 241
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 running low and there was now barely enough 
 remaining to carry him through the month of 
 travel he had planned to take at Stanton's side. 
 What would happen to him when that momen 
 tous trip was over was of no consequence. He 
 would have done the work as far as his small 
 share in it lay, he would have set in motion a 
 great power that was to move Congress and the 
 people of the United States to action. If he 
 could but do that, what became of him counted 
 for nothing. 
 
 But at the end of the week his fears and mis 
 givings were scattered gloriously, and a single 
 line from the senator set his heart leaping and 
 brought him to his knees in gratitude and 
 thanksgiving. On returning one afternoon to 
 the mean lodging into which he had moved to 
 save his money, he found a telegram from 
 Stanton, and he tore it open, trembling be 
 tween hope and fear. 
 
 " Have arranged to leave for Tampa with you Mon 
 day, at midnight," it read. " Call for me at ten o'clock 
 same evening. STANTON." 
 
 Arkwright read the message three times. 
 There was a heavy, suffocating pressure at his 
 heart as though it had ceased beating. He sank 
 back limply upon the edge of his bed and, 
 clutching the piece of paper in his two hands, 
 
 242
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 spoke the words aloud triumphantly, as though 
 to assure himself that they were true. Then a 
 flood of unspeakable relief, of nappiness and 
 gratitude, swept over him, and he turned and 
 slipped to the floor, burying his face in the pil 
 low, and wept out his thanks upon his knees. 
 
 A man so deeply immersed in public affairs as 
 was Stanton, and with such a multiplicity of 
 personal interests, could not prepare to absent 
 himself for a month without his intention be 
 coming known, and on the day when he was to 
 start for Tampa the morning newspapers pro 
 claimed the fact that he was about to visit 
 Cuba. They gave to his mission all the impor 
 tance and display that Arkwright had foretold. 
 Some of the newspapers stated that he was 
 going as a special commissioner of the President 
 to study and report; others that he was acting 
 in behalf of the Cuban legation in Washington 
 and had plenipotentiary powers. Opposition 
 organs suggested that he was acting in the in 
 terests of the sugar trust, and his own particu 
 lar organ declared that it was his intention to 
 free Cuba at the risk of his own freedom, safety, 
 and even life. 
 
 The Spanish minister in Washington sent a 
 cable for publication to Madrid, stating that a 
 distinguished American statesman was about to 
 visit Cuba, to investigate, and, later, to deny 
 
 243
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 the truth of the disgraceful libels published con 
 cerning the Spanish officials on the island by 
 the papers of the United States. At the same 
 time he cabled in cipher to the captain-general 
 in Havana to see that the distinguished states 
 man was closely spied upon from the moment of 
 his arrival until his departure, and to place on 
 the "suspect" list all Americans and Cubans 
 who ventured to give him any information. 
 
 The afternoon papers enlarged on the impor 
 tance of the visit and on the good that would 
 surely come of it. They told that Senator 
 Stanton had refused to be interviewed or to 
 disclose the object of his journey. But it was 
 enough, they said, that some one in authority 
 was at last to seek out the truth, and added that 
 no one would be listened to with greater respect 
 than would the Southern senator. On this all 
 the editorial writers were agreed. The day 
 passed drearily for Arkwright. Early in the 
 morning he packed his valise and paid his land 
 lord, and for the remainder of the day walked 
 the streets or sat in the hotel corridor waiting 
 impatiently for each fresh edition of the papers. 
 In them he read the signs of the great upheaval 
 of popular feeling that was to restore peace and 
 health and plenty to the island for which he 
 had given his last three years of energy and 
 life. 
 
 244
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 He was trembling with excitement, as well as 
 with the cold, when at ten o'clock precisely he 
 stood at Senator Stanton's door. He had for 
 gotten to eat his dinner, and the warmth of the 
 dimly lit hall and the odor of rich food which 
 was wafted from an inner room touched his 
 senses with tantalizing comfort. 
 
 'The senator says you are to come this way, 
 sir," the servant directed. He took Arkwright's 
 valise from his hand and parted the heavy cur- 
 tains that hid the dining-room, and Arkwright 
 stepped in between them and then stopped in 
 some embarrassment. He found himself in the 
 presence of a number of gentlemen seated at a 
 long dinner-table, who turned their heads as he 
 entered and peered at him through the smoke 
 that floated in light layers above the white cloth. 
 The dinner had been served, but the senator's 
 guests still sat with their chairs pushed back 
 from a table lighted by candles under yellow 
 shades, and covered with beautiful flowers and 
 with bottles of varied sizes in stands of quaint 
 and intricate design. Senator Stanton's tall fig 
 ure showed dimly through the smoke, and his 
 deep voice hailed Arkwright cheerily from the 
 farther end of the room. "This way, Mr. Ark 
 wright," he said. "I have a chair waiting 
 for you here." He grasped Arkwright's hand 
 warmly and pulled him into the vacant place at 
 
 245
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 his side. An elderly gentleman on Arkwright's 
 other side moved to make more room for him 
 and shoved a liqueur glass toward him with a 
 friendly nod and pointed at an open box of 
 cigars. He was a fine-looking man, and Ark- 
 wright noticed that he was regarding him with 
 a glance of the keenest interest. All of those 
 at the table were men of twice Arkwright's age, 
 except Livingstone, whom he recognized and 
 who nodded to him pleasantly and at the same 
 time gave an order to a servant, pointing at 
 Arkwright as he did so. Some of the gentlemen 
 wore their business suits, and one opposite Ark 
 wright was still in his overcoat, and held his 
 hat in his hand. These latter seemed to have 
 arrived after the dinner had begun, for they 
 formed a second line back of those who had 
 places at the table; they all seemed to know one 
 another and were talking with much vivacity 
 and interest. 
 
 Stanton did not attempt to introduce Ark 
 wright to his guests individually, but said: 
 "Gentlemen, this is Mr. Arkwright, of w r hom I 
 have been telling you, the young gentleman 
 who has done such magnificent work for the 
 cause of Cuba." Those who caught Arkwright's 
 eye nodded to him, and others raised their 
 glasses at him, but with a smile that he could 
 not understand. It was as though they all 
 
 246
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 knew something concerning him of which he 
 was ignorant. He noted that the faces of some 
 were strangely familiar, and he decided that he 
 must have seen their portraits in the public 
 prints. After he had introduced Arkwright, the 
 senator drew his chair slightly away from him 
 and turned in what seemed embarrassment to 
 the man on his other side. The elderly gentle 
 man next to Arkwright filled his glass, a servant 
 placed a small cup of coffee at his elbow, and 
 he lit a cigar and looked about him. 
 
 "You must find this weather very trying 
 after the tropics," his neighbor said. 
 
 Arkwright assented cordially. The brandy 
 was flowing through his veins and warming him; 
 he forgot that he was hungry, and the kind, in 
 terested glances of those about him set him at 
 his ease. It was a propitious start, he thought, 
 a pleasant leave-taking for the senator and him 
 self, full of good-will and good wishes. 
 
 He turned toward Stanton and waited until 
 he had ceased speaking. 
 
 "The papers have begun well, haven't they?" 
 he asked, eagerly. 
 
 He had spoken in a low voice, almost in a 
 whisper, but those about the table seemed to 
 have heard him, for there was silence instantly, 
 and when he glanced up he saw the eyes of all 
 turned upon him and he noticed on their faces 
 
 247
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 the same smile he had seen there when he 
 entered. 
 
 "Yes," Stanton answered constrainedly. 
 "Yes, I * he lowered his voice, but the silence 
 still continued. Stanton had his eyes fixed on 
 the table, but now he frowned and half rose 
 from his chair. 
 
 "I want to speak with you, Arkwright," he 
 said. "Suppose we go into the next room. I'll 
 be back in a moment," he added, nodding to 
 the others. 
 
 But the man on his right removed his cigar 
 from his lips and said in an undertone, "No, 
 sit down, stay where you are"; and the elderly 
 gentleman at Arkwright's side laid his hand de- 
 tainingly on his arm. "Oh, you won't take 
 Mr. Arkwright away from us, Stanton?" he 
 asked, smiling. 
 
 Stanton shrugged his shoulders and sat down 
 again, and there was a moment's pause. It was 
 broken by the man in the overcoat, who laughed. 
 
 "He's paying you a compliment, Mr. Ark 
 wright," he said. He pointed with his cigar to 
 the gentleman at Arkwright's side. 
 
 "I don't understand," Arkwright answered, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "It's a compliment to your eloquence he's 
 afraid to leave you alone with the senator. 
 Livingstone's been telling us that you are a 
 
 248
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 better talker than Stanton." Arkwright turned 
 a troubled countenance toward the men about 
 the table, and then toward Livingstone, but 
 that young man had his eyes fixed gravely on 
 the glasses before him and did not raise them. 
 
 Arkwright felt a sudden, unreasonable fear of 
 the circle of strong-featured, serene, and con 
 fident men about him. They seemed to be 
 making him the subject of a jest, to be enjoy 
 ing something among themselves of which he 
 was in ignorance, but which concerned him 
 closely. He turned a white face toward Stanton. 
 
 "You don't mean," he began piteously, "that 
 that you are not going? Is that it tell me 
 is that what you wanted to say?" 
 
 Stanton shifted in his chair and muttered 
 some words between his lips, then turned toward 
 Arkwright and spoke quite clearly and dis 
 tinctly. 
 
 "I am very sorry, Mr. Arkwright," he said, 
 "but I am afraid I'll have to disappoint you. 
 Reasons I cannot now explain have arisen which 
 make my going impossible quite impossible," 
 he added firmly "not only now, but later," he 
 went on quickly, as Arkwright was about to 
 interrupt him. 
 
 Arkwright made no second attempt to speak. 
 He felt the muscles of his face working and the 
 tears coming to his eyes, and to hide his weak- 
 
 249
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 ness he twisted in his chair and sat staring 
 ahead of him with his back turned to the table. 
 He heard Livingstone's voice break the silence 
 with some hurried question, and immediately 
 his embarrassment was hidden in a murmur of 
 answers and the moving of glasses as the men 
 shifted in their chairs and the laughter and 
 talk went on as briskly as before. Arkwright 
 saw a sideboard before him and a servant 
 arranging some silver on one of the shelves. 
 He watched the man do this with a concen 
 trated interest as though the dull, numbed 
 feeling in his brain caught at the trifle in order 
 to put off, as long as possible, the consideration 
 of the truth. 
 
 And then beyond the sideboard and the tap 
 estry on the wall above it, he saw the sun shin 
 ing down upon the island of Cuba, he saw the 
 royal palms waving and bending, the dusty 
 columns of Spanish infantry crawling along the 
 white roads and leaving blazing huts and smok 
 ing cane-fields in their wake; he saw skeletons of 
 men and women seeking for food among the 
 refuse of the street; he heard the order given 
 to the firing squad, the splash of the bullets 
 as they scattered the plaster on the prison wall, 
 and he saw a kneeling figure pitch forward on 
 its face, with a useless bandage tied across its 
 sightless eyes. 
 
 250
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 Senator Stanton brought him back with a 
 sharp shake of the shoulder. He had also 
 turned his back on the others, and was leaning 
 forward with his elbows on his knees. He 
 spoke rapidly, and in a voice only slightly raised 
 above a whisper. 
 
 "I am more than sorry, Arkwright," he said 
 earnestly. :< You mustn't blame me altogether. 
 I have had a hard time of it this afternoon. I 
 wanted to go. I really wanted to go. The 
 thing appealed to me, it touched me, it seemed 
 as if I owed it to myself to do it. But they 
 were too many for me," he added with a back 
 ward toss of his head toward the men around his 
 table. " If the papers had not told on me I could 
 have got well away," he went on in an eager 
 tone, "but as soon as they read of it, they came 
 here straight from their offices. You know who 
 they are, don't you?" he asked, and even in 
 his earnestness there was an added touch of 
 importance in his tone as he spoke the name of 
 his party's leader, of men who stood promi 
 nently in Wall Street and who were at the head 
 of great trusts. 
 
 "You see how it is," he said with a shrug of 
 his shoulders. "They have enormous interests 
 at stake. They said I would drag them into 
 war, that I would disturb values, that the busi 
 ness interests of the country would suffer. I'm 
 
 251
 
 under obligations to most of them, they have 
 advised me in financial matters, and they 
 threatened they threatened to make it un 
 pleasant for me." His voice hardened and he 
 drew in his breath quickly, and laughed. "You 
 wouldn't understand if I -were to tell you. It's 
 rather involved. And after all, they may be 
 right, agitation may be bad for the country. 
 And your party leader after all is your party 
 leader, isn't he, and if he says 'no' what are 
 you to do? My sympathies are just as keen 
 for these poor women and children as ever, but 
 as these men say, 'charity begins at home,' and 
 we mustn't do anything to bring on war prices 
 again, or to send stocks tumbling about our 
 heads, must we?" He leaned back in his chair 
 again and sighed. "Sympathy is an expensive 
 luxury, I find," he added. 
 
 Arkwright rose stifHy and pushed Stanton 
 away from him with his hand. He moved like 
 a man coming out of a dream. 
 
