§M 
 
 
 
 fe^ 
 
 '/ 
 
 /.^ 
 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 *>**■ 
 
^^^JJsT^ 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
Gordon Marriott 
 
 Page 38 
 
THE TURN OF THE 
 BALANCE 
 
 BRAND WHITLOCK 
 
 Author of The Happy Average 
 
 Her Infinite Variety 
 
 The 13th District 
 
 With lUustralioiis by 
 
 JAY HAMBlDGE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 OF 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS 
 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
111)1^^1/^ ... /r HI IT 
 
 9ENERM 
 
 \.-'' 
 
 Copyright 1907 
 The Bobbs-Merrill Compant 
 
 March 
 
 • ^T*T■ 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 SAMUEL M. JONES 
 
 Died July 12, 1904 
 
 206440 
 
Of 
 
 \^, 
 
 'i-Q;:V'^, 
 
 On the other hand, a boy was bound to defend 
 them against anything tliat he thought slighting or 
 insulting; and you did not have to verify the fact 
 that anything had been said or done; you merely 
 had to hear that it had. It once fell to my boy to 
 avenge such a reported wrong from a boy who had 
 not many friends in school, a timid creature whom 
 the mere accusation frightened half out of his wits, 
 and who wildly protested his innocence. He ran, 
 and my boy followed with the other boys after him, 
 till they overtook the culprit and brought him to 
 bay against a high board fence; and there my boy 
 struck him in his imploring face. He tried to feel 
 like a righteous champion, but he felt like a brutal 
 ruffian. He long had the sight of that terrified, 
 weeping face, and with shame and sickness of heart 
 he cowered before it. It was pretty nearly the 
 last of his fighting; and though he came off victor, 
 he felt that he would rather be beaten himself 
 than do another such act of justice. In fact, it 
 seems best to be very careful how we try to do 
 justice in this world, and mostly to leave retribu- 
 tion of all kinds to God, who really knows about 
 things; and content ourselves as much as possible 
 with mercy, whose mistakes are not so irreparable. 
 
 From "A Boy's Town" 
 
 By William Dean Howells 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
Book I 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 As Elizabeth Ward stood that morning before the 
 wide hearth in the dining-room, she was glad that she 
 still could find, in this first snow of the season, the 
 simple wonder and deHght of that childhood she had 
 left not so very far behind. Her last glimpse of the 
 world the night before had been of trees lashed by a 
 cold rain, of arc-lamps with globes of fog, of wet as- 
 phalt pavements reflecting the lights of Claybourne 
 Avenue. But now, everywhere, there was snow, heaped 
 in exquisite drifts about the trees, and clinging in soft 
 masses to the rough bark of their trunks. The iron 
 fence about the great yard was half buried in it, the 
 houses along the avenue seemed far away and strange 
 in the white transfiguration, and the roofs lost their 
 familiar outlines against the low gray sky that hung 
 over them. 
 
 "Hurry, Gusta!" said Elizabeth. "This is splendid ^ 
 I must go right out !" 
 
 The maid who was laying the breakfast smiled; '^It 
 was a regular blizzard, Miss Elizabeth.'* 
 
 "Was it?" Elizabeth lifted her skirt a Httle, and 
 rested the tde of her slipper on the low brass fender. 
 
 3 
 
4 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 The wood was crackling cheerfully, "Has mama gone 
 out?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Miss Elizabeth, an hour ago." 
 
 *'Of course/' Elizabeth said, glancing at the little 
 clock on the mantelpiece, ticking in its refined way. Its 
 hands pointed to half-past ten. "I quite forgot the din- 
 ner." Her brow clouded. "What a bore !" she thought. 
 Then she said aloud : "Didn't mama leave any word ?'* 
 
 "She said not to disturb you, Miss Elizabeth." 
 
 Gusta had served the breakfast, and now, surveying 
 her work with an expression of pleasure, poured the 
 coffee. 
 
 Beside Elizabeth's plate lay the mail and a morning 
 newspaper. The newspaper had evidently been read 
 at some earlier breakfast, and because it was rumpled 
 Elizabeth pushed it aside. She read her letters while 
 she ate her breakfast, and then, when she laid her nap- 
 kin aside, she looked out of the windows again. 
 
 "I must go out for a long walk," she said, speaking 
 as much to herself as to the maid, though not in the 
 same eager tone she had found for her resolution a 
 while before. "It must have snowed very hard. It 
 wasn't snowing when I came home." 
 
 "It began at midnight, Miss Elizabeth," said Gusta, 
 "and it snowed so hard I had an awful time getting 
 here this morning. I could hardly find my way, it fell 
 so thick and fast." 
 
 Elizabeth did not reply, and Gusta went on: "I 
 stayed home last night — ^my brother just got back yes- 
 terday ; I stayed to see him." 
 
 "Your brother?" 
 
 "Yes ; Archie. He's been in the army. He got home 
 yesterday from the Phil'pines." 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 5 
 
 "How interesting !" said Elizabeth indifferently. 
 
 "Yes, he*s been there three years ; his time was out 
 and he came home. Oh, you should see him, Miss Eliz- 
 abeth. He looks so fine !" 
 
 "Does he look as fine as you, Gusta ?'* 
 
 Elizabeth smiled affectionately, and Gusta's fair Ger- 
 man skin flushed to her yellow hair. 
 
 "Now, Miss Elizabeth," she said in an embarrass- 
 ment that could not hide her pleasure, "Archie's really 
 handsome — ^he put on his soldier clothes and let us see 
 him. He's a fine soldier. Miss Elizabeth. He was the 
 best shooter in his regiment ; he has a medal. He said 
 it was a sharp-shooter's medal." 
 
 "Oh, indeed !" said Elizabeth, her already slight in- 
 terest flagging. "Then he must be a fine shot." 
 
 Though Elizabeth in a flash of imagination had the 
 scene in Gusta's home the night before — the brother 
 displaying himself in his uniform, his old German 
 father and mother glowing with pride, the children 
 gathered around in awe and wonder — she was really 
 thinking of the snow, and speculating as to what new 
 pleasure it would bring, and with this she rose from 
 the table and went into the drawing-room. There she 
 stood in the deep window a moment, and looked out. 
 The Maceys' man, clearing the walk over the way, had 
 paused in his labor to lean with a discouraged air on 
 his wooden shovel. A man was trudging by, his coat 
 collar turned up, his shoulders hunched disconsolately, 
 the snow clinging tenaciously to his feet as he plowed 
 his way along. At the sight, Elizabeth shrugged her 
 shoulders, gave a little sympathetic shiver, turned 
 from her contemplation of the avenue that stretched 
 away white and still, and went to the library. Here she 
 
6 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 got down a book and curled herself up on a divan 
 near the fireplace. Far away she heard the tinkle of 
 some solitary sleigh-bell. 
 
 When the maid came into the adjoining room a few 
 moments later, Elizabeth said : "Gusta, please hand me 
 that box of candy." 
 
 Elizabeth arranged herself in still greater comfort, 
 put a bit of the chocolate in her mouth, and opened her 
 book. "Gusta, you're a comfort," she said. "Catch me 
 going out on a day like this !" 
 
 Mrs. Ward came home at noon, and when she 
 learned that Elizabeth had spent the morning in the 
 
 . library, she ^ook on an air of such superiority as was 
 justified only in one who had not allowed even a bliz- 
 zard to interfere with the serious duties of life. She 
 
 • had learned several new signals at the whist club and, 
 as she told Elizabeth with a reproach for her neglect 
 of the game, she had mastered at last Elwood's new 
 system. But Elizabeth, when she had had her luncheon, 
 returned to the library and her book. She stayed there 
 an hour, then suddenly startled her mother by fling- 
 ing the, volume to the floor in disgust and running 
 from the room and up the stairs. She came down 
 presently dressed for the street. 
 
 "Don't be put long, dear; remember the dinner," 
 Mrs. Ward called after her. 
 
 As she turned in between the high banks of snow 
 piled along either side of the walk, Elizabeth felt the 
 fine quality of the air that sparkled with a cold vitality, 
 as pure as the snow that seemed to exhale it. She 
 tossed her head as if to rid it of all the disordered fan- 
 |des she had gathered in the unreal world of the ro- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 7 
 
 mance with which she had spent the day. Then for the 
 first time she reaHzed how gigantic the storm had been. 
 Long processions of men armed with shovels, happy 
 in the temporary prosperity this chance for work had 
 brought, had cleared the sidewalks. On the avenue 
 the snow had been beaten into a hard yellow track by 
 the horses and sleighs that coursed so gaily over it. 
 The cross-town trolley-cars glided along between the 
 windrows of the snow the big plow had whirled from 
 the tracks. Little children, in bright caps and leggings, 
 were playing in the yards, testing new sleds, tumbling 
 about in the white drifts, flinging snowballs at one an- 
 other, their laughter and screams harmonizing with the 
 bells. Claybourne Avenue was alive; the solitary bell 
 that Elizabeth had heard jingling in the still air that 
 morning had been joined by countless strings of other 
 bells, until now the air vibrated with their musical 
 clamor. Great Russian sledges with scarlet plumes 
 shaking at their high-curved dashboards swept by, and 
 the cutters sped along in their impromptu races, the 
 happy faces of their occupants ruddy in their furs, the 
 bells on the excited horses chiming in the keen air. At 
 the corner of Twenty-fifth Street, a park policeman, 
 sitting his magnificent bay horse, reviewed the swiftly 
 passing parade. The pedestrians along the sidewalk 
 shouted the racers on ; as the cutters, side by side, rose 
 and fell over the street-crossing a party of school-boys 
 assailed them with a shower of snowballs. 
 
 Elizabeth knew many of the people in the passing 
 sleighs; she knew all of those in the more imposing 
 turnouts. She bowed to her acquaintances with a smile 
 that came from the exhilaration of the sharp winter 
 air, more than from any jo}r she had in the recognition. 
 
S THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 But from one of the cutters Gordon Marriott waved his 
 whip at her, and she returned his salute with a little 
 shake of her big muff. Her gray eyes sparkled and her 
 cheeks against her furs were pink. Every one was 
 nervously exalted by the snow-storm that afternoon, 
 and Elizabeth, full of health and youthful spirit, tingled 
 with the joy the snow seemed to have brought to the 
 world. 
 
II 
 
 His house was all illumined; the light streaming 
 from its windows glistened on the polished crust of the 
 frozen snow, and as Stephen Ward drove up that even- 
 ing, he sighed, remembering the dinner. He sprang 
 out, slammed the door of his brougham and dashed in- 
 doors, the wheels of his retreating carriage giving out 
 again their frosty falsetto. The breath of cold air Ward 
 inhaled as he ran into the house was grateful to him, 
 and he would have liked more of it ; it would have re- 
 freshed and calmed him after his hard day on the 
 Board. 
 
 As he entered the wide hall, Elizabeth was just de- 
 scending the stairs. She came fresh from her toilet, 
 clothed in a dinner gown of white, her round arms bare 
 to the elbow, her young throat just revealed, her 
 dark hair done low on her neck, and the smile that 
 lighted her gray eyes pleased Ward. 
 
 As she went for her father's kiss Elizabeth noted the 
 cool outdoor atmosphere, and the odor of cigar smoke 
 and Russia leather that always hung about his person. 
 
 "You are refreshing !" she said. "The frost clings to 
 you." 
 
 He smiled as she helped him with his overcoat, and 
 then he backed up to the great fire, and stood there 
 shrugging his shoulders and rubbing his hands in the 
 warmth. His face was fresh and ruddy, his white hair 
 
 9 
 
lo THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 was rumpled, his stubbed mustache, which ordinarily 
 gave an effect of saving his youth in his middle years, 
 seemed to bristle aggressively, and his eyes still burned 
 from the excitement of the day. 
 
 "What have you been doing all day?" Elizabeth 
 asked, standing before him, her hands on his shoulders. 
 "Battling hard for life in the wheat pit?" Her eyes 
 sparkled with good humor. 
 
 Ward took Elizabeth's face between his palms as he 
 said jubilantly: 
 
 "No, but I've been making old Macey battle for his 
 life— and I've won." 
 
 His gray eyes flashed with the sense of victory, he 
 drew himself erect, tilted back on his heels. He did not 
 often speak of his business affairs at home, and when 
 he did, no one understood him. During the weeks in- 
 deed, in which the soft moist weather and constant 
 rains had prevented the rise in the wheat market on 
 which he had so confidently gambled, he had resolutely 
 and unselfishly kept his fear and his suspense to him- 
 self, and now even though at last he could indulge his 
 exultation, he drew a long, deep breath. 
 
 "By Jove!" he exclaimed. "The snow came just in 
 the nick of time for me !" 
 
 "Well, you march right up-stairs and get your clothes 
 on," said Elizabeth as she took her father by the arm, 
 gathering up the train of her white gown, heavy with 
 its sequins and gracefully impeding her progress, and 
 led him to the stairs. She smiled up into his face as 
 she did so, and, as he turned the corner of the wide 
 staircase, he bent and kissed her again. 
 
 Though the guests whom Mrs. Ward had asked to 
 her dinner that night all came in closed carriages^ bun- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE ii 
 
 died in warm and elegant furs, and though they stepped 
 from their own doors into their carriages and then 
 ahghted from them at the door of the Wards', they all, 
 when they arrived, talked excitedly of the storm and 
 adjured one another to confess that they had never 
 known such cold. The women, who came down from 
 the dressing-room in bare arms and bare shoulders, 
 seemed to think less of the cold than the men, who 
 were, doubtless, not so inured to exposure; but they 
 were more excited over it and looked on the phenom- 
 enon in its romantic light, and began to celebrate the 
 poetic aspects of the winter scene. But the men 
 laughed at this. 
 
 "There isn't much poetry about it down town," said 
 Dick Ward. ''No poet would have called that snow 
 beautiful if he'd seen it piled so high as to blockade the 
 street-cars and interrupt business generally." He spoke 
 with the young pride he was finding in himself as a 
 business man, though it would have been hard to tell 
 just what his business was. 
 
 "Oh, but Dick," said Miss Bonnell, her dark face 
 lighting with a fine smile, "the poet wouldn't have 
 thought of business !" 
 
 "No, I suppose not," admitted Dick witH the con- 
 tempt a business man should feel for a poet. 
 
 "He might have found a theme in the immense dam- 
 age the storm has done — telegraph wires all down, 
 trains all late, the whole country in the grip of the bliz- 
 zard, and a cold wave sweeping down from Medicine 
 Hat." 
 
 The slender young man who spoke was Gordon Mar- 
 riott, and he made his observation in a way that was 
 almost too serious to be conventional or even desirable 
 
13 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 in a society where seriousness was not encouraged. He 
 looked dreamily into the fire, as if he had merely 
 spoken a thought aloud rather than addressed any one ; 
 but the company standing about the fireplace, trying 
 to make the talk last for the few moments before din- 
 ner was announced, looked up suddenly, and seemed to 
 be puzzled by the expression on his smooth-shaven del- 
 icate face. 
 
 **Oh, a theme for an epic !" exclaimed Mrs. Modder- 
 well, the wife of the rector. Her pale face was glow- 
 ing with unusual color, and her great dark eyes were 
 lighting with enthusiasm. As she spoke, she glanced 
 at her husband, and seemed to shrink in her black 
 gown. 
 
 "But we have no poet to do it," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "Oh, I say," interrupted Modderwell, speaking in 
 the upper key he employed in addressing women, and 
 then, quickly changing to the deep, almost gruff tone 
 which, with his affected English accent, he used when 
 he spoke to men, "our friend Marriott here could do 
 it; he's dreamer enough for it — eh, Marriott?" He 
 gave his words the effect of a joke, and Marriott 
 smiled at them, while the rest' laughed in their readi- 
 ness to laugh at anything. 
 
 "No," said Marriott, "I couldn't do it, though I 
 wish I could. Walt Whitman might have done it ; he 
 could have begun with the cattle on the plains, freez- 
 ing, with their tails to the wind, and catalogued every- 
 thing on the way till he came to the stock quotations 
 and—" 
 
 "The people sleighing on Claybourne Avenue," said 
 Elizabeth, remembering her walk of the afternoon. 
 "And he would have gone on tracing the more subtle 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 13 
 
 and sinister effects — perhaps suggesting something 
 tragic." 
 
 "Well, now, really, when I was in Canada, you 
 know—" began Modderwell. Though he had been 
 born in Canada and had lived most of his life there, he 
 always referred to the experience as if it had been a 
 mere visit; he wished every one to consider him an 
 Englishman. And nearly every one did, except Mar- 
 riott, who looked at Modderwell in his most innocent 
 manner and began : 
 
 "Oh, you Canadians — " 
 
 But just then dinner was announced, and though 
 Elizabeth smiled at Marriott with sympathy, she was 
 glad to have him interrupted in his philosophizing, or 
 poetizing, or whatever it was, to take her out to the din- 
 ing-room, where the great round table, with its mound 
 of scarlet roses and tiny glasses of sherry glowing 
 ruddy in the soft light of the shaded candelabra, 
 awaited them. And there they passed through the long 
 courses, at first talking lightly, but excitedly, of the 
 snow, mentioning the pleasure and the new sensations 
 it would afford them ; then of their acquaintances ; of a 
 new burlesque that had run for a year in a New York 
 theater ; then of a new romance in which a great many 
 people were killed and imprisoned, though not in a 
 disagreeable manner, and, in short, talked of a great 
 many unimportant things, but talked of them as if 
 they were, in reality, of the utmost importance. 
 
 The butler had taken off the salad ; they were waiting 
 for the dessert. Suddenly from the direction of the 
 kitchen came a piercing scream, evidently a woman's 
 scream; all the swinging doors between the dining- 
 room and the distant kitchen could not muffle it. Mrs, 
 
14 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Mbdderwell started nervously, then, at a look from her 
 husband, composed herself and hung her head with 
 embarrassment. The others at the table started, 
 though not so visibly, and then tried to appear as if 
 they had not done so. Mrs. Ward looked up in alarm, 
 first at Ward, who hastily gulped some wine, and then 
 at Elizabeth. Wonder and curiosity were in all the 
 faces about the board — wonder and curiosity that no 
 sophistication could conceal. They waited; the time 
 grew long; Mrs. Ward, who always suffered through 
 her dinners, suffered more than ever now. Her guests 
 tried bravely to sit as if nothing were wrong, but at 
 last their little attempts at conversation failed, and they 
 sat in painful silence. The moments passed ; Ward and 
 his wife exchanged glances; Elizabeth looked at her 
 mother sympathetically. At last the door swung and 
 the butler entered ; the guests could not help glancing 
 at him. But in his face there was a blank and tutored 
 passivity that was admirable, almost heroic. 
 
 When the women were in the drawing-room, Mrs. 
 Ward excused herself for a moment and went to the 
 kitchen. She returned presently, and Elizabeth voiced 
 the question the others were too polite to ask. 
 
 "What on earth's the matter?" 
 
 "Matter!" exclaimed Mrs. Ward. "Gusta's going, 
 that's all." She said it with the feeling such a -calamity 
 merited. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Now." 
 
 "But the scream — what was it ?" 
 
 "Well, word came about her father ; he's been hurt, 
 or killed, or something, in the railroad yards." 
 