 "Don't talk to me like that," he said in a 
 low voice. The noise about the table ended on 
 the instant, but Arkwright did not notice that 
 it had ceased. "You know I don't understand 
 that," he went on; "what does it matter to 
 me?" He put his hand up to the side of his 
 face and held it there, looking down at Stanton. 
 He had the dull, heavy look in his eyes of 
 
 252
 
 "You are like a ring of gamblers around a gaming 
 table."
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 a man who has just come through an opera 
 tion under some heavy drug. : 'WaII Street/ 
 'trusts,' 'party leaders,'" he repeated, "what 
 are they to me? The words don't reach me, 
 they have lost their meaning, it is a language 
 I have forgotten, thank God!" he added. He 
 turned and moved his eyes around the table, 
 scanning the faces of the men before him. 
 
 ''Yes, you are twelve to one," he said at last, 
 still speaking dully and in a low voice, as though 
 he were talking to himself. "You have won a 
 noble victory, gentlemen. I congratulate you. 
 But I do not blame you, we are all selfish and 
 self-seeking. I thought I was working only 
 for Cuba, but I was working for myself, just 
 as you are. I wanted to feel that it was I who 
 had helped to bring relief to that plague-spot, 
 that it was through my efforts the help had 
 come. Yes, if he had done as I asked, I sup 
 pose I would have taken the credit." 
 
 He swayed slightly, and to steady himself 
 caught at the back of his chair. But at the 
 same moment his eyes glowed fiercely and he 
 held himself erect again. He pointed with his 
 finger at the circle of great men who sat look 
 ing up at him in curious silence. 
 
 " You are like a ring of gamblers around a 
 gaming table," he cried wildly, "who see noth 
 ing but the green cloth and the wheel and the 
 
 253
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 piles of money before them, who forget, in 
 watching the money rise and fall, that outside 
 the sun is shining, that human beings are sick 
 and suffering, that men are giving their lives 
 for an idea, for a sentiment, for a flag. You 
 are the money-changers in the temple of this 
 great republic; and the day will come, I pray 
 to God, when you will be scourged and driven 
 out with whips. Do you think you can form 
 combines and deals that will cheat you into 
 heaven? Can your * trusts' save your souls is 
 'Wall Street' the straight and narrow road to 
 salvation?" 
 
 The men about the table leaned back and 
 stared at Arkwright in as great amazement as 
 though he had violently attempted an assault 
 upon their pockets, or had suddenly gone mad 
 in their presence. Some of them frowned, and 
 others appeared not to have heard, and others 
 smiled grimly and waited for him to continue 
 as though they were spectators at a play. 
 
 The political leader broke the silence with a 
 low aside to Stanton. "Does the gentleman 
 belong to the Salvation Army?" he asked. 
 
 Arkwright whirled about and turned upon 
 him fiercely. 
 
 "Old gods give way to new gods," he cried. 
 "Here is your brother. I am speaking for him. 
 Do you ever think of him? How dare you 
 
 254
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 sneer at me?" he cried. "You can crack your 
 whip over that man's head and turn him from 
 what in his heart and conscience he knows is 
 right; you can crack your whip over the men 
 who call themselves free-born American citizens 
 and who have made you their boss sneer at 
 them if you like, but you have no collar on my 
 neck. If you are a leader, why don't you lead 
 your people to what is good and noble? Why 
 do you stop this man in the work God sent him 
 here to do? You would make a party hack of 
 him, a political prostitute, something lower 
 than the woman who walks the streets. She 
 sells her body this man is selling his soul." 
 
 He turned, trembling and quivering, and 
 shook his finger above the upturned face of the 
 senator. 
 
 "What have you done with your talents, 
 Stanton?" he cried. "What have you done 
 with your talents?" 
 
 The man in the overcoat struck the table 
 before him with his fist so that the glasses rang. 
 
 "By God," he laughed, "I call him a better 
 speaker than Stanton ! Livingstone's right, he 
 is better than Stanton but he lacks Stanton's 
 knack of making himself popular," he added. 
 He looked around the table inviting approba- 
 / tion with a smile, but no one noticed him, nor 
 spoke to break the silence.
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 Arkwright heard the words dully and felt 
 that he was being mocked. He covered his 
 face with his hands and stood breathing bro 
 kenly; his body was still trembling with an ex 
 citement he could not master. 
 
 Stanton rose from his chair and shook him 
 by the shoulder. "Are you mad, Arkwright?" 
 he cried. "You have no right to insult my 
 guests or me. Be calm control yourself." 
 
 "What does it matter what I say?" Ark 
 wright went on desperately. "I am mad. 
 Yes, that is it, I am mad. They have won and 
 I have lost, and it drove me beside myself. I 
 counted on you. I knew that no one else 
 could let my people go. But I'll not trouble you 
 again. I wish you good-night, sir, and good-by. 
 If I have been unjust, you must forget it." 
 
 He turned sharply, but Stanton placed a de 
 taining hand on his shoulder. '* Wait," he 
 commanded querulously; "where are you going? 
 Will you still ?" 
 
 Arkwright bowed his head. "Yes," he an 
 swered. "I have but just time now to catch 
 our train my train, I mean." 
 
 He looked up at Stanton, and taking his 
 hand in both of his, drew the man toward him. 
 All the wildness and intolerance in his manner 
 had passed, and as he raised his eyes they were 
 full of a firm resolve. 
 
 256
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 "Come," he said, simply; "there is yet time. 
 Leave these people behind yoii. What can you 
 answer when they ask what have you done 
 with your talents?" 
 
 "Good God, Arkwright," the senator ex 
 claimed, angrily, pulling his hand away; "don't 
 talk like a hymn-book, and don't make another 
 scene. What you ask is impossible. Tell me 
 what I can do to help you in any other way, 
 and- 
 
 "Come," repeated the young man, firmly. 
 'The world may judge you by what you do to 
 night." 
 
 Stanton looked at the boy for a brief moment 
 with a strained and eager scrutiny, and then 
 turned away abruptly and shook his head in 
 silence, and Arkwright passed around the tab.e 
 and on out of the room. 
 
 A month later, as the Southern senator was 
 passing through the reading-room of the Union 
 Club, Livingstone beckoned to him, and hand 
 ing him an afternoon paper pointed at a para 
 graph in silence. The paragraph was dated 
 Sagua la Grande, and read: 
 
 "The body of Henry Arkwright, an Ameri 
 can civil engineer, was brought into Sagua to 
 day by a Spanish column. It was found lying 
 in a road three miles beyond the line of forts. 
 Arkwright was surprised by a guerilla force 
 
 257
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 
 
 while attempting to make his way to the insur 
 gent camp, and on resisting was shot. The 
 body has been handed over to the American 
 consul for interment. It is badly mutilated." 
 
 Stanton lowered the paper and stood staring 
 out of the window at the falling snow and the 
 cheery lights and bustling energy of the avenue. 
 
 "Poor fellow," he said, "he wanted so much 
 to help them. And he didn't accomplish any 
 thing, did he?" 
 
 Livingstone stared at the older man and 
 laughed shortly. 
 
 "Well, I don't know," he said. "He died. 
 Some of us only live." 
 
 253
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 MRS. TREVELYAN, as she took her seat, shot 
 a quick glance down the length of her table and 
 at the arrangement of her guests, and tried to 
 learn if her lord and master approved. But he 
 was listening to something Lady Arbuthnot, 
 who sat on his right, was saying, and, being a 
 man, failed to catch her meaning, and only 
 smiled unconcernedly and cheerfully back at 
 her. But the wife of the Austrian Minister, 
 who was her very dearest friend, saw and ap 
 preciated, and gave her a quick little smile 
 over her fan, which said that the table was 
 perfect, the people most interesting, and that 
 she could possess her soul in peace. So Mrs. 
 Trevelyan pulled at the tips of her gloves and 
 smiled upon her guests. Mrs. Trevelyan was 
 not used to questioning her powers, but this 
 dinner had been almost impromptu, and she 
 had been in doubt. It was quite unnecessary, 
 for her dinner carried with it the added virtue 
 of being the last of the season, an encore to all 
 that had gone before a special number by re 
 quest on the social programme. It was not 
 
 259
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 one of many others stretching on for weeks, for 
 the summer's change and leisure began on the 
 morrow, and there was nothing hanging over 
 her guests that they must go on to later. They 
 knew that their luggage stood ready locked and 
 strapped at home; they could look before them 
 * to the whole summer's pleasure, and they were 
 relaxed and ready to be pleased, and broke 
 simultaneously into a low murmur of talk and 
 laughter. The windows of the dining-room 
 stood open from the floor, and from the tiny 
 garden that surrounded the house, even in the 
 great mass of stucco and brick of encircling 
 London, came the odor of flowers and of fresh 
 turf. A soft summer-night wind moved the 
 candles under their red shades; and gently as 
 though they rose from afar, and not only from 
 across the top of the high wall before the house, 
 came the rumble of the omnibuses passing far 
 ther into the suburbs, and the occasional quick 
 rush of a hansom over the smooth asphalt. It 
 was a most delightful choice of people, gathered 
 at short notice and to do honor to no one in 
 particular, but to give each a chance to say 
 good-by before he or she met the yacht at 
 Southampton or took the club train to Hom- 
 burg. They all knew each other very well; 
 and if there was a guest of the evening, it was 
 one of the two Americans either Miss Egerton, 
 
 260
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 the girl who was to marry Lord Arbuthnot, 
 whose mother sat on Trevelyan's right, or young 
 Gordon, the explorer, who has just come out 
 of Africa. Miss Egerton was a most strikingly 
 
 C? O <J 
 
 beautiful girl, with a strong, fine face, and an 
 earnest, interested way when she spoke, which 
 the English found most attractive. In appear 
 ance she had been variously likened by Tre- 
 velyan, who was painting her portrait, to a 
 druidess, a vestal virgin, and a Greek goddess; 
 and Lady Arbuthnot's friends, who thought to 
 please the girl, assured her that no one would 
 ever suppose her to be an American their 
 ideas of the American young woman having 
 been gathered from those who pick out tunes 
 with one finger on the pianos in the public par 
 lors of the Metropole. Miss Egerton was said 
 to be intensely interested in her lover's career, 
 and was as ambitious for his success in the 
 House as he was himself. They were both 
 very much in love, and showed it to others as 
 little as people of their class do. The others at 
 the table were General Sir Henry Kent; Phillips, 
 the novelist; the Austrian Minister and his 
 young wife; and Trevelyan, who painted por 
 traits for large sums of money and figure pieces 
 for art; and some simply fashionable smart 
 people who were good listeners, and who were 
 rather disappointed that the American explorer 
 
 261
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 was no more sunburned than other young men 
 who had stayed at home, and who had gone in 
 for tennis or yachting. 
 
 The worst of Gordon was that he made it next 
 to impossible for one to lionize him. He had been 
 back in civilization and London only two weeks, 
 unless Cairo and Shepheard's Hotel are civiliza 
 tion, and he had been asked everywhere, and 
 for the first week had gone everywhere. But 
 whenever his hostess looked for him, to present 
 another and not so recent a lion, he was gener 
 ally found either humbly carrying an ice to 
 some neglected dowager, or talking big game 
 or international yachting or tailors to a circle 
 of younger sons in the smoking-room, just as 
 though several hundred attractive and distin 
 guished people were not waiting to fling the 
 speeches they had prepared on Africa at him, in 
 the drawing-room above. He had suddenly 
 disappeared during the second week of his stay 
 in London, which was also the last week of the 
 London season, and managers of lecture tours 
 and publishers and lion-hunters, and even 
 friends who cared for him for himself, had 
 failed to find him at his lodgings. Trevelyan, 
 who had known him when he was a travelling 
 correspondent and artist for one of the great 
 weeklies, had found him at the club the night 
 before, and had asked him to his wife's im- 
 
 262
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 promptu dinner, from which he had at first 
 begged off, but, on learning who was to be 
 there, had changed his mind and accepted. 
 Mrs. Trevelyan was very glad he had come; she 
 had always spoken of him as a nice boy, and 
 now that he had become famous she liked him 
 none the less, but did not show it before people 
 as much as she had been used to do. She for 
 got to ask him whether he knew his beautiful 
 compatriot or not; but she took it for granted 
 that they had met, if not at home, at least in 
 London, as they had both been made so much 
 of, and at the same houses. 
 
 The dinner was well on its way toward its 
 end, and the women had begun to talk across 
 the table, and to exchange bankers' addresses, 
 and to say, "Be sure and look us up in Paris," 
 and "When do you expect to sail from Cowes?" 
 They were enlivened and interested, and the 
 present odors of the food and flowers and wine, 
 and the sense of leisure before them, made it 
 seem almost a pity that such a well-suited 
 gathering should have to separate for even a 
 summer's pleasure. 
 
 The Austrian Minister was saying this to 
 his hostess, when Sir Henry Kent, who had 
 been talking across to Phillips, the novelist, 
 leaned back in his place and said, as though 
 to challenge the attention of every one, " I can't 
 
 263
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 agree with you, Phillips. I am sure no one 
 else will." 
 
 "Dear me," complained Mrs. Trevelyan, 
 plaintively, "what have you been saying now, 
 Mr. Phillips? He always has such debatable 
 theories," she explained. 
 