 "Oh, how dreadful !" the women politely chorused. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 15 
 
 "Yes, I should think so," said Mrs. Ward. "To be 
 left like this without a moment's warning! And then 
 that awful contretemps at dinner !" Mrs. Ward looked 
 all the anguish and shame she felt. 
 
 "But Gusta couldn't help that," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Ward, lapsing from her mood of 
 exaggeration, "I know that, of course. The poor girl 
 is quite broken up. I hope it is nothing really serious. 
 And yet," she went on, her mind turning again to her 
 own domestic misfortunes, "people of her class seem to 
 have the most unerring faculty for calamity. They're 
 always getting hurt, or sick, or dying, or something. 
 The servants in my house suffer more bereavement in 
 the course of a month than all the rest of my acquaint- 
 ance in a lifetime." 
 
 And then the ladies took up the servant-girl prob- 
 lem, and canvassed it hopelessly until the men were 
 heard entering the library. 
 
Ill 
 
 While Mrs. Ward was discussing her maid with her 
 guests, Gusta was hurrying homeward alone, the prey 
 of fears, omens and forebodings. There was the shock 
 of this sudden news from home, and her horror of 
 what awaited her there ; besides she had a strange feel- 
 ing about leaving the Wards in this way. The night 
 had grown bitterly cold. The frozen snow crunched 
 with a whining noise under her heels as she passed 
 swiftly along. In the light of the arc-lamps that swung 
 at the street crossings, the trees along the curb cast 
 their long shadows before her, falling obliquely across 
 the sidewalk and stretching off into the yard ; as she 
 passed on, they wheeled, lost themselves in gloom, then 
 appeared again, stretching the other way. The shadows 
 confused and frightened her. She thought of Elizabeth 
 and all her kindness; when would she see Elizabeth 
 again? With this horrible thing at home all had 
 changed ; her mother would need her now. She thought 
 of the hard work, with the children crying about, and 
 the ugly kitchen, with none of the things there were 
 at the Wards' to make the work easy. She would have 
 to lug the water in from the cistern ; the pump would 
 be frozen, and the water would splash on her hands 
 and make them red and raw and sore; they could 
 never be white and soft like Elizabeth's. She would 
 have to shovel the snow, and make paths, and split 
 kindlings, and carry wood and coal, and make fires. 
 
 i6 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 17 
 
 And then the house would never be warm like the 
 Wards' ; they would eat in the kitchen and sit there all 
 day long. The storm, which had made no change at all 
 at the Wards*, would make it all so much harder at 
 home. Her father would be sick a long time ; and, of 
 course, he would lose his job; the house would be 
 gloomy and sad ; it would be worse than the winter he 
 had been on strike. 
 
 The keen wind that was blowing from the northwest 
 stung Gusta's face ; she felt the tears in her eyes, and 
 when they ran on to her cheeks they froze at once and 
 made her miserable. She shuddered with the cold, her 
 fingers were numb, her feet seemed to be bare on the 
 snow, her ears were burning. The wind blew against 
 her forehead and seemed as if it would cut the top of 
 her head off as with a cold blade. She tried to pull 
 her little jacket about her; the jacket was one Eliza- 
 beth had given her, and she had always been proud of 
 it and thought that it made her look like Elizabeth, 
 but it could not keep her warm now. She ran a few 
 steps, partly to get warm, partly to make swifter pro- 
 gress homeward, partly for no reason at all. She 
 thought of her comfortable room at the Wards* and the 
 little colored pictures Elizabeth had given her to hang 
 about the walls. An hour before she had expected to 
 go to that room and rest there, — and now she was go- 
 ing home to sickness and sorrow and ugly work. She 
 gave a little sob and tried to brush away her tears, but 
 they were frozen to her eye-lashes, and it gave her a 
 sharp pain above her eyes when she put her hand up to 
 her face. 
 
 Gusta had now reached the poorer quarter of the 
 town, which was not far from Claybourne Avenue, 
 
i8 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 though hidden from it. The houses were huddled 
 closely together, and their little window-panes were 
 frosty against the light that shone through the holes in 
 their shades. There were many saloons, as many as 
 three on a corner; the ice was frozen about their en- 
 trances, but she could see the light behind the screens. 
 They seemed to be warm— the only places in that neigh- 
 borhood that were warm. She passed one of them just 
 as the latch clicked and the door opened, and three 
 young men came out, laughing loud, rough, brutal 
 laughs. Gusta shrank to the edge of the sidewalk; 
 when she got into the black shadow of the low frame 
 building, she ran, and as she ran she could hear the 
 young men laughing loudly behind her. She plunged 
 on into the shadows that lay so thick and black ahead. 
 But as she drew near her home, all of Gusta's other 
 thoughts were swallowed up in the thought of her fa- 
 ther. She forgot how cold she was ; her fingers were 
 numb, but they no longer ached ; a kind of physical in- 
 sensibility stole through her, but she was more than 
 ever alive mentally to the anguish that was on her. She 
 thought of her father, and she remembered a thousand 
 little things about him,— all his ways, all his sayings, 
 little incidents of her childhood ; and the tears blinded 
 her, because now he probably would never speak to her 
 again, never open his eyes to look on her again. She 
 pictured him lying on his bed, broken and maimed, 
 probably covered with blood, gasping his few last 
 breaths. She broke into a little run, the clumsy trot 
 of a woman, her skirts beating heavily and with dull 
 noises against her legs, her shoes crunching, crunching, 
 on the frozen snow. At last she turned another corner, 
 and entered a street that was even narrower and darker 
 
JHE TURN OF THE BALANCE 19 
 
 than the others. Its surface, though hidden by the 
 snow, was billowy where the ash piles lay ; there was no 
 light, but the snow seemed to give a gray effect to the 
 darkness. This was Bolt Street, in which Gusta's fam- 
 ily, the Koerners, lived. 
 
 The thin crackled shade was down at the front win- 
 dow, but the light shone behind it. Gusta pushed open 
 the front door and rushed in. She took in the front 
 room at a glance, seeking the evidence of change ; but 
 all was unchanged, familiar — ^the strips of rag carpet 
 on the floor, the cheap oak furniture upholstered in 
 green and red plush, the rough, coarse-grained surface 
 of the wood varnished highly ; the photograph of her- 
 self in the white dress and veil she had worn to her 
 first communion, the picture of Archie sent from the 
 Presidio, the colored prints of Bismarck and the battle 
 of Sedan — ^all were there. The room was just as it had 
 always been, clean, orderly, unused — save that some 
 trinkets Archie had brought from Manila were on the 
 center-table beside the lamp, which, with its round 
 globe painted with brown flowers, gave the room its 
 light. 
 
 Gusta had taken all this in with a little shock of 
 surprise, and in the same instant the children, Katie 
 and little Jakie, sprang forth to meet her. They stood 
 now, clutching at her skirts; they held up their little 
 red, chapped faces, all dirty and streaked with tears; 
 their lips quivered, and they began to whimper. But 
 Gusta, with her wild eyes staring above their little 
 flaxen heads, pressed on in, and the children, hanging 
 on to her and impeding her progress, began to cry 
 peevishly. 
 
 Gusta saw her mother sitting in the kitchen. Two 
 
20 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 women of the neighborhood sat near her, dull, silent, 
 stupid, their chins on their huge breasts, as if in melan- 
 cholia. Though the room was stiflingly warm with the 
 heat from the kitchen stove, the women kept their 
 shawls over their heads, like peasants. Mrs. Koerner 
 sat in a rocking-chair in the middle of her clean white 
 kitchen floor. As she lifted her dry eyes and saw Gusta, 
 her brows contracted under her thin, carefully-parted 
 hair, and she lifted her brawny arms, bare to the el- 
 bows, and rocked backward, her feet swinging heavily 
 off the floor. 
 
 "Where's father ?" Gusta demanded, starting toward 
 her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Koerner's lips opened and she drew a long 
 breath, then exhaled it in a heavy sigh. 
 
 "Where is he?" Gusta demanded again. She spoke 
 so fiercely that the children suddenly became silent, 
 their pale blue eyes wide. One of the neighbors looked 
 up, unwrapped her bare arms from her gingham apron 
 and began to poke the kitchen fire. Mrs. Koerner sud- 
 denly bent forward, her elbows on her knees, her chin 
 in her hands, and began to cry, and to mumble in (jer- 
 man. At this, the two neighbor women began to speak 
 to each other in German. It always irritated Gusta to 
 have her mother speak in German. She had learned the 
 language in her infancy, but she grew ashamed of it 
 when she was sent to the public schools, and never 
 spoke it when she could help it. And now in her re- 
 sentment of the whole tragic situation, she flew into a 
 rage. Her mother threw her apron over her face, and 
 rocked back and forth. 
 
 "Aw, quit, ma !" cried Gusta ; "quit, now, can't you?" 
 
 Mrs. Koerner took her apron from her face and 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 21 
 
 I 
 looked at Gusta. Her expression was one of mute ap- 
 pealing pain. Gusta, softened, put her hand on her 
 mother's head. 
 
 "Tell me, ma," she said softly, "where is he?" 
 
 Mrs. Koerner rocked again, back and forth, flinging 
 up her arms and shaking her head from side to side. 
 A fear seized Gusta. 
 
 "Where is he ?" she demanded. 
 
 "He goes on der hospital," said one of the women. 
 "He's bad hurt." 
 
 The word "hospital" seemed to have a profound and 
 sinister meaning for Mrs. Koerner, and she began to 
 wail aloud. Gusta feared to ask more. The children 
 were still clinging to her. They hung to her skirts, 
 tried to grasp her legs, almost toppling her over. 
 
 "Want our supper!" Jakie cried; "want our sup- 
 perl" 
 
 "Gusta," said Katie, "did the pretty lady send me 
 something good ?" 
 
 Gusta still stood there ; her cheeks were glowing red 
 from their exposure to the wind that howled outside 
 and rattled the loose sash in the window. But about 
 her bluish lips the skin was white, her blue eyes were 
 tired and frightened. She dropped a hand to each of 
 the children, her knees trembled, and she gave little 
 lurches from side to side as she stood there, with the 
 children tugging at her, in their fear and hunger. 
 
 "Where's Archie ?" she asked. 
 
 "He's gone for his beer," said one of the neighbors, 
 the one who had not spoken. As she spoke she revealed 
 her loose teeth, standing wide apart in her gums. 
 "Maybe he goes on der hospital yet." 
 
 Every time they spoke the word "hospital," Mrs, 
 
22 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Koerner flung up her arms, and Gusta herself winced. 
 But she saw that neither her mother nor these women 
 who had come in to sit with her could tell her anything ; 
 to learn the details she would have to wait until Archie 
 came. She had been drawing off her gloves as she 
 stood there, and now she laid aside her hat and her 
 jacket, and tied on one of her mother's aprons. Then 
 silently she went to work, opened the stove door, shook 
 the ashes down, threw in coal, and got out a skillet. 
 The table spread with its red cloth stood against the 
 window-sill, bearing cream pitcher and sugar bowl, 
 and a cheap glass urn filled with metal spoons. She 
 went to the pantry, brought out a crock of butter and 
 put it on the table, then cut pieces of side-meat and 
 put them in a skillet, where they began to swim about 
 and sizzle in the sputtering grease. Then she set the 
 coffee to boil, cut some bread, and, finding some cold 
 potatoes left over from dinner, she set these on the 
 table for the supper. It grew still, quiet, commonplace. 
 Gusta bustled about, her mother sat there quietly, the 
 neighbors looked on stolidly, the children snuffled now 
 and then. The tragedy seemed remote and unreal. 
 ;' Gusta took a pail and whisked out of the kitchen 
 door ; the wind rushed in, icy cold ; she was back in a 
 moment, her golden hair blowing. She poured some of 
 the water into a pan, and called the children to her. 
 They stood as stolidly as the women sat, their hands 
 rigid by their sides, their chins elevated, gasping now 
 and then as Gusta washed their dirty faces with the 
 rag she had wrung out in the icy water. The odor of 
 frying pork was now filling the room, and the children's 
 Ted, burnished faces were gleaming with smiles, and 
 their blue eyes danced as they stood looking at the hot 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 23 
 
 stove. When the pork was fried, Gusta, using her 
 apron to protect her hand, seized the skillet from the 
 stove, scraped the spluttering contents into a dish and 
 set it on the table. Then the children climbed into 
 chairs, side by side, clutching the edge of the table 
 with their little fingers. Mrs. Koerner let Gusta draw 
 up her rocking-chair, leaned over, resting her fat fore- 
 arms on the table, holding her fork in her fist, and ate, 
 using her elbow as a fulcrum. 
 
 When the meal was done, Mrs. Koerner began to 
 rock again, the children stood about and watched Gusta 
 pile the dishes on the table and cover them with the red 
 cloth, and then, when she told them they must go to 
 bed, they protested, crying that father had not come 
 home yet. Their eyes were heavy and their flaxen heads 
 were nodding, and Gusta dragged them into a room 
 that opened off the kitchen, and out of the dark could 
 be heard their small voices, protesting sleepily that 
 they were not sleepy. 
 
 After a while a quick, regular step was heard out- 
 side, some one stamped the snow from his boots, the 
 door opened, and Archie entered. His face was drawn 
 and flaming from the cold, and there was shrinking in 
 his broad military shoulders ; a shiver ran through his 
 well-set-up figure ; he wore no overcoat ; he keenly felt 
 the exposure to weather he was so unused to. He flung 
 aside his gray felt soldier's hat — the same he had worn 
 in the Philippines — strode across the room, bent over 
 the stove and warmed his red fingers. 
 
 "It's a long hike over to the hospital this cold night," 
 he said, turning to Gusta and smiling. His white teeth 
 showed in his smile, and the skin of his face was red 
 and parched. He flung a chair before the stove, sat 
 
24 THE lURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 down, hooked one heel on its rung, and taking some 
 little slips of rice paper from his pocket, and a bag of 
 .tobacco, began rolling himself^ cigarette. He rolled 
 the cigarette swiftly and deftly, lighted it, and inhaled 
 the smoke eagerly. Gusta, meanwhile, sat looking at 
 him in a sort of suppressed impatience. Then, the 
 smoke steaHng from his mouth with each word he 
 uttered, he said : 
 
 "Well, they Ve cut the old man's leg off." 
 
 Gusta and the neighbor women looked at Archie in 
 silence. Mrs. Koerner seemed unable to grasp the full 
 meaning of what he had said. 
 
 "Was sagst du?" she asked, leaning forward anx- 
 iously. 
 
 ''Sie haben sein Bein amputiert" replied Archie. 
 
 ''Sein Bein — was?" inquired Mrs. Koerner. 
 
 "What the devil's *cut off' ?" asked Archie, turning 
 to Gusta. 
 
 She thought a moment. 
 
 "Why," she said, "let's see. Ahgeschnitten, I guess." 
 
 "Je's," said Archie impatiently, "I wish she'd cut 
 out the Dutch 1" 
 
 Then he turned toward his mother and speaking 
 loudly, as if she were deaf, as one always speaks who 
 tries to make himself understood in a strange tongue : 
 
 ''Sie haben sein Bein ahgeschnitten — die Doctoren 
 im Hospital." 
 
 Mrs. Koerner stared at her son, and Archie and 
 Gusta and the two women sat and stared at her, then 
 suddenly Mrs. Koerner's expression became set, mean- 
 ingless and blank, her eyes slowly closed and her body 
 slid off the chair to the floor. Archie sprang toward 
 her and tried to lift her. She was heavy even for his 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 25 
 
 strong arms, and He straightened an instant, and 
 shouted out commands : 
 
 "Open the door, you! Gusta, get some water!" 
 
 One of the women lumbered across the kitchen and 
 flung wide the door, Gusta got a dipper of water and 
 splashed it in her mother's face. The cold air rushing 
 into the overheated kitchen and the cool water revived 
 the prostrate woman ; she opened her eyes and looked 
 up, sick and appealing. Archie helped her to her chair 
 and stood leaning over her. Gusta, too, bent above her, 
 and the two women pressed close. 
 
 "Stand back!" shouted Archie peremptorily. "Give 
 her some air, can't you ?" 
 
 The two women slunk back — ^not without glances of 
 reproach at Archie. He stood looking at his mother a 
 moment, his hands resting on his hips. He was still 
 smoking his cigarette, tilting back his head and squint- 
 ing his eyes to escape the smoke. Gusta was fanning 
 her mother. 
 
 "Do you feel better ?" she asked solicitously. 
 
 "J a!* said Mrs. Koemer, but she began to shake her 
 head. 
 
 "Oh, it's all right, ma," Archie assured her. "It's 
 the best place for him. Why, they'll give him good 
 care there, I was in the hospital a month already in 
 Luzon." 
 
 The old woman was unconvinced and shook her 
 head. Then Archie stepped close to her side. 
 
 "Poor old mother!" he said, and he touched her 
 brow lightly, caressingly. She looked at him an instant, 
 then turned her head against him and cried. The tears 
 began to roll down Gusta's cheeks, and Archie 
 squinted his eyes more and more. 
 
2!^ THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "We'd better get her to bed," he said softly, and 
 glanced at the two women with a look of dismissal. 
 They still sat looking on at this effect of the disaster, 
 not altogether curiously nor without sympathy, yet 
 claiming all the sensation they could get out of the 
 situation. When Archie and Gusta led Mrs. Koerner 
 to her bed, the two women began talking rapidly to 
 each other in German, criticizing Archie and the ac- 
 tion of the authorities in taking Koerner to the hospital. 
 
m 
 
 Gusta cherisHed a hope of going back to the Wards', 
 but as the days went by this hope dedined. Mrs. Koer- 
 ner was mentally prostrated and Gusta was needed now 
 at home, and there she took up her duties, attending 
 the children, getting the meals, caring for the house, 
 filling her mother's place. After a few days she re- 
 luctantly decided to go back for her clothes. The 
 weather had moderated, the snow still lay on the 
 ground, but grimy, soft and disintegrating. The sky 
 was gray and cold, the mean east wind was blowing in 
 from the lake, and yet Gusta liked its cool touch on her 
 face, and was glad to be out again after all those days 
 she had been shut in the little home. It was good to 
 feel herself among other people, to get back to normal 
 life, and though Gusta did not analyze her sensations 
 thus closely, or, for that matter, analyze them at all, 
 she was all the more happy. 
 
 Before Nussbaum's saloon she saw the long beer 
 wagon ; its splendid Norman horses tossing their heads 
 playfully, the stout driver in his leathern apron lug- 
 ging in the kegs of beer. The sight pleased her ; and 
 when Nussbaum, in white shirt-sleeves and apron, 
 stepped to the door for his breath of morning air, she 
 smiled and nodded to him. His round ruddy face 
 beamed pleasantly. 
 
 "Hello, Gustie," he called. "How are you this morn- 
 ing? How's your father?" 
 
 27 
 
28 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Oh, he's better, thank you, Mr. Nussbaum," replied 
 Gusta, and she hastened on. As she went, she heard 
 the driver of the brewery wagon ask : 
 
 "Who's that?" 
 
 And Nussbaum replied : 
 
 "Reinhold Koerner's girl, what got hurt on the raiU 
 road the other day." 
 
 "She's a good-looker, hain't she?" said the driver. 
 
 And Gusta colored and felt proud and happier than 
 before. 
 