 "On the contrary, Mrs. Trevelyan," an 
 swered the novelist, "it is the other way. It is 
 Sir Henry who is making all the trouble. He is 
 attacking one of the oldest and dearest plati 
 tudes I know." He paused for the general to 
 speak, but the older man nodded his head for 
 him to go on. "He has just said that fiction 
 is stranger than truth," continued the novelist. 
 "He says that I that people who write could 
 never interest people who read if they wrote of 
 things as they really are. They select, he says 
 they take the critical moment in a man's life 
 and the crises, and want others to believe that 
 that is what happens every day. Which it is 
 not, so the general says. He thinks that life is 
 commonplace and uneventful that is, unevent 
 ful in a picturesque or dramatic way. He ad 
 mits that women's lives are saved from drown 
 ing, but that they are not saved by their lovers, 
 but by a longshoreman with a wife and six chil 
 dren, who accepts five pounds for doing it. 
 That's it, is it not?" he asked. 
 
 The general nodded and smiled. "What I 
 264
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 said to Phillips was," he explained, "that if 
 things were related just as they happen, they 
 would not be interesting. People do not say 
 the dramatic things they say on the stage or in 
 novels; in real life they are commonplace or 
 sordid or disappointing. I have seen men die 
 on the battle-field, for instance, and they never 
 cried, 'I die that my country may live,' or 'I 
 have got my promotion at last'; they just 
 stared up at the surgeon and said, 'Have I 
 got to lose that arm?' or 'I am killed, I think/ 
 You see, when men are dying around you, and 
 horses are plunging, and the batteries are firing, 
 one doesn't have time to think up the appro 
 priate remark for the occasion. I don't believe, 
 now, that Pitt's last words were, 'Roll up the 
 map of Europe.' A man who could change the 
 face of a continent would not use his dying 
 breath in making epigrams. It was one of his 
 secretaries or one of the doctors who said that. 
 And the man who was capable of writing home, 
 'All is lost but honor,' was just the sort of a 
 man who would lose more battles than he would 
 win. No; you, Phillips," said the general, rais 
 ing his voice as he became more confident and 
 conscious that he held the centre of the stage, 
 "and you, Trevelyan, don't write and paint 
 every-day things as they are. You introduce 
 something for a contrast or for an effect; a red 
 
 265
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 coat in a landscape for the bit of color you 
 want, when in real life the red coat would not 
 be within miles; or you have a band of music 
 playing a popular air in the street when a mur 
 der is going on inside the house. You do it be 
 cause it is effective; but it isn't true. Now Mr. 
 Caithness was telling us the other night at the 
 club, on this very matter " 
 
 "Oh, that's hardly fair," laughed Trevelyan; 
 "you've rehearsed all this before. You've come 
 prepared." 
 
 "No, not at all," frowned the general, sweep 
 ing on. "He said that before he was raised to 
 the bench, when he practised criminal law, he 
 had brought word to a man that he was to be 
 reprieved, and to another that he was to die. 
 Now, you know," exclaimed the general, with 
 a shrug, and appealing to the table, "how that 
 would be done on the stage or in a novel, with 
 the prisoner bound ready for execution, and a 
 galloping horse, and a fluttering piece of white 
 paper, and all that. Well, now, Caithness told 
 us that he went into the man's cell and said, 
 'You have been reprieved, John,' or William, 
 or whatever the fellow's name was. And the 
 man looked at him and said: 'Is that so? 
 That's good that's good'; and that was all he 
 said. And then, again, he told one man whose 
 life he had tried very hard to save: 'The Home 
 
 266
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 Secretary has refused to intercede for you. I 
 saw him at his house last night at nine o'clock/ 
 And the murderer, instead of saying, * My God ! 
 what will my wife and children do?' looked at 
 him, and repeated, 'At nine o'clock last. night!' 
 just as though that were the important part of 
 the message." 
 
 "Well, but, general," said Phillips, smiling, 
 "that's dramatic enough as it is, I think. 
 Why " 
 
 "Yes," interrupted the general, quickly and 
 triumphantly. "But that is not what you 
 would have made him say, is it? That's my 
 point." 
 
 " There was a man told me once," Lord Ar- 
 buthnot began, leisurely "he was a great 
 chum of mine, and it illustrates what Sir Henry 
 has said, I think he was engaged to a girl, and 
 he had a misunderstanding or an understanding 
 with her that opened both their eyes, at a dance, 
 and the next afternoon he called, and they 
 talked it over in the drawing-room, with the 
 tea-tray between them, and agreed to end it. 
 On the stage he would have risen and said, 
 'Well, the comedy is over, the tragedy begins, 
 or the curtain falls; and she would have gone 
 to the piano and played Chopin sadly while he 
 made his exit. Instead of which he got up to 
 go without saying anything, and as he rose he 
 
 267
 
 AM IIIOTIMKHED STORY 
 
 upset a cop and saucer on the tea-table, and 
 said, "On, I beg yaw pardon*; and she said, "It 
 isnn*t broken"; an3 be went out. You see," the 
 young man. added!, sniiiiing, "there were two 
 young people whose beaits were breaking, and 
 yet they talked of teacups, not because they 
 did not feel but because custom is too strong on 
 us and too lunch for us. We do not say dia- 
 things or do tbraliaal ones. It does not 
 interesting leading, but it is the troth." 
 Exactly/* cut in the Austrian 
 
 i.^.~ : :. And then there is the prerogative of 
 the author and of Ac playwijgjht to drop a cur- 
 taiu mhincver ne wants to, or to put a stop to 
 eraxything by endmg the chapter. That isn't 
 
 lair. Tlat Bam advantage overmature. When 
 
 i^H^BBUM*' flua^ nkAwiz^MV M^BiBaM>- ^pmjpW' %*a^pw %fl ^inxjiuu^g^ -s^vmftjnu^ 
 
 thing dreadful at the play, down conies the cur- 
 
 ! OJDDCK. ^M*" in^MEV tiiii*g!B 0t lever jxMmt, or 
 the chapter ends widt a lot of stars, and the 
 next page begins with a dcsniptm of a sun 
 set two MVC&S later. To be true, we ougjbt to 
 be told what tue man wno is accused said in 
 the reply, or what happened during dose two 
 weds before the sunset. The author leafty has 
 no i^gpl to yfcimqup! cfluy tiae cinlM.'al UDomesnts, 
 and to shut out the ciimuMHinJarp, every-day 
 life by a sort of Eloaiy closure- That is, if be 
 
 ~.'. ~.i_ ~-.' ~ ~..r.~.~.
 
 AN UNFENfKHED STORY 
 
 iJii 
 
 fofly aiDond tic table. 'D:e= 11; ::t 
 fed called opon to testify? " lie asked. 
 
 "It's awfol, isn't it, Pfeffl^B," laaghed Tie- 
 vdyan, comfortably, "to find ffia^- Ac pbotng- 
 rapher is the only artist, after all? I fed very 
 go3ty. w 
 
 "You ou^^t to," pmooanoBd tne 
 
 . He was veiy wdi saiasfifo wiu. 
 sdf at baling held his own against: these 
 
 "And I am sore Mr. Gordon w53 
 
 agree wxlA me, too, be wcul on, cui 
 
 witb a boir toward tbe younger man. " ~. t 
 has seen more <jf the mdd tban any of us, and 
 be wffl tefl you, I am sure, tbat wbat ba|i|iffffv 
 only suggests tbe stay; it is not iii|iirf r in 
 itself- Tbat it always needs tbe amber's toada, 
 just as tbe ioo^h cfianiood - *" 
 
 "Oil, tbantg, tbaiibg, general,*' IgngFifrT Pb3- 
 
 I! 5. "My feefiogs are not feurt as badly as 
 tbat." 
 
 Goidon bad been turning tbe stem of a wine 
 glass slowly between bis thumb and bis finger 
 waife Ac others were talking, and looking down 
 at it qniiing- Now be raised bis eyes as though 
 be meant to speak, and then dropped them 
 again. "I am afraid, Sir Henry, 9 " be said, 
 "that I don't agree with you at aH.** 
 .:.:>c v.r.: hn ^:i r. 
 
 - : '~
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 satisfaction that they had not committed them*- 
 selves. The Austrian Minister tried to remem 
 ber what it was he had said, and whether it 
 was too late to retreat, and the general looked 
 blankly at Gordon, and said, "Indeed?" 
 
 "You shouldn't have called on that last wit 
 ness, Sir Henry," said Phillips, smiling. "Your 
 case was very good as it was." 
 
 "I am quite sure," said Gordon, seriously, 
 "that the story Phillips will never write is a 
 true story, but he will not write it because peo 
 ple would say it is impossible, just as you have 
 all seen sunsets sometimes that you knew would 
 be laughed at if any one tried to paint them. 
 We all know such a story, something in our own 
 lives, or in the lives of our friends. Not ghost 
 stories, or stories of adventure, but of ambitions 
 that come to nothing, of people who were re 
 warded or punished in this world instead of in 
 the next, and love stories." 
 
 Phillips looked at the young man keenly and 
 smiled. "Especially love stories," he said. 
 
 Gordon looked back at him as if he did not 
 understand. 
 
 "Tell it, Gordon," said Mr. Trevelyan. 
 
 "Yes," said Gordon, nodding his head in 
 assent, "I was thinking of a particular story. 
 It is as complete, I think, and as dramatic as 
 any of those we read. It is about a man I met 
 
 270
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 in Africa. It is not a long story," he said, 
 looking around the table tentatively, "but it 
 ends badly." 
 
 There was a silence much more appreciated 
 than a polite murmur of invitation would have 
 been, and the simply smart people settled them 
 selves rigidly to catch every word for future 
 use. They realized that this would be a story 
 which had not as yet appeared in the newspa 
 pers, and which would not make a part of 
 Gordon's book. Mrs. Trevelyan smiled en 
 couragingly upon her former protege; she was 
 sure he was going to do himself credit; but the 
 American girl chose this chance, when all the 
 other eyes were turned expectantly toward the 
 explorer, to look at her lover. 
 
 "We were on our return march from Lake 
 Tchad to the Mobangi," said Gordon. "We 
 had been travelling over a month, sometimes 
 by water and sometimes through the forest, and 
 we did not expect to see any other white men 
 besides those of our own party for several 
 months to come. In the middle of a jungle 
 late one afternoon I found this man lying at the 
 foot of a tree. He had been cut and beaten 
 and left for dead. It was as much of a surprise 
 to me, you understand, as it would be to you 
 if you were driving through Trafalgar Square 
 in a hansom, and an African lion should spring 
 
 271
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 up on your horses' haunches. We believed we 
 were the only white men that had ever suc 
 ceeded in getting that far south. Crampel had 
 tried it, and no one knows yet whether he is 
 dead or alive; Doctor Schlemen had been eaten 
 by cannibals, and Major Bethume had turned 
 back two hundred miles farther north; and we 
 could no more account for this man's presence 
 than if he had been dropped from the clouds. 
 Lieutenant Royce, my surgeon, went to work at 
 him, and we halted where we were for the night. 
 In about an hour the man moved and opened 
 his eyes. He looked up at us and said, 'Thank 
 God!' because we were white, I suppose and 
 went off into unconsciousness again. When he 
 came to the next time, he asked Royce, in a 
 whisper, how long he had to live. He wasn't 
 the sort of a man you had to lie to about a 
 thing like that, and Royce told him he did not 
 think he could live for more than an hour or 
 two. The man moved his head to show that 
 he understood, and raised his hand to his throat 
 and began pulling at his shirt, but the effort 
 sent him off into a fainting-fit again. I opened 
 his collar for him as gently as I could, and found 
 that his fingers had clinched around a silver 
 necklace that he wore about his neck, and from 
 which there hung a gold locket shaped like a 
 heart." 
 
 272
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 Gordon raised his eyes slowly from the obser 
 vation of his finger-tips as they rested on the 
 edge of the table before him to those of the 
 American girl who sat opposite. She had heard 
 his story so far without any show of attention, 
 and had been watching, rather with a touch of 
 fondness in her eyer, the clever, earnest face of 
 Arbuthnot, who was following Gordon's story 
 with polite interest. But now, at Gordon's 
 last words, she turned her eyes to him with a 
 look of awful indignation, which was followed, 
 when she met his calmly polite look of inquiry, 
 by one of fear and almost of entreaty. 
 
 "When the man came to," continued Gor 
 don, in the same conventional monotone, "he 
 begged me to take the chain and locket to a girl 
 whom he said I would find either in London or 
 in New York. He gave me the address of her 
 banker. He said: 'Take it off my neck before 
 you bury me; tell her I wore it ever since she 
 gave it to me. That it has been a charm and 
 loadstone to me. That when the locket rose 
 and fell against my breast, it was as if her heart 
 were pressing against mine and answering the 
 beating and throbbing of the blood in my 
 
 veins.' 
 
 Gordon paused, and returned to the thought 
 ful scrutiny of his finger-tips. 
 