 She was not long in reaching Claybourne Avenue, 
 and it was good to see the big houses again, and the 
 sleighs coursing by, and the carriages, and the drivers 
 and footmen, some of whom she knew, sitting so stiffly 
 in their liveries on the boxes. At sight of the familiar 
 roof and chimneys of the Wards' house, her heart 
 leaped ; she felt now as if she were getting back home. 
 
 It was Gusta's notion that as soon as she had greeted 
 her old friend Mollie, the cook, she would rush on into 
 the dining-room ; but no sooner was she in the kitchen 
 than she felt a constraint, and sank down weakly on a 
 chair. Molly was busy with luncheon ; things were go- 
 ing on in the Ward household, going on just as well 
 without her as with her, just as the car shops were go- 
 ing on without her father, the whistle blowing night 
 and morning. It gave Gusta a little pang. This feeling 
 was intensified when, a little later, a girl entered the 
 kitchen, a thin girl, with black hair and blue eyes with 
 long Irish lashes. She would have been called pretty 
 by anybody but Gusta, and Gusta herself must have al- 
 lowed her prettiness in any moment less sharp than this. 
 The new maid inspected Gusta coldly, but none of the 
 glances from her eyes could hurt Gusta half as much as 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 29 
 
 her presence there hurt her ; and the hurt was so deep 
 that she felt no personal resentment ; she regarded the 
 maid merely as a situation, an unconscious and irre- 
 sponsible symbol of certain untoward events. 
 
 ^'Want to see Mrs. Ward ?" the maid inquired. 
 
 "Yes, and Miss Elizabeth, too," said Gusta. 
 
 "Mrs. Ward's out and Miss Ward's busy just now." 
 
 Mollie, whose broad back was bent over her table, 
 knew how the words hurt Gusta, and, without turning, 
 she said : 
 
 "You go tell her Gusta's here, Nora ; she'll want to 
 see her.** 
 
 "Oh, sure,*' said Nora, yielding to a superior. "I'll 
 tell her.** 
 
 Almost before Nora could return, Elizabeth stood 
 in the swinging door, beaming her surprise and pleas- 
 ure. And Gusta burst into tears. 
 
 "Why Gusta,'* exclaimed Elizabeth, "come right in 
 here!'* 
 
 She held the door, and Gusta, with a glance at Nora, 
 went in. Seated by the window in the old familiar din- 
 ing-room, with Elizabeth before her, Gusta glanced 
 about, the pain came back, and the tears rolled down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 "You mustn't cry, Gusta,** said Elizabeth. 
 
 Gusta sat twisting her fingers together, in and out, 
 while the tears fell. She could not speak for a mo- 
 ment, and then she looked up and tried to smile. 
 
 "You mustn't cry," Elizabeth repeated. "You aren't 
 half so pretty when you cry.** 
 
 Gusta*s wet lashes were winking rapidly, and she 
 took out her handkerchief and wiped her face and her 
 eyes, and Elizabeth looked at her intently. 
 
30 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Poor child!" she said presently. "What a time 
 you've had!" 
 
 "Oh, Miss Elizabeth!" said Gusta, the tears starting 
 afresh at this expression of sympathy, "we've had a 
 dreadful time !" 
 
 "And we've missed you awfully," said Elizabeth. 
 "When are you coming back to us ?" 
 
 Gusta looked up gratefully. "I don't know, Miss 
 Elizabeth ; I wish I did. But you see my mother is sick 
 ever since father — " 
 
 "And how is your father ? We saw in the newspaper 
 how badly he had been hurt." 
 
 "Was it in the paper?" said Gusta eagerly, leaning 
 forward a little. 
 
 "Yes, didn't you see it? It was just a little item; it 
 gave few of the details, and it must have misspelled — " 
 But Elizabeth stopped. 
 
 "I didn't see it," said Gusta. "He was hurt dread- 
 fully, Miss Elizabeth ; they cut his leg off at the hos- 
 pital." 
 
 "Oh, Gusta ! And he's there still, of course ?" 
 
 "Yes, and we don't know how long he'll have to 
 stay. Maybe he'll have to go under another operation." 
 
 "Oh, I hope not!" said Elizabeth. "Tell me how he 
 was hurt." 
 
 "Well, Miss Elizabeth, we don't just know — not just 
 exactly. He had knocked off work and left the shops 
 and was coming across the yards — he always comes 
 home that way, you know — but it was dark, and the 
 snow was all over everything, and the ice, and somehow 
 he slipped and caught his foot in a frog, and just then 
 a switch-engine came along and ran over his leg." 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 31 
 
 "Oh, horrible!" Elizabeth's brows contracted in 
 pain. 
 
 "The ambulance took him right away to the hospi- 
 tal. Ma felt awful bad 'cause they wouldn't let him be 
 fetched home. She didn't want him taken to the hos- 
 pital." 
 
 "But that was the best place for him, Gusta; the 
 very best place in the world." 
 
 "That's what Archie says," said Gusta, "but ma 
 doesn't like it ; she can't get used to it, and she says — " 
 Gusta hesitated, — "she says we can't afford to keep him 
 there.'* 
 
 "But the railroad will pay for that, won't it ?" 
 
 "Oh, do you think it will, Miss Elizabeth? It had 
 ought to, hadn't it? He's worked there thirty-seven 
 years." 
 
 "Why, surely it will," said Elizabeth. "I wouldn't 
 worry about that a minute if I were you. You must 
 make the best of it. And is there anything I can do 
 for you, Gusta?" 
 
 "No, thank you. Miss Elizabeth. I just came around 
 to see you," — she looked up with a fond smile, — "and 
 to get my clothes. Then I must go. I want to go see 
 father before I go back home. I guess I'll pack my 
 things now, and then Archie'll come for my trunk this 
 afternoon." 
 
 "Oh, I'll have Barker haul it over; he can just as 
 well as not. And, Gusta," — Elizabeth rose on the im- 
 pulse — "I'll drive you to the hospital. I was just go- 
 ing out. You wait here till I get my things." 
 
 Gusta's face flushed with pleasure; she poured out 
 her thanks, and tRen she >vaited while Elizabeth rang 
 
32 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 for the carriage, and ran out to prepare for the street, 
 just as she used to. 
 
 It was a fine thing for Gusta to ride with Elizabeth 
 in her brougham. She had often imagined how it 
 would be, sitting there in the exclusion of the 
 brougham's upholstered interior, with the little clock, 
 and the mirror and the bottle of salts before her, and 
 the woven silk tube through which Elizabeth spoke 
 to Barker when she wished to give him directions. 
 The drive to the hospital was all too short for Gusta, 
 even though Elizabeth prolonged it by another impulse 
 which led her to drive out of their way to get some 
 fruit and some flowers. 
 
 In the street before the hospital, and along the 
 driveway that led to the suggestively wide side door, 
 carriages were being slowly driven up and down, de- 
 noting that the social leaders who were patronesses of 
 the hospital were now inside, patronizing the superin- 
 tendent and the head nurse. Besides these there were 
 the high, hooded phaetons of the fashionable physi- 
 cians. It was the busy hour at the hospital. The nurses 
 had done their morning work, made their entries on 
 their charts, and were now standing in little groups 
 about the hall, waiting for their "cases'* to come back 
 from the operating-rooms. There was the odor of 
 anesthetics in the air, and the atmosphere of the place, 
 professional and institutional though it was, was sur- 
 charged with a heavy human suspense— the suspense 
 that hung over the silent, heavily breathing, anesthet- 
 ized human forms that were stretched on glass tables 
 in the hot operating-rooms up-stairs, some of them 
 doomed to die, others to live and prolong existence yet 
 a while. The wide slow elevators were waiting at the 
 
THE TURN OE THE BALANCE 33 
 
 top floor ; at the doors of the operating-rooms stood ^^' 
 the white-padded rubber-tired carts, the orderlies sit- 
 ting on them swinging their legs off the floor, and 
 gossiping about the world outside, where life did not 
 hover, but throbbed on, intent, preoccupied. In private 
 rooms, in vacant rooms, in the office down-stairs, men 
 and women, the relatives of those on the glass tables 
 above, waited with white, haggard, frightened faces. 
 
 As Elizabeth and Gusta entered the hospital they 
 shuddered, and drew close to each other like sisters. 
 Koerner was in the marine ward, and Gusta dreaded 
 the place. On her previous visits there, the nurses had 
 been sharp and severe with her, but this morning, 
 when the nurses saw Elizabeth bearing her basket ol 
 fruit and her flowers — which she would not let Gusta 
 carry, feeling that would rob her offering of the per* 
 sonal quality she wished it to assume — they ran for- 
 ward, their starched, striped blue skirts rustling, and 
 greeted her with smiles. 
 
 "Why, Miss Ward r they cried. 
 
 "Good morning," said Elizabeth, "weVe come to see 
 Mr. Koerner.** 
 
 "Oh, yes,** said Koerner *s nurse, a tall, spare young 
 woman with a large nose, eye-glasses, and a flat chest. 
 "He*s so much better this morning.** She said this 
 with a patronizing glance aside at Gusta, who tried: 
 to smile ; the nurse had not spoken so pleasantly to her 
 before. 
 
 The nurse led the girls into the ward, and tKey- 
 passed down between the rows of white cots. Some of 
 the cots were empty, their white sheets folded severely^ 
 back, awaiting the return of their occupants from the 
 xx)oms up-stairs. In the others men sprawled, with 
 
34 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 ^^:' pallid, haggard faces, and watched the young women 
 as they passed along, following: them with large, bril- 
 liant, sick eyes. But Elizabeth and Gusta did not look 
 at them; they kept their eyes before them. One bed 
 had a white screen about it; candles glowed through 
 the screen, silhouetting the bending forms of a priest, 
 a doctor and a nurse. 
 
 Koerner was at the end of the ward. His great, 
 gaunt, heavy figure was supine on the bed ; the band- 
 aged stump of his leg made a heavy bulk under the 
 counterpane; his broad shoulders mashed down the 
 pillow ; his enormous hands, still showing in their 
 cracks and crevices and around the cuticle of his 
 broken nails the grime that all the antiseptic scrub- 
 bings of a hospital could not remove, lay outside the 
 coverlid, idle for the first time in half a century. His 
 white hair was combed, its ragged edges showing 
 more obviously, and his gaunt cheeks were covered by 
 a stubble of frosty beard. His blue eyes were unnatu- 
 rally bright. 
 
 Elizabeth fell back a little that Gusta might greet 
 him first, and the strong, lusty, healthy girl bent over 
 her father and laid one hand on his. 
 
 "Well, pa, how 're you feeling to-day?" 
 
 "Hullo, Gustie," said the old man, "you gom' again, 
 huh ? Veil, der oldt man's pretty bad, I tel' you." 
 
 "Why, the nurse said you were better." 
 
 "Why, yes," said the nurse, stepping forward with 
 a professional smile, "he's lots better this morning; 
 he just won't admit it, that's all. But we know him 
 here, we do !" 
 
 She said this playfully, with a lateral addition to her 
 3mile^ and she bent over and passed her hand under 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 35 
 
 the bed-clothes and touched his bandages here and 
 there. EHzabeth and Gusta stood looking on. 
 
 *Tsn*t the pain any better?" asked the nurse, still 
 smilingly, coaxingly. 
 
 "Naw," growled the old German, stubbornly re- 
 fusing to smile. "I toldt you it was no besser, 
 don^tl?" 
 
 The nurse drew out her hand. The smile left her 
 face and she stood looking down on him with a help- 
 less expression that spread to the faces of Elizabeth 
 and Gusta. Koerner turned his head uneasily on the 
 pillow and groaned. 
 
 "What is it, pa ?" asked Gusta. 
 
 "Der rheumatizV* 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "In my leg. In der same oldt blace. Achf 
 
 An expression of puzzled pain came to Gusta's 
 face. 
 
 "Why," she said half-fearfully, "how can it — now ?" 
 She looked at the nurse. The nurse smiled again, this 
 time with an air of superior knowledge. 
 
 "They often have those sensations," she said, laugh- 
 ing. "It's quite natural." Then she bent over Koerner 
 and said cheerily: "I'm going now, and leave you 
 with your daughter and Miss Ward." 
 
 "Yes, pa," said Gusta, "Miss Elizabeth's here to see 
 you." 
 
 She put into her tone all the appreciation of the 
 honor she wished her father to feel. Elizabeth came 
 forward, her gloved hands folded before her, and stood 
 carefully away from the bed so that even her skirts 
 should not touch it. ^ 
 
 "How do you do^, Mr. Koerner ?" she said in her soft 
 
30 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 i 
 
 voice — so diflfercnt from the voices of the nurse and 
 Gusta. 
 
 Koerner turned and looked at her an instant, his 
 mouth open, his tongue playing over his discolored 
 teeth. 
 
 **Hullo," he said, "you gom* to see der oldt man, 
 huh?" 
 
 Elizabeth smiled. 
 
 "Yes, I came to see how you were, and to know if 
 there is anything I could do for you." 
 
 ''Ach/' he said, "I'm all right. Dot leg he hurts 
 yust der same efery day. Kesterday dcr's somet'ing 
 between der toes; dis time he's got der damned oldt 
 rheumatiz', yust der same he used to ven he's on dere 
 all right." 
 
 The old man then entered into a long description of 
 his symptoms, and Elizabeth tried hard to smile and to 
 sympathize. She succeeded in turning him from his 
 subject presently, and then she said : 
 
 "Is there anything you want, Mr. Koerner? I'd be 
 so glad to get you anything, you know." 
 
 "Veil, I like a schmoke alreadty, but she won't let 
 me. You know my oldt pipe, Gusta? Veil, I lose him 
 by der accident dot night. He's on der railroadt, I bet 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, we'll get you another pipe, Mr. Koerner," said 
 Elizabeth, laughing. "Isn't there anything else ?" 
 
 "Naw," he said, "der railroadt gets me eferyt'ing. 
 I work on dot roadt t'irty-seven year now a'readty. 
 Dot man, dot — vat you call him ? — dot glaim agent, he 
 kum here kesterday, undt he say he get me eferyt'ing. 
 He's a fine man, dot glaim agent. He laugh undt choke 
 
 i 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 37 
 
 mit me; he saidt der roadt gif me chob flaggin' der 
 grossing. All I yust do is to sign der baper — " 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Koerner," cried Elizabeth in alarm, and 
 Gusta, at her expression, started forward, and Koer- 
 ner himself became all attention, "you did not sign 
 any paper, did you ?" 
 
 The old man looked at her an instant, and then a soft 
 shadowy smile touched his lips. 
 
 "Don't you vorry," he said ; "der oldt man only got 
 von leg, but he don't sigp no damned oldt baper." He 
 shook his head on the pillow sagely, and then added : 
 "You bet r 
 
 "That's splendid!" said Elizabeth. "You're very 
 wise, Mr. Koemer." She paused and thought a mo- 
 ment, her brows knit. Then her expression cleared 
 and she said: 
 
 "You must let me send a lawyer." 
 
 "Oh, der been blenty of lawyers," said Koemer. 
 
 "Yes," laughed Elizabeth, "there are plenty of law- 
 yers, to be sure, but I mean — " 
 
 "Der been more as a dozen here alreadty," he went 
 on, "but dey don't let 'em see me." 
 
 "I don't think a lawyer who would come to sec you 
 would be the kind you want, Mr. Koerner." 
 
 "Dot's all right. Der been blenty of time for der 
 lawyers." 
 
 "Oh, pa," Gusta put in, "you must take Miss Eliza- 
 beth's advice. She knows best. She'll send you a good 
 lawyer." 
 
 "Veil, ve see about dot," said Koemer. 
 
 "I presume, Mr. Koerner," said Elizabeth, "they 
 wouldn't let a lawyer see you, but I'll bring one witK 
 
38 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 me the next time I come — a very good one, one that 
 I know well, and he'll advise you what to do ; shall I ?" 
 
 "Veil, ve see," said Koerner. 
 
 "Now, pa, you must let Miss Elizabeth bring a law- 
 yer," and then she whispered to Elizabeth : "You 
 bring one anyway, Miss Elizabeth. Don't mind what 
 hie says. He's always that way." 
 
 Elizabeth brought out her flowers and fruit then, 
 and Koerner glanced at them without a word, or with- 
 out a look of gratitude, and when she had arranged 
 the flowers on his little table, she bade him good-by and 
 took Gusta with her and went. 
 
 As they passed out, the white rubber-tired carts 
 were being wheeled down the halls, the patients they 
 bore still breathing profoundly under the anesthetics, 
 from which it was hoped they would awaken in their 
 clean, smooth beds. The young women hurried out, 
 and Elizabeth drank in the cool wintry air eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, Gusta !" she said, "this air is delicious after that 
 air in there ! I shall have the taste of it for days." 
 
 "Miss Elizabeth, that place is sickening!" — ^and 
 Elizabeth laughed at the solemn deliberation with 
 which Gusta lengthened out the word. 
 
Elizabeth 
 
V 
 
 "Come in, old man." Marriott glanced up at Dick 
 Ward, who stood smiling in the doorway of his private 
 office. 
 
 "Don't let me interrupt you, my boy," said Dick as 
 he entered. 
 
 *7ust a minute," said Marriott, "and then I'm with 
 you." Dick dropped into the big leather chair, unbut- 
 toned his tan overcoat, arranged its skirts, drew off 
 his gloves, and took a silver cigarette-case from his 
 pocket. Marriott, swinging about in his chair, asked 
 his stenographer to repeat the last line, picked up the 
 thread, went on : 
 
 "And these answering defendants further say that 
 heretofore, to wit, on or about — " 
 
 Dick, leaning back in his chair, inhaling the smoke 
 of his cigarette, looked at the girl who sat beside 
 Marriott's desk, one leg crossed over the other, the 
 tip of her patent-leather boot showing beneath her 
 skirt, on her knee the pad on which she wrote in short- 
 hand. The girl's eyelashes trembled presently and a 
 flush showed in her cheeks, spreading to her white 
 throat and neck. Dick did not take his eyes from her. 
 When Marriott finished, the girl left the room hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 "Well, what's the news ?" asked Marriott. 
 
 "Devilish fine-looking girl youVe got there, old 
 39 
 
40 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 man!" said Dick, whose eyes had followed the sten- 
 ographer. 
 
 "She's a good girl," said Marriott simply. 
 
 Dick glanced again at the gfirl. Through the open 
 door he could see her seating herself at her machine. 
 Then he recalled himself and turned to Marriott. 
 
 "Say, Bess was trying to get you by 'phone this 
 morning." 
 
 "Is that so?" said Marriott in a disappointed tone. 
 "I was in court all morning." 
 
 "Well, she said she'd give it up. She said that old 
 man Koerner had left the hospital and gone home. He 
 sent word to her that he wanted to see you." 
 
 "Oh, yes," Said Marriott, "about that case of his. I 
 must attend to that, but I've been so busy." He 
 glanced at his disordered desk, with its hopeless litter 
 of papers. "Let's see," he went on meditatively, "I 
 guess" — he thought a moment, "I guess I might as 
 well go out there this afternoon as any time. How far 
 is it?" 
 
 "Oh, it's 'way out on Bolt Street." 
 
 "What car do I take?" 
 
 "Colorado Avenue, I think. I'll go 'long, if .you want 
 me." 
 
 "I'll be delighted," said Marriott. He thought a mo- 
 ment longer, then closed his desk, and said, "We'll go 
 now." 
 