 "The man did not die," he said, raising his 
 
 273
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 head. "Royce brought him back into such 
 form again that in about a week we were able to 
 take him along with us on a litter. But he was 
 very weak, and would lie for hours sleeping 
 when we rested, or mumbling and raving in a 
 fever. We learned from him at odd times that 
 he had been trying to reach Lake Tchad, to do 
 what we had done, without any means of doing 
 it. He had had not more than a couple of 
 dozen porters and a corporal's guard of Senega 
 lese soldiers. He was the only white man in 
 the party, and his men had turned on him, and 
 left him as we found him, carrying off with 
 them his stock of provisions and arms. He 
 had undertaken the expedition on a promise 
 from the French government to make him gov 
 ernor of the territory he opened up if he suc 
 ceeded, but he had had no official help. If he 
 failed, he got nothing; if he succeeded, he did 
 so at his own expense and by his own endeavors. 
 It was only a wonder he had been able to get 
 as far as he did. He did not seem to feel the 
 failure of his expedition. All that was lost in 
 the happiness of getting back alive to this 
 woman with whom he was in love. He had 
 been three days alone before we found him, and 
 in those three days, while he waited for death, 
 he had thought of nothing but that he would 
 never see her again. He had resigned himself 
 
 274
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 to this, had given up all hope, and our coming 
 seemed like a miracle to him. I have read 
 about men in love, I have seen it on the stage, 
 I have seen it in real life, but I never saw a 
 man so grateful to God and so happy and so 
 insane over a woman as this man was. He 
 raved about her when he was feverish, and he 
 talked and talked to me about her when he 
 was in his senses. The porters could not under 
 stand him, and he found me sympathetic, I 
 suppose, or else he did not care, and only wanted 
 to speak of her to some one, and so he told me 
 the story over and over again as I walked be 
 side the litter, or as we sat by the fire at night. 
 She must have been a very remarkable girl. 
 He had met her first the year before, on one 
 of the Italian steamers that ply from New York 
 to Gibraltar. She was travelling with her 
 father, who was an invalid going to Tangier 
 for his health; from Tangier they were to go 
 on up to Nice and Cannes, and in the spring to 
 Paris and on to London for this season just 
 over. The man was going from Gibraltar to 
 Zanzibar, and then on into the Congo. They 
 had met the first night out; they had separated 
 thirteen days later at Gibraltar, and in that 
 time the girl had fallen in love with him, and 
 had promised to marry him if he would let her, 
 for he was very proud. He had to be. He had 
 
 275
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 absolutely nothing to offer her. She is very 
 well known at home. I mean her family is: 
 they have lived in New York from its first days, 
 and they are very rich. The girl had lived a 
 life as different from his as the life of a girl in 
 society must be from that of a vagabond. He 
 had been an engineer, a newspaper correspon 
 dent, an officer in a Chinese army, and had built 
 bridges in South America, and led their little 
 revolutions there, and had seen service on the 
 desert in the French army of Algiers. He had 
 no home or nationality even, for he had left 
 America when he was sixteen; he had no family, 
 had saved no money, and was trusting every 
 thing to the success of this expedition into Africa 
 to make him known and to give him position. 
 It was the story of Othello and Desdemona over 
 again. His blackness lay from her point of 
 view, or rather would have Iain from the point 
 of view of her friends, in the fact that he was 
 as helplessly ineligible a young man as a cow 
 boy. And he really had lived a life of which he 
 had no great reason to be proud. He had ex 
 isted entirely for excitement, as other men live 
 to drink until they kill themselves by it; noth 
 ing he had done had counted for much except 
 his bridges. They are still standing. But the 
 things he had written are lost in the columns of 
 the daily papers. The soldiers he had fought 
 
 276
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 with knew him only as a man who cared more 
 for the fighting than for what the fighting was 
 about, and he had been as ready to write on 
 one side as to fight on the other. He was a 
 rolling stone, and had been a rolling stone from 
 the time he was sixteen and had run away to 
 sea, up to the day he had met this girl, when he 
 was just thirty. Yet you can see how such a 
 man would attract a young, impressionable girl, 
 who had met only those men whose actions are 
 bounded by the courts of law or Wall Street, or 
 the younger set who drive coaches and who 
 live the life of the clubs. She had gone through 
 life as some people go through picture-galleries, 
 with their catalogues marked at the best pic 
 tures. She knew nothing of the little fellows 
 whose work was skied, who were trying to be 
 known, who were not of her world, but who 
 toiled and prayed and hoped to be famous. 
 This man came into her life suddenly with his 
 stories of adventure and strange people and 
 strange places, of things done for the love of 
 doing them and not for the reward or reputa 
 tion, and he bewildered her at first, I suppose, 
 and then fascinated, and then won her. You 
 can imagine how it was, these two walking the 
 deck together during the day, or sitting side by 
 side when the night came on, the ocean stretched 
 before them. The daring of his present under- 
 
 277
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 taking, the absurd glamour that is thrown over 
 those who have gone into that strange country 
 from which some travellers return, and the pic- 
 turesqueness of his past life. It is no wonder 
 the girl made too much of him. I do not think 
 he knew what was coming. He did not pose 
 before her. I am quite sure, from what I knew 
 of him, that he did not. Indeed, I believed 
 him when he said that he had fought against 
 the more than interest she had begun to show 
 for him. He was the sort of man women care 
 for, but they had not been of this woman's class 
 or calibre. It came to him like a sign from 
 the heavens. It was as if a goddess had stooped 
 to him. He told her when they separated that 
 if he succeeded if he opened this unknown 
 country, if he was rewarded as they had prom 
 ised to reward him he might dare to come to 
 her; and she called him her knight-errant, and 
 gave him her chain and locket to wear, and told 
 him whether he failed or succeeded it meant 
 nothing to her, and that her life was his while 
 it lasted, and her soul as well. 
 
 "I think," Gordon said, stopping abruptly, 
 with an air of careful consideration, "that those 
 were her words as he repeated them to me." 
 
 He raised his eyes thoughtfully toward the 
 face of the girl opposite, and then glanced past 
 her, as if he were trying to recall the words the 
 
 2-8
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 man had used. The fine, beautiful face of the 
 woman was white and drawn around the lips, 
 and she gave a quick, appealing glance at her 
 hostess, as if she would beg to be allowed to go. 
 But Mrs. Trevelyan and her guests were watch 
 ing Gordon or toying with the things in front 
 of them. The dinner had been served, and not 
 even the soft movements of the servants inter 
 rupted the young man's story. 
 
 "You can imagine a man," Gordon went on, 
 more lightly, "finding a hansom cab slow when 
 he is riding from the station to see the woman 
 he loves; but imagine this man urging himself 
 and the rest of us to hurry when we were in 
 the heart of Africa, with six months' travel in 
 front of us before we could reach the first limits 
 of civilization. That is what this man did. 
 When he was still on his litter he used to toss 
 and turn, and abuse the bearers and porters and 
 myself because we moved so slowly. When we 
 stopped for the night he would chafe and fret at 
 the delay; and when the morning came he was 
 the first to wake, if he slept at all, and eager to 
 push on. When at last he was able to walk, 
 he worked himself into a fever again, and it was 
 only when Royce warned him that he would 
 kill himself if he kept on that he submitted to 
 be carried, and forced himself to be patient. 
 And all the time the poor devil kept saying how 
 
 279
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 unworthy he was of her, how miserably he had 
 wasted his years, how unfitted he was for the 
 great happiness which had come into his life. 
 I suppose every man says that when he is in 
 love; very properly, too; but the worst of it 
 was, in this man's case, that it was so very true. 
 He was unworthy of her in everything but his 
 love for her. It used to frighten me to see 
 how much he cared. Well, we got out of it at 
 last, and reached Alexandria, and saw white 
 faces once more and heard women's voices, and 
 the strain and fear of failure were over, and 
 we could breathe again. I was quite ready 
 enough to push on to London, but we had to 
 wait a week for the steamer, and during that 
 time that man made my life miserable. He 
 had done so well, and would have done so much 
 more if he had had my equipment, that I tried 
 to see that he received all the credit due him. 
 But he would have none of the public recep 
 tions, and the audience with the Khedive, or 
 any of the fuss they made over us. He only 
 wanted to get back to her. He spent the days 
 on the quay watching them load the steamer, 
 and counting the hours until she was to sail; 
 and even at night he would leave the first bed 
 he had slept in for six months, and would come 
 into my room and ask me if I would not sit up 
 and talk with him until daylight. You see, 
 
 280
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 after he had given up all thought of her, and 
 believed himself about to die without seeing her 
 again, it made her all the dearer, I suppose, 
 and made him all the more fearful of losing her 
 again. 
 
 "He became very quiet as soon as we were 
 "really under way, and Royce an I hardly knew 
 him for the same man. He would sit in silence 
 in his steamer-chair for hours, looking out at 
 the sea and smiling to himself, and sometimes, 
 for he was still very weak and feverish, the tears 
 would come to his eyes and run down his cheeks. 
 'This is the way we would sit,' he said to me 
 one night, 'with the dark purple sky and the 
 strange Southern stars over our heads, and the 
 rail of the boat rising and sinking below the 
 line of the horizon. And I can hear her voice, 
 and I try to imagine she is still sitting there, as 
 she did the last night out, when I held her hands 
 between mine." Gordon paused a moment, 
 and then went on more slowly: "I do not know 
 whether it was that the excitement of the jour 
 ney overland had kept him up or not, but as we 
 went on he became much weaker and slept more, 
 until Royce became anxious and alarmed about 
 him. But he did not know it himself; he had 
 grown so sure of his recovery then that he did 
 not understand what the weakness meant. He 
 fell off into long spells of sleep or unconscious- 
 
 281
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 ness, and woke only to be fed, and would then 
 fall back to sleep again. And in one of these 
 spells of unconsciousness he died. He died 
 within two days of land. He had no home and 
 no country and no family, as I told you, and 
 we buried him at sea. He left nothing behind 
 him, for the very clothes he wore were those we 
 had given him nothing but the locket and the 
 chain which he had told me to take from his 
 neck when he died." 
 
 Gordon's voice had grown very cold and 
 hard. He stopped and ran his fingers down 
 into his pocket and pulled out a little leather 
 bag. The people at the table watched him in 
 silence as he opened it and took out a dull silver 
 chain with a gold heart hanging from it. 
 
 * This is it," he said, gently. He leaned 
 across the table, with his eyes fixed on those 
 of the American girl, and dropped the chain 
 in front of her. "Would you like to see it?" 
 he said. 
 
 The rest moved curiously forward to look at 
 the little heap of gold and silver as it lay on the 
 white cloth. But the girl, with her eyes half 
 closed and her lips pressed together, pushed it 
 on with her hand to the man who sat next her, 
 and bowed her head slightly, as though it was 
 an effort for her to move at all. The wife of 
 the Austrian Minister gave a little sigh of relief. 
 
 282
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 "I should say your story did end badly, Mr. 
 Gordon," she said. "It is terribly sad, and so 
 unnecessarily so/' 
 
 "I don't know," said Lady Arbuthnot, 
 thoughtfully "I don't know; it seems to me it 
 was better. As Mr. Gordon says, the man was 
 hardly worthy of her. A man should have 
 something more to offer a woman than love; it 
 is a woman's prerogative to be loved. Any 
 number of men may love her; it is nothing to 
 their credit: they cannot help themselves." 
 
 "Well," said General Kent, "if all true stories 
 turn out as badly as that one does, I will take 
 back what I said against those the story-writers 
 tell. I prefer the ones Anstey and Jerome 
 make up. I call it a most unpleasant story." 
 
 "But it isn't finished yet," said Gordon, as 
 he leaned over and picked up the chain and 
 locket. " There is still a little more." 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon!" said the wife of 
 the Austrian Minister, eagerly. "But then," 
 she added, "you can't make it any better. You 
 cannot bring the man back to life." 
 
 "No," said Gordon, "but I can make it a 
 little worse." 
 
 "Ah, I see," said Phillips, with a story-teller's 
 intuition "the girl." 
 
 "The first day I reached London I went to 
 her banker's and got her address," continued 
 
 283
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 Gordon. "And I wrote, saying I wanted to 
 see her, but before I could get an answer I met 
 her the next afternoon at a garden-party. At 
 least I did not meet her; she was pointed out to 
 me. I saw a very beautiful girl surrounded by 
 a lot of men, and asked who she was, and found 
 out it was the woman I had written to, the 
 owner of the chain and locket; and I was also 
 told that her engagement had just been an 
 nounced to a young Englishman of family and 
 position, who had known her only a few months, 
 and with whom she was very much in love. So 
 you see," he went on, smiling, "that it was 
 better that he died, believing in her and in her 
 love for him. Mr. Phillips, now, would have 
 let him live to return and find her married; but 
 Nature is kinder than writers of fiction, and 
 quite as dramatic/' 
 
 Phillips did not reply to this, and the general 
 only shook his head doubtfully and said noth 
 ing. So Mrs. Trevelyan looked at Lady Ar- 
 buthnot, and the ladies rose and left the room. 
 When the men had left them, a young girl went 
 to the piano, and the other women seated them 
 selves to listen; but Miss Egerton, saying that 
 it was warm, stepped out through one of the 
 high windows on to the little balcony that over 
 hung the garden. It was dark out there and 
 cool, and the rumbling of the encircling city 
 
 284
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 sounded as distant and as far off as the reflec 
 tion seemed that its million lights threw up to 
 the sky above. The girl leaned her face and 
 bare shoulder against the rough stone wall of 
 the house, and pressed her hands together, with 
 her fingers locking and unlocking and her rings 
 cutting through her gloves. She was trembling 
 slightly, and the blood in her veins was hot and 
 tingling. She heard the voices of the men as 
 they entered the drawing-room, the momentary 
 cessation of the music at the piano, and its 
 renewal, and then a figure blocked the light 
 from the window, and Gordon stepped out of it 
 and stood in front of her with the chain and 
 locket in his hand. He held it toward her, and 
 they faced each other for a moment in silence. 
 
 "Will you take it now?" he said. 
 
 The girl raised her head, and drew herself up 
 until she stood straight and tall before him. 
 
 " Have you not punished me enough ? " she 
 asked, in a whisper. "Are you not satisfied? 
 Was it brave? Was it manly? Is that what 
 you have learned among your savages to tor 
 ture a woman?" She stopped with a quick 
 sob of pain, and pressed her hands against her 
 breast. 
 