 When they got off the elevator twelve floors below, 
 Dick said : 
 
 "I've got to have a drink before I start. Will you 
 join me ?" 
 
 "I just had luncheon a while ago," said Marriott; 
 "I don't really—" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 41 
 
 "I never got to bed till morning/* said Dick. "I sat 
 in a little game at the club last night, and Fm 
 all in." 
 
 Marriott, amused by the youth's pride in his dissi- 
 pation, went with him to the cafe in the basement. 
 Standing before the polished bar, with one foot on 
 the brass rail, Dick said to the white- jacketed barten- 
 der: 
 
 "I want a high-ball; you know my brand, George. 
 What's yours, Gordon ?" 
 
 "Oh, ril take the same." Marriott watched Dick 
 pour a generous libation over the ice in the glass. 
 
 "Don't forget the imported soda," added Dick with 
 an air of the utmost seriousness and importance, and 
 the bartender, swiftly pulling the corks, said : 
 
 "I wouldn't forget you, Mr. Ward." 
 
 The car for which they waited in the drifting crowd 
 at the comer was half an hour in getting them out to 
 the neighborhood in which the Koemers lived. They 
 stood on the rear platform all the way, because, as 
 Dick said, he had to smoke, and as he consumed his 
 cigarettes, he discoursed to Marriott of the things 
 that filled his life — ^his card games and his drinking 
 at the club, his constant attendance at theaters and 
 cafes. His cheeks were fresh and rosy as a girl's, and 
 smooth from the razor they did not need. Mar- 
 riott, as he looked at him, saw a resemblance to Eliza- 
 beth, and this gave the boy an additional charm for 
 him. He studied this resemblance, but he could not 
 analyze it. Dick had neither his sister's features nor 
 her complexion; and yet the resemblance was there, 
 flitting, remote, revealing itself one instant to disap- j 
 pear the next, evading and eluding him. He could not ' 
 
L 
 
 42 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE ' 
 
 account for it, yet its effect was to make his Heart 
 warm toward the boy, to make him love him. 
 
 Marriott let Dick go on in his talk, but he scarcely 
 heard what the boy said ; it was the spirit that held him 
 and charmed him, the spirit of youth launching with 
 ijublime courage into life, not yet aware of its signifi- 
 cance or its purpose. He thought of the danger the 
 boy was in and longed to help him. How was he to 
 do this ? Should he admonish him ? No, — instantly he 
 recognized the fact that he could not do this; he 
 shrank from preaching ; he could take no priggish or 
 Pharisaical attitude ; he had too much culture, too much 
 imagination for that ; besides, he reflected with a shade 
 of guilt, he had just now encouraged Dick by drinking 
 with him. He flung away his cigarette as if it sym- 
 bolized the problem, and sighed when he thought that 
 Dick, after all, would have to make his way alone 
 and fight his own battles, that the soul can emerge into 
 real life only through the pains and dangers that ac- 
 company all birth. 
 
 Marriott's knock at the Koerners' door produced 
 the sensation visits make where they are infrequent, but 
 he and Dick had to wait before the vague noises died 
 away and the door opened to them. Mrs. Koerner led 
 them through the parlor — which no occasion seemed 
 ever to merit — to the kitchen at the other end of the 
 house. The odor of catholic acid which the two men 
 had detected the moment they entered, grew stronger 
 as they approached the kitchen, and there they beheld 
 Koerner, the stump of his leg bundled in surgical 
 bandages, resting on a pillow in a chair before him, 
 His position constrained him not to move, and he made 
 no attempt to turn his head ; but when the young men 
 
fTHE TURN OF THE BALANCE 43 
 
 stood before him, he raised to them a bronzed and 
 wrinkled face. His white hair was rumpled, and he 
 wore a cross and dissatisfied expression; he held by its 
 bowl the new meerschaum pipe Elizabeth had sent him, 
 and waved its long stem at Marriott and Dick, as he 
 waved it scepter-like in ruling his household. 
 
 **My name is Marriott, Mr. Koerner, and this is 
 Mr. Ward, Miss Elizabeth's brother. She said you 
 wished to see me." 
 
 "You gom', huh ?" said Koerner, fixing Marriott with 
 his little blue eyes. * 
 
 "Yes, I'm here at last," said Marriott. "Did you 
 think I was never going to get here?" He drew up a 
 chair and sat down. Dick took another chair, but 
 leaned back and glanced about the room, as if to tes- 
 tify to his capacity of mere spectator. Mrs. Koerner 
 stood beside her husband and folded her arms. The 
 two children, hidden in their mother's skirts, cau- 
 tiously emerged, a bit at a time, as it were, until they 
 stood staring with wide, curious blue eyes at Marriott. 
 
 "You bin a lawyer, yet, huh?" asked Koerner se- 
 yerely. 
 
 "Yes, I'm a lawyer. Miss Ward said you wished to 
 see a lawyer." * 
 
 "I've blenty lawyers alreadty," said Koerner. "Der 
 bin more as a dozen hier." He waved his pipe at the 
 clock-shelf, where a little stack of professional cards 
 told how many lawyers had solicited Koerner as a 
 client. Marriott could have told the names of the law- 
 yers without looking at their cards. 
 
 "Have you retained any of them?" asked Mar- 
 riott. 
 
 "Huh ?" asked Koerner, scowling. 
 
44 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Did you hire any of them ?'* 
 
 "No, I tell 'em all to go to hell." 
 
 "That's where most of them are going," said Mar- 
 riott. 
 
 But Koerner did not see the joke. 
 
 "How's your injury?" asked Marriott. 
 
 Koerner winced perceptibly at Marriott's mere 
 glance at his amputated leg, and stretched the pipe- 
 stem over it as if in protection. 
 
 "He's hurt like hell," he said. 
 
 "Why, hasn't the pain left yet?" asked Marriott in 
 surprise. 
 
 "No, I got der rheumatiz' in dot foot," he pointed 
 with his pipe-stem at the vacancy where the foot used 
 to be. 
 
 **That foot!" exclaimed Marriott. 
 
 "Bess told us of that," Dick put in. "It gave her 
 the willies." 
 
 "Well, I should think so," said Marriott. 
 
 Koerner looked from one to the other of the two 
 young men. 
 
 "That's funny, Mr. Koerner," said Marriott, "that 
 foot's cut off." 
 
 "I wish der tamn doctors cut off der rheumatiz' der 
 same time! Dey cut off der foot all right, but dey 
 leave der rheumatiz'." He turned the long stem of his 
 pipe to his lips and puffed at it, and looked at the leg 
 as if he were taking up a problem he was working on 
 daily. 
 
 "Well, now, Mr. Koerner," said Marriott presently, 
 "tell me how it happened and I'll see if I can help 
 you." 
 
 Koerner, just on the point of placing his pipe-stem 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 45 
 
 between his long, loose, yellow teeth, stopped and 
 looked intently at Marriott. Marriott saw at once from 
 his expression that he had once more to contend with 
 the suspicion the poor always feel when dealing with a 
 lawyer. 
 
 "So you been Mr. Marriott, huh ?" asked Koerner. 
 
 "Yes, Vm Marriott." 
 
 "Der lawyer?" 
 
 "Yes, the lawyer." 
 
 "You der one vot Miss Ward sent alreadty, aind't 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes, Fm the one." Marriott smiled, and then, 
 thinking suddenly of an incontrovertible argument, he 
 waved his hand at Dick. "This is her brother. She 
 sent him to bring me here." 
 
 The old man looked at Dick, and then turned to Mar- 
 riott again. 
 
 "How much you goin' charge me, huh?" His little 
 hard blue eyes were almost closed. 
 
 "Oh, if I don't get any damages for you, I won't 
 charge you anything." 
 
 The old man made him repeat this several times, 
 and when at last he understood, he seemed relieved 
 and pleased. And then he wished to know what the 
 fee would be in the event of success. 
 
 "Oh," said Marriott, "how would one-fifth do?" 
 
 Koerner, when he grasped the idea of the percentage, 
 was satisfied ; the other lawyers who had come to see 
 him had all demanded a contingent fee of one-third 
 or one-half. When the long bargaining was done and 
 explained to Mrs. Koerner, who sat watchfully by try- 
 ing to follow the conversation, and when Marriott had 
 said that he would draw up a contract for them to 
 
46 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 sign and bring it when he came again, the old man was 
 ready to go on with his story. But before he did so 
 he paused with his immeasurable German patience to 
 fill his pipe, and, when he had lighted it, he began. 
 
 "Veil, Mr. Marriott, ven I gom' on dis gountry, I 
 go to vork for dot railroadt ; I vork dere ever since — 
 dot's t'irty-seven year now alreadty.'* He paused and 
 puffed, and slowly winked his eyes as he contemplated 
 those thirty-seven years of toil. *T vork at first for 
 t'irty tollar a month, den von day Mister Greene, dot's 
 der suberintendent in dose tays, he call me in, undt he 
 say, *Koerner, you can read?' I say I read English 
 some, undt he say, 'Veil, read dot,' undt he handt me a 
 telegram. Veil I read him — it say dot Greene can raise 
 der vages of his vatchman to forty tollar a month. 
 Veil, I handt him der telegram back undt I say, T 
 could read two t'ree more like dot, Mister Greene.' 
 He laugh den undt he say, *Vell, you read dot von 
 twicet.' Veil, I got forty tollar a month den; undt in 
 ten year dey raise me oncet again to forty-five. That's 
 purty goodt, I t'ink." The old man paused in this 
 retrospect of good fortune. "Veil," he went on, "I 
 vork along, undt dey buildt der new shops, undt I 
 vork like a dog getting dose t'ings moved, but after 
 dey get all moved, he calls me in von tay, undt he say 
 my vages vould be reduced to forty tollar a month. 
 Veil, I gan't help dot — I haind't got no other chob. 
 Den, veil, I vork along all right, but der town get 
 bigger, an' der roadt got bigger, an' dere's so many 
 men dere at night dey don't need me much longer. 
 Undt Mr. Greene— he's lost his chob, too, undt Mr. 
 Churchill — he's der new suberintendent — he's cut ever'- 
 t'ing down, undt after he gom' eferbody vork longer 
 
THE TURN OF THE SaLANCE 47 
 
 undt get hell besides. He cut me down to vere I vas at 
 der first blace — t'irty tollar a month. So I'' 
 
 The old man turned out his palms; and his face wrin- 
 kled into a strange grimace that expressed his enforced 
 submission to this fate. And he smoked on until Mar- 
 riott roused him. 
 