 Gordon observed her, curiously, with cold 
 consideration. "What of the sufferings of the 
 man to whom you gave this?" he asked. "Why 
 
 285
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 not consider him? What was your bad quar 
 ter of an hour at the table, with your friends 
 around you, to the year he suffered danger 
 and physical pain for you for you, remem 
 ber?" 
 
 The girl hid her face for a moment in her 
 hands, and when she lowered them again her 
 cheeks were wet and her voice was changed and 
 softer. /'They told me he was dead," she said. 
 "Then it was denied, and then the French pa 
 pers told of it again, and with horrible detail, 
 and how it happened." 
 
 Gordon took a step nearer her. "And does 
 your love come and go with the editions of the 
 daily papers?" he asked, fiercely. "If they say 
 to-morrow morning that Arbuthnot is false to 
 his principles or his party, that he is a bribe 
 taker, a man who sells his vote, will you be 
 lieve them and stop loving him?" He gave a 
 sharp exclamation of disdain. "Or will you 
 wait," he went on, bitterly, "until the Liberal 
 organs have had time to deny it? Is that the 
 love, the life, and the soul you promised the 
 man who 
 
 There was a soft step on the floor of the 
 drawing-room, and the tall figure of young 
 Arbuthnot appeared in the opening of the 
 window as he looked doubtfully out into the 
 darkness. Gordon took a step back into the 
 
 286
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 light of the window, where he could be seen, 
 and leaned easily against the railing of the bal 
 cony. His eyes were turned toward the street, 
 and he noticed over the wall the top of a pass 
 ing omnibus and the glow of the men's pipes 
 who sat on it. 
 
 "Miss Egerton?" asked Arbuthnot, his eyes 
 still blinded by the lights of the room he had 
 left. "Is she here? Oh, is that you?" he said, 
 as he saw the movement of the white dress. " I 
 was sent to look for you," he said. 'They 
 were afraid something was wrong." He turned 
 to Gordon, as if in explanation of his lover-like 
 solicitude. "It has been rather a hard week, 
 and it has kept one pretty well on the go all 
 the time, and I thought Miss Egerton looked 
 tired at dinner." 
 
 The moment he had spoken, the girl came 
 toward him quickly, and put her arm inside of 
 his, and took his hand. 
 
 He looked down at her wonderingly at this 
 show of affection, and then drew her nearer, and 
 said, gently, '"You are tired, aren't you? I 
 came to tell you that Lady Arbuthnot is going. 
 She is waiting for you." 
 
 It struck Gordon, as they stood there, how 
 handsome they were and how well suited. 
 They took a step toward the window, and then 
 the young nobleman turned and looked out at 
 
 287
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 the pretty garden and up at the sky, where the 
 moon was struggling against the glare of the 
 city. 
 
 " It is very pretty and peaceful out here," he 
 said, "is it not? It seems a pity to leave it. 
 Good-night, Gordon, and thank you for your 
 story." He stopped, with one foot on the 
 threshold, and smiled. "And yet, do you 
 know," he said, "I cannot help thinking you 
 were guilty of doing just what you accused 
 Phillips of doing. I somehow thought you 
 helped the true story out a little. Now didn't 
 you? Was it all just as you told it? Or am I 
 wrong?" 
 
 "No," Gordon answered; "you are right. I 
 did change it a little, in one particular." 
 
 "And what was that, may I ask?" said Ar- 
 buthnot. 
 
 "The man did not die," Gordon answered. 
 
 Arbuthnot gave a quick little sigh of sym 
 pathy. "Poor devil!" he said, softly; "poor 
 chap!" He moved his left hand over and 
 touched the hand of the girl, as though to re- 
 ' assure himself of his own good fortune. Then 
 he raised his eyes to Gordon's with a curious, 
 puzzled look in them. "But then," he said, 
 doubtfully, "if he is not dead, how did you 
 come to get the chain?" 
 
 The girl's arm within his own moved slightly, 
 288
 
 AN UNFINISHED STORY 
 
 and her fingers tightened their hold upon his 
 hand. 
 
 "Oh," said Gordon, indifferently, "it did not 
 mean anything to him, you see, when he found 
 he had lost her, and it could not mean anything 
 to her. It is of no value. It means nothing 
 to any one except, perhaps, to me." 
 
 289
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 THE "trailer" for the green-goods men who 
 rented room No. 8 in Case's tenement had had 
 no work to do for the last few days, and was 
 cursing his luck in consequence. 
 
 He was entirely too young to curse, but he 
 had never been told so, and, indeed, so imper 
 fect had his training been that he had never 
 been told not to do anything as long as it 
 pleased him to do it and made existence any 
 more bearable. 
 
 He had been told when he was very young, 
 before the man and woman who had brought 
 him into the world had separated, not to crawl 
 out on the fire-escape, because he might break 
 his neck, and later, after his father had walked 
 off Hegelman's Slip into the East River while 
 very drunk, and his mother had been sent to 
 the penitentiary for grand larceny, he had been 
 told not to let the police catch him sleeping 
 under the bridge. 
 
 With these two exceptions he had been told 
 to do as he pleased, which was the very mockery 
 of advice, as he was just about as well able to 
 do as he pleased as is any one who has to beg 
 
 290
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 or steal what he eats and has to sleep in hall 
 ways or over the iron gratings of warm cellars 
 and has the officers of the children's societies 
 always after him to put him in a "Home" and 
 make him be "good." 
 
 "Snipes," as the trailer was called, was deter 
 mined no one should ever force him to be good 
 if he could possibly prevent it. And he cer 
 tainly did do a great deal to prevent it. He 
 knew what having to be good meant. Some 
 of the boys who had escaped from the Home 
 had told him all about that. It meant wearing 
 shoes and a blue and white checkered apron, 
 and making cane-bottomed chairs all day, and 
 having to wash yourself in a big iron tub twice 
 a week, not to speak of having to move about 
 like machines whenever the lady teacher hit a 
 bell. So when the green-goods men, of whom 
 the genial Mr. Alf Wolfe was the chief, asked 
 Snipes to act as "trailer" for them at a quarter 
 of a dollar for every victim he shadowed, he 
 jumped at the offer and was proud of the posi 
 tion. 
 
 If you should happen to keep a grocery store 
 in the country, or to run the village post-office, 
 it is not unlikely that you know what a green- 
 goods man is; but in case you don't, and have 
 only a vague idea as to how he lives, a para 
 graph of explanation must be inserted here for 
 
 291
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 your particular benefit. Green-goods is the 
 technical name for counterfeit bills, and the 
 green-goods men send out circulars to country 
 men all over the United States, offering to sell 
 them $5,000 worth of counterfeit money for 
 $500, and ease their conscience by explaining to 
 them that by purchasing these green goods 
 they are hurting no one but the Government, 
 which is quite able, with its big surplus, to 
 stand the loss. They enclose a letter which is 
 to serve their victim as a mark of identification 
 or credential when he comes on to purchase. 
 
 The address they give him is in one of the 
 many drug-store and cigar-store post-offices 
 which are scattered all over New York, and 
 which contribute to make vice and crime so 
 easy that the evil they do cannot be reckoned 
 in souls lost or dollars stolen. If the letter 
 from the countryman strikes the dealers in 
 green goods as sincere, they appoint an inter 
 view with him by mail in rooms they rent for 
 the purpose, and if they, on meeting him there, 
 think he is still in earnest and not a detective 
 or officer in disguise, they appoint still another 
 interview, to be held later in the day in the 
 back room of some saloon. 
 
 Then the countryman is watched throughout 
 the day from the moment he leaves the first 
 meeting-place until he arrives at the saloon. 
 
 292
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 If anything in his conduct during that time 
 leads the man whose duty it is to follow him, 
 or the "trailer," as the profession call it, to 
 believe he is a detective, he finds when he ar 
 rives at the saloon that there is no one to 
 receive him. But if the trailer regards his 
 conduct as unsuspicious, he is taken to another 
 saloon, not the one just appointed, which is, 
 perhaps, a most respectable place, but to the 
 thieves' own private little rendezvous, where he 
 is robbed in any of the several different ways 
 best suited to their purpose. 
 
 Snipes was a very good trailer. He was so 
 little that no one ever noticed him, and he could 
 keep a man in sight no matter how big the 
 crowd was, or how rapidly it changed and 
 shifted. And he was as patient as he was 
 quick, and would wait for hours if needful, with 
 his eye on a door, until his man reissued into 
 the street again. And if the one he shadowed 
 looked behind him to see if he was followed, or 
 dodged up and down different streets, as if he 
 were trying to throw off pursuit, or despatched 
 a note or telegram, or stopped to speak to a 
 policeman or any special officer, as a detective 
 might, who thought he had his men safely in 
 hand, off Snipes would go on a run, to where Alf 
 Wolfe was waiting, and tell what he had seen. 
 
 Then Wolfe would give him a quarter or 
 
 2 93
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 more, and the trailer would go back to his post 
 opposite Case's tenement, and wait for another 
 victim to issue forth, and for the signal from 
 No. 8 to follow him. It was not much fun, and 
 "customers," as Mr. Wolfe always called them, 
 had been scarce, and Mr. Wolfe, in consequence, 
 had been cross and nasty in his temper, and 
 had batted Snipe out of the way on more than 
 one occasion. So the trailer was feeling blue 
 and disconsolate, and wondered how it was 
 that "Naseby" Raegen, "Rags" Raegen's 
 younger brother, had had the luck to get a two 
 weeks' visit to the country with the Fresh Air 
 Fund children, while he had not. 
 
 He supposed it was because Naseby had sold 
 papers, and wore shoes, and went to night 
 school, and did many other things equally ob 
 jectionable. Still, what Naseby had said about 
 the country, and riding horseback, and the fish 
 ing, and the shooting crows with no cops to 
 stop you, and watermelons for nothing, had 
 sounded wonderfully attractive and quite im 
 probable, except that it was one of Naseby's 
 peculiarly sneaking ways to tell the truth. 
 Anyway, Naseby had left Cherry Street for 
 good, and had gone back to the country to 
 work there. This all helped to make Snipes 
 morose, and it was with a cynical smile of satis 
 faction that he watched an old countryman 
 
 294
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 coming slowly up the street, and asking his way 
 timidly of the Italians to Case's tenement. 
 
 The countryman looked up and about him in 
 evident bewilderment and anxiety. He glanced 
 hesitatingly across at the boy leaning against 
 the wall of a saloon, but the boy was watching 
 two sparrows fighting in the dirt of the street, 
 and did not see him. At least, it did not look 
 as if he saw him. Then the old man knocked 
 on the door of Case's tenement. No one came, 
 for the people in the house had learned to leave 
 inquiring countrymen to the gentleman who 
 rented room No. 8, and as that gentleman was 
 occupied at that moment with a younger coun 
 tryman, he allowed the old man, whom he had 
 first cautiously observed from the top of the 
 stairs, to remain where he was. 
 
 The old man stood uncertainly on the stoop, 
 and then removed his heavy black felt hat and 
 rubbed his bald head and the white shining 
 locks of hair around it with a red bandanna 
 handkerchief. Then he walked very slowly 
 across the street toward Snipes, for the rest of 
 the street was empty, and there was no one 
 else at hand. The old man was dressed in 
 heavy black broadcloth, quaintly cut, with 
 boot legs showing up under the trousers, and 
 with faultlessly clean linen of home-made man 
 ufacture. 
 
 295
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 "I can't make the people in that house over 
 there hear me," complained the old man, with 
 the simple confidence that old age has in very 
 young boys. "Do you happen to know if 
 they're at home?" 
 
 "Nop," growled Snipes. 
 
 "I'm looking for a man named Perceval," 
 said the stranger; "he lives in that house, and I 
 wanter see him on most particular business. 
 It isn't a very pleasing place he lives in, is it 
 at least," he hurriedly added, as if fearful of 
 giving offense, "it isn't much on the outside? 
 Do you happen to know him?" 
 
 Perceval was Alf Wolfe's business name. 
 
 "Nop," said the trailer. 
 
 "Well, I'm not looking for him," explained 
 the stranger, slowly, "as much as I'm looking 
 for a young man that I kind of suspect is been 
 to see him to-day: a young man that looks like 
 me, only younger. Has lightish hair and pretty 
 tall and lanky, and carrying a shiny black bag 
 with him. Did you happen to hev noticed him 
 going into that place across the way?" 
 
 "Nop," said Snipes. 
 
 The old man sighed and nodded his head 
 thoughtfully at Snipes, and puckered up the 
 corners of his mouth, as though he were think 
 ing deeply. He had wonderfully honest blue 
 eyes, and with the white hair hanging around 
 
 296
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 his sunburned face, he looked like an old saint. 
 But the trailer didn't know that: he did know, 
 though, that this man was a different sort from 
 the rest. Still, that was none of his business. 
 
 "What is't you want to see him about?" he 
 asked sullenly, while he looked up and down 
 the street and everywhere but at the old man, 
 and rubbed one bare foot slowly over the other. 
 
 The old man looked pained, and much to 
 Snipe's surprise, the question brought the tears 
 to his eyes, and his lips trembled. Then he 
 swerved slightly, so that he might have fallen if 
 Snipes had not caught him and helped him 
 across the pavement to a seat on a stoop. 
 "Thankey, son," said the stranger; "I'm not 
 as strong as I was, an' the sun's mighty 'hot, 
 an' these streets of yours smell mighty bad, 
 and I've had a powerful lot of trouble these 
 last few days. But if I could see this man 
 Perceval before my boy does, I know I could 
 fix it, and it would all come out right." 
 
 "What do you want to see him about?" re 
 peated the trailer, suspiciously, while he fanned 
 the old man with his hat. Snipes could not 
 have told you why he did this or why this par 
 ticular old countryman was any different from 
 the many others who came to buy counterfeit 
 money and who were thieves at heart as well 
 as in deed. 
 
 297
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 "I want to see him about my son," said the 
 old man to the little boy. "He's a bad man 
 whoever he is. This 'ere Perceval is a bad 
 man. He sends down his wickedness to the 
 country and tempts weak folks to sin. He 
 teaches 'em ways of evil-doing they never heard 
 of, and he's ruined my son with the others- 
 ruined him. I've had nothing to do with the 
 city and its ways; we're strict living, simple 
 folks, and perhaps we've been too strict, or 
 Abraham wouldn't have run away to the city. 
 But I thought it was best, and I doubted noth 
 ing when the fresh-air children came to the 
 farm. I didn't like city children, but I let 'em 
 come. I took 'em in, and did what I could to 
 make it pleasant for 'em. Poor little fellers, 
 all as thin as corn-stalks and pale as ghosts, 
 and as dirty as you. 
 
 "I took 'em in and let 'em ride the horses, 
 and swim in the river, and shoot crows in the 
 cornfield, and eat all the cherries they could 
 pull, and what did the city send me in return 
 for that? It sent me this thieving, rascally 
 scheme of this man Perceval's, and it turned 
 my boy's head, and lost him to me. I saw him 
 poring over the note and reading it as if it 
 were Gospel, and I suspected nothing. And 
 when he asked me if he could keep it, I said 
 yes he could, for I thought he wanted it for a 
 
 298
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 curiosity, and then off he put with the black 
 bag and the $200 he's been saving up to start 
 housekeeping with when the old Deacon says 
 he can marry his daughter Kate." The old 
 man placed both hands on his knees and went 
 on excitedly. 
 
 "The old Deacon says he'll not let 'em marry 
 till Abe has $2,000, and that is what the boy's 
 come after. He wants to buy $2,000 worth of 
 bad money with his $200 worth of good money, 
 to show the Deacon, just as though it were 
 likely a marriage after such a crime as that 
 would ever be a happy one." 
 
 Snipes had stopped fanning the old man, as 
 he ran on, and was listening intently, with an 
 uncomfortable feeling of sympathy and sorrow, 
 uncomfortable because he was not used to it. 
 
 He could not see why the old man should 
 think the city should have treated his boy bet 
 ter because he had taken care of the city's chil 
 dren, and he was puzzled between his allegiance 
 to the gang and his desire to help the gang's 
 innocent victim, and then because he was an 
 innocent victim and not a "customer," he let 
 his sympathy get the better of his discretion. 
 
 "Saay," he began, abruptly, "I'm not sayin' 
 nothin' to nobody, and nobody's sayin' nothin' 
 to me see? but I guess your son'II be around 
 here to-day, sure. He's got to come before one, 
 
 299
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 for this office closes sharp at one, and we goes 
 home. Now, I've got the call whether he gets 
 his stuff taken off him or whether the boys 
 leave him alone. If I say the word, they'd no 
 more come near him than if he had the cholera 
 see? An' I'll say it for this oncet, just for 
 you. Hold on," he commanded, as the old 
 man raised his voice in surprised interrogation, 
 "don't ask no questions, 'cause you won't get 
 no answers except lies. You find your way 
 back to the Grand Central Depot and wait 
 there, and I'll steer your son down to you, sure, 
 as soon as I can find him see? Now get 
 along, or you'll get me inter trouble." 
 
 " You've been lying to me, then," cried the 
 old man, "and you're as bad as any of them, 
 and my boy's over in that house now." 
 
 He scrambled up from the stoop, and before 
 the trailer could understand what he proposed 
 to do, had dashed across the street and up the 
 stoop, and up the stairs, and had burst into 
 room No. 8. 
 
 Snipes tore after him. "Come back! come 
 back out of that, you old fool!" he cried. 
 '' You'll get killed in there !" Snipes w r as afraid 
 to enter room No. 8, but he could hear from 
 the outside the old man challenging Alf Wolfe 
 in a resonant angry voice that rang through 
 the building. 
 
 300
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 "Whew!" said Snipes, crouching on the 
 stairs, "there's goin' to be a muss this time, 
 sure!" 
 
 "Where's my son? Where have you hidden 
 my son?" demanded the old man. He ran 
 across the room and pulled open a door that led 
 into another room, but it was empty. He had 
 fully expected to see his boy murdered and 
 quartered, and with his pockets inside out. He 
 turned on Wolfe, shaking his white hair like a 
 mane. "Give me up my son, you rascal you !" 
 he cried, "or I'll get the police, and I'll tell 
 them how you decoy honest boys to your den 
 and murder them." 
 
 "Are you drunk or crazy, or just a little of 
 both?" asked Mr. Wolfe. "For a cent I'd 
 throw you out of that window. Get out of 
 here ! Quick, now ! You're too old to get ex 
 cited like that; it's not good for you." 
 
 But this only exasperated the old man the 
 more, and he made a lunge at the confidence 
 man's throat. 
 
 Mr. Wolfe stepped aside and caught him 
 around the waist and twisted his leg around 
 the old man's rheumatic one, and held him. 
 "Now," said Wolfe, as quietly as though he 
 were giving a lesson in wrestling, "if I wanted 
 to, I could break your back." 
 
 The old man glared up at him, panting. 
 301
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 "Your son's not here,'* said Wolfe, "and this 
 is a private gentleman's private room. I could 
 turn you over to the police for assault if I 
 wanted to; but," he added, magnanimously, "I 
 won't. Now get out of here and go home to 
 your wife, and when you come to see the sights 
 , again don't drink so much raw whiskey." He 
 half carried the old farmer to the top of the 
 stairs and dropped him, and went back and 
 closed the door. Snipes came up and helped 
 him down and out, and the old man and the 
 boy walked slowly and in silence out to the 
 Bowery. Snipes helped his companion into a 
 car and put him off at the Grand Central De 
 pot. The heat and the excitement had told 
 heavily on the old man, and he seemed dazed 
 and beaten. 
 
 He was leaning on the trailer's shoulder and 
 waiting for his turn in the line in front of the 
 ticket window, when a tall, gawky, good-looking 
 country lad sprang out of it and at him with an 
 expression of surprise and anxiety. "Father," 
 he said, "father, what's wrong? What are you 
 doing here? Is anybody ill at home? Are you 
 ill?" 
 
 "Abraham," said the old man, simply, and 
 dropped heavily on the younger man's shoulder. 
 Then he raised his head sternly and said: "I 
 thought you were murdered, but better that 
 
 302
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 than a thief, Abraham. What brought you 
 here? What did you do with that rascal's 
 letter? What did you do with his money?" 
 
 The trailer drew cautiously away; the con 
 versation was becoming unpleasantly personal. 
 
 "I don't know what you're talking about," 
 said Abraham, calmly. "The Deacon gave his 
 consent the other night without the $2,000, 
 and I took the $200 I'd saved and came right 
 on in the fust train to buy the ring. It's 
 pretty, isn't it?" he said, flushing, as he pulled 
 out a little velvet box and opened it. 
 
 The old man was so happy at this that he 
 laughed and cried alternately, and then he made 
 a grab for the trailer and pulled him down be 
 side him on one of the benches. 
 
 "You've got to come with me," he said, with 
 kind severity. " You're a good boy, but your 
 folks have let you run wrong. You've been 
 good to me, and you said you would get me 
 back my boy and save him from those thieves, 
 and I believe now that you meant it. Now 
 you're just coming back with us to the farm 
 and the cows and the river, and you can eat 
 all you want and live with us, and never, 
 never see this unclean, wicked city again." 
 
 Snipes looked up keenly from under the rim 
 of his hat and rubbed one of his muddy feet 
 over the other as was his habit. The young 
 
 303
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 countryman, greatly puzzled, and the older 
 man smiling kindly, waited expectantly in 
 silence. From outside came the sound of the 
 car-bells jangling, and the rattle of cabs, and 
 the cries of drivers, and all the varying rush 
 and turmoil of a great metropolis. Green fields, 
 and running rivers, and fruit that did not grow 
 in wooden boxes or brown paper ones, were 
 myths and idle words to Snipes, but this "un 
 clean, wicked city" he knew. 
 
 "I guess you're too good for me," he said, 
 with an uneasy laugh. "I guess little old New 
 York's good enough for me." 
 
 "What!" cried the old man, in the tones of 
 greatest concern. :< You would go back to that 
 den of iniquity, surely not, to that thief Per 
 ceval?" 
 
 "Well," said the trailer, slowly, "and he's 
 not such a bad lot, neither. You see he could 
 hev broke your neck that time when you was 
 choking him, but he didn't. There's your 
 train," he added hurriedly and jumping away. 
 "Good-by. So long, old man. I'm much 
 'bliged to you jus' for asking me." 
 
 Two hours later the farmer and his son were 
 making the family weep and laugh over their 
 adventures, as they all sat together on the 
 porch with the vines about it; and the trailer 
 was leaning against the wall of a saloon and 
 
 304
 
 THE TRAILER FOR ROOM NO. 8 
 
 apparently counting his ten 'toes, but in reality 1 
 watching for Mr. Wolfe to give the signal from 
 the window of room No. 8.
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 IT was a warm afternoon in the early spring, 
 and the air in the office was close and heavy. 
 The letters of the morning had been answered 
 and the proofs corrected, and the gentlemen 
 who had come with ideas worth one column at 
 space rates, and which they thought worth 
 three, had compromised with the editor on a 
 basis of two, and departed. The editor's desk 
 was covered with manuscripts in a heap, a heap 
 that never seemed to grow less, and each manu 
 script bore a character of its own, as marked or 
 as unobtrusive as the character of the man or 
 of the woman who had written it, which dis 
 closed itself in the care with which some were 
 presented for consideration, in the vain little 
 ribbons of other, or the selfish manner in which 
 still others were tightly rolled or vilely scrib 
 bled. 
 
 The editor held the first page of a poem in his 
 hand, and was reading it mechanically, for its 
 length had already declared against it, unless it 
 might chance to be the precious gem out of a 
 thousand, which must be chosen in spite of its 
 twenty stanzas. But as the editor read, his 
 
 306
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 interest awakened, and he scanned the verses 
 again, as one would turn to look a second time 
 at a face which seemed familiar. At the fourth 
 stanza his memory was still in doubt, at the 
 sixth it was warming to the chase, and at the 
 end of the page was in full cry. He caught up 
 the second page and looked for the final verse, 
 and then at the name below, and then back 
 again quickly to the title of the poem, and 
 pushed aside the papers on his desk in search 
 of any note which might have accompanied it. 
 
 The name signed at the bottom of the second 
 page was Edwin Aram, the title of the poem 
 was "Bohemia," and there was no accompany 
 ing note, only the name Berkeley written at 
 the top of the first page. The envelope in 
 which it had come gave no further clew. It 
 was addressed in the same handwriting as that 
 in which the poem had been written, and it 
 bore the postmark of New York city. There 
 was no request for the return of the poem, no 
 direction to which either the poem itself or the 
 check for its payment in the event of its accep- 
 tance might be sent. Berkeley might be the 
 name of an apartment-house, or of a country 
 place, or of a suburban town. 
 
 The editor stepped out of his office mto the 
 larger room beyond and said: "I've a poem^here 
 that appeared in an American magazine about 
 
 307
 
 f THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 seven years ago. I remember the date, because 
 I read it when I was at college. Some one is 
 either trying to play a trick on us, or to get 
 money by stealing some other man's brains." 
 
 It was in this way that Edwin Aram first 
 introduced himself to our office, and while his 
 poem was not accepted, it was not returned. 
 On the contrary, Mr. Aram became to us one of 
 the most interesting of our would-be contrib 
 utors, and there was no author, no matter of 
 what popularity, for whose work we waited 
 with greater impatience. But Mr. Aram's per 
 sonality still remained as completely hidden 
 from us as were the productions which he 
 offered from the sight of our subscribers; for 
 each of the poems he sent had been stolen out 
 right and signed with his name. 
 
 It was through no fault of ours that he con 
 tinued to blush unseen, or that his pretty taste 
 in poems was unappreciated by the general 
 reader. We followed up every clew and every 
 hint he chose to give us with an enthusiasm 
 worthy of a search after a lost explorer, and 
 with an animus worthy of better game. Yet 
 there was some reason for our interest. The 
 man who steals the work of another and who 
 passes it off as his own is the special foe of every 
 editor, but this particular editor had a personal 
 distrust of Mr. Aram. He imagined that these 
 
 308
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 poems might possibly be a trap which some one 
 had laid for him with the purpose of drawing 
 him into printing them, and then of pointing 
 out by this fact how little read he was, and 
 how unfit to occupy the swivel-chair into which 
 he had so lately dropped. Or if this were not 
 the case, the man was in any event the enemy 
 of all honest people, who look unkindly on those 
 who try to obtain money by false pretenses. 
 
 The evasions of Edwin Aram were many, 
 and his methods to avoid detection not without 
 skill. His second poem was written on a sheet 
 of note-paper bearing the legend "The Shake 
 speare Debating Club. Edwin Aram, Presi 
 dent." 
 
 This was intended to reassure us as to his 
 literary taste and standard, and to meet any 
 suspicion we might feel had there been no ad 
 dress of any sort accompanying the poem. No 
 one we knew had ever heard of a Shakespeare 
 Debating Club in New York city; but we gave 
 him the benefit of the doubt until we found that 
 this poem, like the first, was also stolen. His 
 ' third poem bore his name and an address, 
 which on instant inquiry turned out to be that 
 of a vacant lot on Seventh Avenue near Central 
 Park. 
 
 Edwin Aram had by this time become an ex 
 asperating and picturesque individual, and the 
 
 309
 
 editorial staff was divided in its opinion con 
 cerning him. It was argued on one hand that 
 as the man had never sent us a real address, his 
 object must be to gain a literary reputation at 
 the expense of certain poets, and not to make 
 money at ours. Others answered this by say 
 ing that fear of detection alone kept Edwin 
 Aram from sending his real address, but that 
 as soon as his poem was printed, and he ascer 
 tained by that fact that he had not been dis 
 covered, he would put in an application for 
 payment, and let us know quickly enough to 
 what portion of New York city his check should 
 be forwarded. 
 
 This, however, presupposed the fact that he 
 was writing to us over his real name, which we 
 did not believe he would dare to do. No one 
 in our little circle of journalists and literary 
 men had ever heard of such a man, and his 
 name did not appear in the directory. This 
 fact, however, was not convincing in itself, as 
 the residents of New York move from flat to 
 hotel, and from apartments to boarding-houses 
 as frequently as the Arab changes his camping- 
 ground. We tried to draw him out at last by 
 publishing a personal paragraph which stated 
 that several contributions received from Edwin 
 Aram would be returned to him if he would 
 send stamps and his present address. The 
 
 310
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 editor did not add that he would return the 
 poems in person, but such was his warlike 
 intention. 
 
 This had the desired result, and brought us a 
 fourth poem and a fourth address, the name of 
 a tall building which towers above Union 
 Square. We seemed to be getting very warm 
 now, and the editor gathered up the four poems, 
 and called to his aid his friend Bronson, the 
 
 ablest reporter on the New York , who 
 
 was to act as chronicler. They took with them 
 letters from the authors of two of the poems 
 and from the editor of the magazine in which 
 the first one had originally appeared, testifying 
 to the fact that Edwin Aram had made an exact 
 copy of the original, and wishing the brother 
 editor good luck in catching the plagiarist. 
 
 The reporter looked these over with a critical 
 eye. "The City Editor told me if we caught 
 him," he said, "that I could let it run for all it 
 was worth. I can use these names, I suppose, 
 and I guess they have pictures of the poets at 
 the office. If he turns out to be anybody in 
 particular, it ought to be worth a full three 
 columns. Sunday paper, too." 
 
 The amateur detectives stood in the lower hall 
 in the tall building, between swinging doors, 
 and jostled by hurrying hundreds, while they 
 read the names on a marble directory. 
 
 3"
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 " There he is!" said the editor, excitedly. 
 "American Literary Bureau.' One room on 
 the fourteenth floor. That's just the sort of a 
 place in which we would be likely to find him." 
 But the reporter was gazing open-eyed at a 
 name in large letters on an office door. "Ed 
 ward K. Aram," it read, "Commissioner of 
 , and City ." 
 
 "What do you think of that?" he gasped, tri 
 umphantly. 
 
 "Nonsense," said the editor. "He wouldn't 
 dare; besides, the initials are different. You're 
 expecting too good a story." 
 
 " That's the way to get them," answered the 
 reporter, as he hurried toward the office of the 
 
 City . "If a man falls dead, believe it's 
 
 a suicide until you prove it's not; if you find a 
 suicide, believe it's a murder until you are con 
 vinced to the contrary. Otherwise you'll get 
 beaten. We don't want the proprietor of a 
 little literary bureau, we want a big city official, 
 and I'll believe we have one until he proves we 
 haven't." 
 
 "Which are you going to ask for?" whispered 
 the editor, "Edward K. or Edwin?" 
 
 "Edwin, I should say," answered the re 
 porter. "He has probably given notice that 
 mail addressed that way should go to him." 
 
 "Is Mr. Edwin Aram in?" he asked. 
 312
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 A clerk raised his head and looked behind 
 him. "No," he said; "his desk is closed. I 
 guess he's gone home for the day." 
 
 The reporter nudged the editor savagely with 
 his elbow, but his face gave no sign. "That's a 
 pity," he said; "we have an appointment with 
 him. He still lives at Sixty-first Street and 
 Madison Avenue, I believe, does he not?" 
 
 "No," said the clerk; "that's his father, the 
 Commissioner, Edward K. The son lives at 
 
 . Take the Sixth Avenue elevated and 
 
 get off at 1 1 6th Street." 
 
 "Thank you," said the reporter. He turned 
 a triumphant smile upon the editor. "We've 
 got him !" he said, excitedly. "And the son of 
 old Edward K., too ! Think of it ! Trying to 
 steal a few dollars by cribbing other men's 
 poems; that's the best story there has been in 
 the papers for the past three months, ' Ed 
 ward K. Aram's son a thief!' Look at the 
 names politicians, poets, editors, all mixed up 
 in it. It's good for three columns, sure." 
 
 "We've got to think of his people, too," urged 
 the editor, as they mounted the steps of the ele 
 vated road. 
 
 "He didn't think of them," said the reporter. 
 
 The house in which Mr. Aram lived was an 
 apartment-house, and the brass latchets in the 
 hallway showed that it contained three suites. 
 
 313
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 There were visiting-cards under the latchets of 
 the first and third stories, and under that of the 
 second a piece of note-paper on which was writ 
 ten the autograph of Edwin Aram. The editor 
 looked at it curiously. He had never believed 
 it to be a real name. 
 
 "I am sorry Edwin Aram did not turn out 
 to be a woman," he said, regretfully; "it would 
 have been so much more interesting." 
 
 "Now," instructed Bronson, impressively, 
 "whether he is in or not, we have him. If he's 
 not in, we wait until he comes, even if he doesn't 
 come until morning; we don't leave this place 
 until we have seen him." 
 
 "Very well," said the editor. 
 
 The maid left them standing at the top of the 
 stairs while she went to ask if Mr. Aram was 
 in, and whether he would see two gentlemen 
 who did not give their names because they were 
 strangers to him. The two stood silent while 
 they waited, eying each other anxiously, and 
 when the girl reopened the door, nodded pleas 
 antly, and said, "Yes, Mr. Aram is in," they 
 hurried past her as though they feared that he 
 would disappear in mid-air, or float away 
 through the windows before they could reach 
 him. 
 
 And yet, when they stood at last face to face 
 with him, he bore a most disappointing air of 
 
 3'4
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 every-day respectability. He was a tall, thin 
 young man, with light hair and mustache and 
 large blue eyes. His back was toward the win 
 dow, so that his face was in the shadow, and he 
 did not rise as they entered. The room in 
 which he sat was a prettily furnished one, open 
 ing into another tiny room, which, from the 
 number of books in it, might have been called 
 a library. The rooms had a well-to-do, even 
 prosperous, air, but they did not show any evi 
 dences of a pronounced taste on the part of their 
 owner, either in the way in which they were 
 furnished or in the decorations of the walls. A 
 little girl of about seven or eight years of age, 
 who was standing between her father's knees, 
 with a hand on each, and with her head thrown 
 back on his shoulder, looked up at the two 
 visitors with evident interest, and smiled 
 brightly. 
 
 "Mr. Aram?" asked the editor, tentatively. 
 
 The young man nodded, and the two visitors 
 seated themselves. 
 
 " I wish to talk to you on a matter of private 
 business," the editor began. "Wouldn't it be 
 better to send the little girl away?" 
 
 The child shook her head violently at this, 
 and crowded up closely to her father; but he 
 held her away from him gently, and told her 
 to "run and play with Annie." 
 
 315
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 She passed the two visitors, with her head 
 held scornfully in air, and left the men together. 
 Mr. Aram seemed to have a most passive and 
 incurious disposition. He could have no idea 
 as to who his anonymous visitors might be, nor 
 did he show any desire to know. 
 
 "I am the editor of ," the editor began. 
 
 "My friend also writes for that periodical. I 
 have received several poems from you lately, 
 Mr. Aram, and one in particular which we all 
 liked very much. It was called 'Bohemia.' 
 But it is so like one that has appeared under 
 
 the same title in the Magazine that I 
 
 thought I would see you about it, and ask you 
 if you could explain the similarity. You see," 
 he went on, "it would be less embarrassing if 
 you would do so now than later, when the poem 
 has been published and when people might 
 possibly accuse you of plagiarism." The editor 
 smiled encouragingly and waited. 
 
 Mr. Aram crossed one leg over the other and 
 folded his hands in his lap. He exhibited no 
 interest, and looked drowsily at the editor. 
 When he spoke it was in a tone of unstudied in 
 difference. "I never wrote a poem called 'Bo 
 hemia,'" he said, slowly; "at least, if I did I 
 don't remember it." 
 
 The editor had not expected a flat denial, and 
 it irritated him, for he recognized it to be the 
 
 316
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 safest course the man could pursue, if he kept 
 to ft. "But you don't mean to say," he pro 
 tested, smiling, "that you can write so excel 
 lent a poem as 'Bohemia* and then forget hav 
 ing done so?" 
 
 " I might," said Mr. Aram, unresentfully, and 
 with little interest. "I scribble a good deal." 
 
 "Perhaps," suggested the reporter, politely, 
 with the air of one who is trying to cover up a 
 difficulty to the satisfaction of all, "Mr. Aram 
 would remember it if he saw it." 
 
 The editor nodded his head in assent, and 
 took the first page of the two on which the 
 poem was written, and held it out to Mr. Aram, 
 who accepted the piece of foolscap and eyed it 
 listlessly. 
 
 "Yes, I wrote that," he said. "I copied it 
 out of a book called 'Gems from American 
 Poets." There was a lazy pause. "But I 
 never sent it to any paper." The editor and the 
 reporter eyed each other with outward calm 
 but with some inward astonishment. They 
 could not see why he had not adhered to his 
 original denial of the thing in toto. It seemed 
 to them so foolish to admit having copied the 
 poem and then to deny having forwarded it. 
 
 ''You see," explained Mr. Aram, still with 
 no apparent interest in the matter, "I am very 
 fond of poetry; I like to recite it, and I often 
 
 317
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 write it out in order to make me remember it. 
 I find it impresses the words on my mind. 
 Well, that's what has happened. I have copied 
 this poem out at the office probably, and one of 
 the clerks there has found it, and has supposed 
 that I wrote it, and he has sent it to your paper 
 as a sort of a joke on me. You see, father being 
 so well known, it would rather amuse the boys 
 if I came out as a poet. That's how it was, I 
 guess. Somebody must have found it and sent 
 it to you, because / never sent it." 
 
 There was a moment of thoughtful considera 
 tion. "I see," said the editor. "I used to do 
 that same thing myself when I had to recite 
 pieces at school. I found that writing the 
 verses down helped me to remember them. I 
 remember that I once copied out many of 
 Shakespeare's sonnets. But, Mr. Aram, it 
 never occurred to me, after having copied out 
 one of Shakespeare's sonnets, to sign my own 
 name at the bottom of it." 
 
 Mr. Aram's eyes dropped to the page of 
 manuscript in his hand and rested there for 
 some little time. Then he said, without raising 
 his head, " I haven't signed this." 
 
 "No," replied the editor; "but you signed 
 the second page, which I still have in my hand." 
 
 The editor and his companion expected some 
 expression of indignation from Mr. Aram at 
 
 318
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 this, some question of their right to come into 
 his house and cross-examine him and to accuse 
 him, tentatively at least, of literary fraud, but 
 they were disappointed. Mr. Aram's manner 
 was still one of absolute impassibility. Whether 
 this manner was habitual to him they could not 
 know, but it made them doubt their own judg 
 ment in having so quickly accused him, as it 
 bore the look of undismayed innocence. 
 
 It was the reporter who was the first to break 
 the silence. " Perhaps some one has signed Mr. 
 Aram's name the clerk who sent it, for in 
 stance." 
 
 Young Mr. Aram looked up at him curiously, 
 and held out his hand for the second page. 
 "Yes," he drawled, "that's how it happened. 
 That's not my signature. I never signed that." 
 
 The editor was growing restless. "I have 
 several other poems here from you," he said; 
 "one written from the rooms of the Shake 
 speare Debating Club, of which I see you are 
 president. Your clerk could not have access 
 there, could he? He did not write that, too?" 
 
 "No," said Mr. Aram, doubtfully, "he could 
 not have written that." 
 
 The editor handed him the poem. "It's 
 yours, then?" 
 
 "Yes, that's mine," Mr. Aram replied. 
 
 "And the signature?" 
 
 319
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 "Yes, and the signature. I wrote that my 
 self," Mr. Aram explained, "and sent it myself. 
 That other one ('Bohemia') I just copied out 
 to remember, but this is original with me." 
 
 "And the envelope in which it was enclosed," 
 asked the editor, "did you address that also?" 
 
 Mr. Aram examined it uninterestedly. "Yes, 
 that's my handwriting too." He raised his 
 head. His face wore an expression of patient 
 politeness. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed the editor, suddenly, in 
 some embarrassment. "I handed you the 
 wrong envelope. I beg your pardon. That 
 envelope is the one in which 'Bohemia' came." 
 
 The reporter gave a hardly perceptible start; 
 his eyes were fixed on the pattern of the rug at 
 his feet, and the editor continued to examine 
 the papers in his hand. There was a moment's 
 silence. From outside came the noise of chil 
 dren playing in the street and the rapid rush of 
 a passing wagon. 
 
 When the two visitors raised their heads Mr. 
 Aram was looking at them strangely, and the 
 fingers folded in his lap were twisting in and out. 
 
 "This Shakespeare Debating Club," said the 
 editor, "where are its rooms, Mr. Aram?" 
 
 "It has no rooms, now," answered the poet. 
 "It has disbanded. It never had any regular 
 rooms; we just met about and read." 
 
 320
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 "I see exactly," said the editor. "And the 
 house on Seventh Avenue from which your 
 third poem was sent did you reside there then, 
 or have you always lived here?" 
 
 "No, yes I used to live there I lived there 
 when I wrote that poem." 
 
 The editor looked at the reporter and back at 
 Mr. Aram. " It is a vacant lot, Mr. Aram," he 
 said, gravely. 
 
 There was a long pause. The poet rocked 
 slowly up and down in his rocking-chair, and 
 looked at his hands, which he rubbed over one 
 another as though they were cold. Then he 
 raised his head and cleared his throat. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen," he said, "you have made 
 out your case." 
 
 "Yes," said the editor, regretfully, "we have 
 made out our case." He could not help but 
 wish that the fellow had stuck to his original 
 denial. It was too easy a victory. 
 
 "I don't say, mind you," went on Mr. Aram, 
 "that I ever took anybody's verses and sent 
 them to a paper as my own, but I ask you, as 
 one gentleman talking to another, and inquiring 
 for information, what is there wrong in doing 
 it? I say, if I had done it, which I don't admit 
 I ever did, where's the harm?" 
 
 "Where's the harm?" cried the two visitors 
 in chorus. 
 
 321
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 "Obtaining money under false pretenses," 
 said the editor, "is the harm you do the pub 
 lishers, and robbing another man of the work 
 of his brain and what credit belongs to him is 
 the harm you do him, and telling a lie is the 
 least harm done. Such a contemptible foolish 
 lie, too, that you might have known would 
 surely find you out in spite of the trouble you 
 took to- 
 
 "I never asked you for any money," inter 
 rupted Mr. Aram, quietly. 
 
 "But we would have sent it to you, neverthe 
 less," retorted the editor, "if we had not dis 
 covered in time that the poems were stolen." 
 
 "Where would you have sent it?" asked Mr. 
 Aram. "I never gave you a right address, did 
 I? I ask you, did I?" 
 
 The editor paused in some confusion. "Well, 
 if you did not want the money, what did you 
 want?" he exclaimed. "I must say I should 
 like to know." 
 
 Mr. Aram rocked himself to and fro, and 
 gazed at his two inquisitors with troubled eyes. 
 " I didn't see any harm in it then," he repeated. 
 "I don't see any harm in it now. I didn't ask 
 you for any money. I sort of thought," he 
 said, confusedly, "that I should like to see my 
 name in print. I wanted my friends to see it. 
 I'd have liked to have shown it to to well, 
 
 322
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 I'd like my wife to have seen it. She's inter 
 ested in literature and books and magazines 
 and things like that. That was all I wanted. 
 That's why I did it." 
 
 The reporter looked up askance at the editor, 
 as a prompter watches the actor to see if he is 
 readv to take his cue. i 
 
 \j 
 
 "How do I know that?" demanded the edi 
 tor, sharply. He found it somewhat difficult to 
 be severe with this poet, for the man admitted 
 so much so readily, and would not defend him 
 self. Had he only blustered and grown angry 
 and ordered them out, instead of sitting help 
 lessly there rocking to and fro and picking at 
 the back of his hands, it would have made it 
 so much easier. "How do we know," repeated 
 the editor, "that you did not intend to wait 
 until the poems had appeared, and then send 
 us your real address and ask for the money, 
 saying that you had moved since you had last 
 written us?" 
 
 "Oh," protested Mr. Aram, "you know I 
 never thought of that." 
 
 " I don't know anything of the sort," said the 
 editor. " I only know that you have forged and 
 lied and tried to obtain money that doesn't 
 belong to you, and that I mean to make an 
 example of you and frighten other men from 
 doing the same thing. No editor has read 
 
 323
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 every poem that was ever written, and there is 
 no protection for him from such fellows as you, 
 and the only thing he can do when he does 
 catch one of you is to make an example of him. 
 That's what I am going to do. I am going to 
 make an example of you. I am going to nail 
 you up as people nail up dead crows to frighten 
 off the live ones. It is my intention to give 
 this to the papers to-night, and you know what 
 they will do with it in the morning." 
 
 There was a long and most uncomfortable 
 pause, and it is doubtful if the editor did not 
 feel it as much as did the man opposite him. 
 The editor turned to his friend for a glance of 
 sympathy, or of disapproval even, but that 
 gentleman still sat bending forward with his 
 eyes fixed on the floor, while he tapped with 
 the top of his cane against his teeth. 
 
 "You don't mean," said Mr. Aram, in a 
 strangely different voice from which he had last 
 spoken, "that you would do that?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," blustered the editor. But even 
 as he spoke he was conscious of a sincere regret 
 that he had not come alone. He could intui 
 tively feel Bronson mapping out the story in his 
 mind and memorizing Aram's every word, and 
 taking mental notes of the framed certificates 
 of high membership in different military and 
 Masonic associations which hung upon the 
 
 324
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 walls. It had not been long since the editor 
 was himself a reporter, and he could see that it 
 was as good a story as Bronson could wish it 
 to be. But he reiterated, "Yes, I mean to give 
 it to the papers to-night." 
 
 "But think," said Aram "think, sir, who I 
 am. You don't want to ruin me for the rest 
 of my life just for a matter of fifteen dollars, 
 do you? Fifteen dollars that no one has lost, 
 either? If I'd embezzled a million or so, or if 
 I had robbed the city, well and good ! I'd have 
 taken big risks for big money; but you are going 
 to punish me just as hard because I tried to 
 please my wife, as though I had robbed a mint. 
 No one has really been hurt," he pleaded; "the 
 men who wrote the poems they've been paid 
 for them; they've got all the credit for them 
 they can get. You've not lost a cent. I've 
 gained nothing by it; and yet you gentlemen 
 are going to give this thing to the papers, and, 
 as you say, sir, we know what they will make 
 of it. What with my being my father's son, 
 and all that, my father is going to suffer. My 
 family is going to suffer. It will ruin me ' 
 
 The editor put the papers back into his 
 pocket. If Bronson had not been there he 
 might possibly instead have handed them over 
 to Mr. Aram, and this story would never have 
 been written. But he could not do that now. 
 
 325
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 Mr. Aram's affairs had become the property of 
 the New York newspaper. 
 
 He turned to his friend doubtfully. "What 
 do you think, Bronson?" he asked. 
 
 At this sign of possible leniency Aram ceased 
 in his rocking and sat erect, with eyes wide 
 open and fixed on Bronson's face. But the lat 
 ter trailed his stick over the rug beneath his 
 feet and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Mr. Aram," he said, "might have thought 
 of his family and his father before he went into 
 this business. It is rather late now. But," he 
 added, "I don't think it is a matter we can 
 decide in any event. It should be left to the 
 firm." 
 
 "Yes," said the editor, hurriedly, glad of the 
 excuse to temporize, "we must leave it to the 
 house." But he read Bronson's answer to 
 mean that he did not intend to let the plagiarist 
 escape, and he knew that even were Bronson 
 willing to do so, there was still his City Editor 
 to be persuaded. 
 
 The two men rose and stood uncomfortably, 
 shifting their hats in their hands and avoiding 
 each other's eyes. Mr. Aram stood up also, 
 and seeing that his last chance had come, began 
 again to plead desperately. 
 
 "What good would fifteen dollars do me?" 
 he said, with a gesture of his hands round the 
 
 326
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 room. "I don't have to look for money as 
 hard as that. I tell you," he reiterated, "it 
 wasn't the money I wanted. I didn't mean 
 any harm. I didn't know it was wrong. I 
 just wanted to please my wife that was all. 
 My God, man, can't you see that you are pun 
 ishing me out of all proportion?" 
 
 The visitors walked toward the door, and he 
 followed them, talking the faster as they drew 
 near to it. The scene had become an exceed 
 ingly painful one, and they were anxious to 
 bring it to a close. 
 
 The editor interrupted him. "We will let 
 you know," he said, "what we have decided to 
 do by to-morrow morning." 
 
 "You mean," retorted the man, hopelessly 
 and reproachfully, "that I will read it in the 
 Sunday papers." 
 
 Before the editor could answer they heard the 
 door leading into the apartment open and close, 
 and some one stepping quickly across the hall 
 to the room in which they stood. The entrance 
 to the room was hung with a portiere, and as 
 the three men paused in silence this portiere 
 was pushed back, and a young kdy stood in 
 the doorway, holding the curtains apart with 
 her two hands. She was smiling, and the smile 
 lighted a face that was inexpressibly bright and 
 honest and true. Aram's face had been low- 
 
 327
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 ered, but the eyes of the other two men were 
 staring wide open toward the unexpected fig 
 ure, which seemed to bring a taste of fresh pure 
 air into the feverish atmosphere of the place. 
 The girl stopped uncertainly when she saw the 
 two strangers, and bowed her head slightly as 
 the mistress of a house might welcome any one 
 whom she found in her drawing-room. She 
 was entirely above and apart from her sur 
 roundings. It was not only that she was ex 
 ceedingly pretty, but that everything about 
 her, from her attitude to her cloth walking- 
 dress, was significant of good taste and high 
 breeding. 
 
 She paused uncertainly, still smiling, and 
 with her gloved hands holding back the curtains 
 and looking at Aram with eyes filled with a 
 kind confidence. She was apparently waiting 
 for him to present his friends. 
 
 The editor made a sudden but irrevocable 
 resolve. "If she is only a chance visitor," he 
 said to himself, "I will still expose him; but if 
 that woman in the doorway is his wife, I will 
 push Bronson under the elevated train, and the 
 secret will die with me." 
 
 What Bronson' s thoughts were he could not 
 know, but he was conscious that his friend had 
 straightened his broad shoulders and was hold 
 ing his head erect. 
 
 328
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 * 
 
 Aram raised his face, but he did not look at 
 the woman in the door. "In a minute, dear," 
 he said; "I am busy with these gentlemen." 
 
 The girl gave a little "oh" of apology, smiled 
 at her husband's bent head, inclined her own 
 again slightly to the other men, and let the 
 portiere close behind her. It had been as dra 
 matic an entrance and exit as the two visitors 
 had ever seen upon the stage. It was as if Aram 
 had given a signal, and the only person who 
 could help him had come in the nick of time to 
 plead for him. Aram, stupid as he appeared to 
 be, had evidently felt the effect his wife's ap 
 pearance had made upon his judges. He still 
 kept his eyes fixed upon the floor, but he said, 
 and this time with more confidence in his tone: 
 
 "It is not, gentlemen, as though I were an 
 old man. I have so very long to live so long 
 to try to live this down. Why, I am as young 
 as you are. How would you like to have a 
 thing like this to carry with you till you died?" 
 
 The editor still stood staring blankly at the 
 curtains through which Mr. Aram's good angel, 
 for whom he had lied and cheated in order to 
 gain credit in her eyes, had disappeared. He 
 pushed them aside with his stick. "We will let 
 you know to-morrow morning," he repeated, 
 and the two men passed out from the poet's 
 presence, and on into the hall. They descended 
 
 329
 
 the stairs in an uncomfortable silence, Bronson 
 leading the way, and the editor endeavoring to 
 read his verdict by the back of his head and 
 shoulders. 
 
 At the foot of the steps he pulled his friend 
 by the sleeve. "Bronson," he coaxed, "you 
 are not going to use it, are you?" 
 
 Bronson turned on him savagely. "For 
 Heaven's sake!" he protested, "what do you 
 think I am; did you see her?" 
 
 So the New York lost a very good story, 
 
 and Bronson a large sum of money for not 
 writing it, and Mr. Aram was taught a lesson, 
 and his young wife's confidence in him remained 
 unshaken. The editor and reporter dined to 
 gether that night, and over their cigars decided 
 with sudden terror that Mr. Aram might, in his 
 ignorance of their good intentions concerning 
 him, blow out his brains, and for nothing. So 
 they despatched a messenger boy up-town in 
 post-haste with a note saying that "the firm" 
 had decided to let the matter drop although, 
 perhaps, it would have been better to have 
 given him one sleepless night at least. 
 
 That was three years ago, and since then Mr. 
 Aram's father has fallen out with Tammany, 
 and has been retired from public service. 
 Bronson has been sent abroad to represent the 
 United States at a foreign court, and has asked 
 
 330
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 
 
 the editor to write the story that he did not 
 write, but with such changes in the names of 
 people and places that no one save Mr. Aram 
 may know who Mr. Aram really was and is. 
 
 This the editor has done, reporting what 
 happened as faithfully as he could, and in the 
 hope that it will make an interesting story in 
 spite of the fact, and not on account of the 
 fact, that it is a true one. 
 
 33*
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
 COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
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