 **Vell," he said, "dot night it snows, undt I start 
 home again at five o'clock. It's dark undt the snow fly 
 so I gan't hardly see der svitch lights. But I gom' 
 across der tracks yust like I always do goming home — 
 dot's the shortest way I gom', you know — ^undt I ben 
 purty tired, undt my tamned old rheumatiz' he's raisin' 
 hell for t'ree days because dot storm's comin' — veil, 
 I gom' along beside dere segond track over dere, undt 
 I see an engine, but he's goin' on dot main track, so I 
 gets over — ^vell, de snow's fallin' undt I gan't see very 
 well, undt somehow dot svitch-engine gom* over on 
 der segond track, undt I chump to get away, but my 
 foot he's caught in der frog — ^vell, I gan't move, but 
 I bent vay over to one side — so" — ^the old man strained 
 himself over the arm of his chair to illustrate — "undt 
 der svitch-engine yust cut off my foot nice undt glean, 
 yell, dot's all der was aboudt it." 
 
 Marriott gave a little shudder; in a flash he had a 
 .vision of Koerner there in the wide switch-yard with 
 its bewildering red and green lights, the snow filling 
 the air, the gloom of the winter twilight, his foot fast 
 in the frog, bending far over to save his body, await- 
 ing the switch-engine as it came stealing swiftly down 
 on him. 
 
 "Did the engine whistle or ring its bell ?" 
 
 "No," said the old man. 
 
 "And the frog— that was unblocked?" 
 
48 THE TURN OF! THE BALANCE 
 
 Koerner leaned toward Marriott with a cunning 
 smile. 
 
 "Dot's vere I got *em, aind*t it? Dot frog he's not 
 blocked dere dot time; der law say dey block dose 
 frog all der time, huh ?" 
 
 "Yes, the frog must be blocked. But how did your 
 foot get caught in the frog?" 
 
 "Veil, I shlipped, dot's it. I gan't see dot frog. You 
 ask Charlie Drake ; he's dere — he seen it." 
 
 "What does he do?" asked Marriott as he scribbled 
 the name on an old envelope. 
 
 "He's a svitchman in der yard ; he tol' you all aboudt 
 it; he seen it — ^he knows. He say to me, ^Reinhold, 
 you get damage all right ; dot frog haind't blocked dot 
 time.'" 
 
 Just then the kitchen door opened and Gusta came 
 in. When she saw Marriott and Ward, she stopped 
 and leaned against the door ; her face, ruddy from the 
 cool air, suddenly turned a deeper red. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Dick !" she said, and then she looked at 
 Marriott, whom she had seen and served so often at 
 the Wards'. 
 
 **How do you do, Gusta ?" said Marriott, getting up 
 and taking her hand. She flushed deeper than ever as 
 she came forward, and her blue eyes sparkled with 
 pleasure. Dick, too, rose and took her hand. 
 
 "Hello, Gusta," he said, "how are you?" 
 
 "Oh, pretty well, Mr. Dick," she answered. She 
 stood a moment, and then quietly began to unbutton 
 her jacket and to draw the pins from her hat. Mar- 
 riott, who had seen her so often at the Wards', con- 
 cluded as she stood there before him that he had never 
 realized how beautiful she was. She removed her 
 
 ii 
 
THE .TURN OF THE BALANCE 49 
 
 wraps, then drew up a chair by her father and sat 
 down, lifting her hands and smoothing the coils of 
 her golden hair, touching them gently. 
 
 "YouVe come to talk over pa's case, haven't you, 
 Mr. Marriott?" 
 
 "Yes," said Marriott. 
 
 "Fm glad of that," the girl said. "He has a good 
 case, hasn't he ?" 
 
 "I think so," said Marriott, and then he hastened 
 to add the qualification that is always necessary in so 
 unexact and whimsical a science as the law, "that is, 
 it seems so now ; I'll have to study it somewhat before 
 I can give you a definite opinion." 
 
 "I think he ought to have big damages,'* said Gusta. 
 "Why, just think! He's worked for that railroad all 
 his life, and now to lose his foot !" 
 
 She looked at her father, her affection and sympathy 
 showing in her expression. Marriott glanced at Dick, 
 whose eyes were fixed on the girl. His lips were slight- 
 ly parted; he gazed at her boldly, his eyes following 
 every curve of her figure. Her yellow hair was bright 
 in the light, and the flush of her cheeks spread to her 
 white neck. And Marriott, in the one moment he 
 glanced at Dick, saw in his face another expression — 
 an expression that displeased him; and as he recalled 
 the resemblance to Elizabeth he thought he had noted, 
 he impatiently put it away, and became angry with 
 himself for ever imagining such a resemblance; he 
 felt as if he had somehow done Elizabeth a wrong. 
 All the while they were there Dick kept his bold gaze 
 on Gusta, and presently Gusta seemed to feel it; the 
 flush of her face and neck deepened, she grew ill at 
 case, and presently she rose and left the room. 
 
50 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 When they were in the street Marriott said to Dick : 
 
 "I don't know about that poor old fellow's case— 
 I'm afraid—" 
 
 "Gadl" said Dick. "Isn't Gusta a corker! I never 
 saw a prettier girl." 
 
 *'And you never noticed it before?" said Marriott. 
 
 "Why, I always knew she was good-looking, yes," 
 said Dick; "but I never paid much attention to her 
 when she worked for us. I suppose it was because 
 she was a servant, don't you know ? A man never no- 
 tices the servants, someway." 
 
VI 
 
 Ward had not been in the court-house for years, 
 and, as he entered the building that morning, he hoped 
 he might never be called there again if his mission 
 were to be as sad as the one on which he then was 
 bent. Eades had asked him to be there at ten o'clock ; 
 it was now within a quarter of the hour. With a lay- 
 man's difficulty he found the criminal court, and as he 
 glanced about the high-ceiled room, and saw that the 
 boy had not yet been brought in, he felt the relief that 
 comes from the postponement of an ordeal. With an 
 effect of effacing himself, he shrank into one of the 
 seats behind the bar, and as he waited his mind ran 
 back over the events of the past four weeks. He cal- 
 culated—yes, the flurry in the market had occurred 
 on the day of the big snow-storm ; and now, so soon, it 
 had come to this! Ward marveled; he had always 
 heard that the courts were slow, but this — ^this was 
 quick work indeed ! The court-room was almost empty. 
 The judge's chair, cushioned in leather, was standing 
 empty behind the high oaken desk. The two trial ta- 
 bles, across which day after day lawyers bandied the 
 fate of human beings, were set with geometric exact- 
 ness side by side, as if the janitors had fixed them with 
 an eye to the impartiality of the law, resolved to give 
 the next comers an even start. A clerk was writing 
 in a big journal; the bailiff had taken a chair in the 
 
 SI 
 
i2 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 fading light of one of the tall southern windows, and 
 in the leisure he could so well afford in a life- that was 
 all leisure, was reading a newspaper. His spectacles 
 failed to lend any glisten of interest to his eyes; he 
 read impersonally, almost officially ; all interest seemed 
 to have died out of his life, and he could be stirred to 
 physical, though never to mental activity, only by the 
 judge himself, to whom he owed his sinecure. The 
 life had long ago died out of this man, and he had a 
 mild, passive interest in but one or two things, like 
 the Civil War, and the judge's thirst, which he regu- 
 larly slaked with drafts of ice-water. 
 
 Presently two or three young men entered briskly, 
 importantly, and went at once unhesitatingly within 
 the bar. They entered with an assertive air that marked 
 them indubitably as young lawyers still conscious of 
 the privileges so lately conferred. Then some of the 
 loafers came in from the corridor and sidled into the 
 benches behind the bar. Their conversation in low 
 tones, and that of the young lawyers in the higher 
 tones their official quality permitted them, filled the 
 room with a busy interest. From time to time the 
 loafers were joined by other loafers, and they all pa- 
 tiently waited for the sensation the criminal court 
 could dependably provide. 
 
 It was not long before there was a scrape and shuffle 
 of feet and a rattle of steel, and then a broad-shouldered 
 man edged through the door. With his right hand he 
 seized a Scotch cap from a head that bristled with a 
 stubble of red hair. His left hand hung by his side, 
 and when he had got into the court-room. Ward saw 
 that a white-haired man walked close beside him, his 
 right hand manacled to the left hand of the red-haired 
 
[THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 53 
 
 man. THe red-haired man was Danner, the jail^. Be* 
 hind him in sets of twos marched half a dozen other 
 men, each set chained together. The rear of the Httle 
 procession was brought up by Utter, a stalwart young 
 man who was one of Banner's assistants. 
 
 The scrape of the feet that were so soon to shufB« 
 into the penitentiary, and leave scarce an echo of their 
 hopeless fall behind, roused every one in the court- 
 room. Even the bailiff got to his rheumatic feet and 
 hastily arranged a row of chairs in front of the trial 
 tables. The prisoners sat down and tried to hide their 
 manacles by dropping their hands between their chairs. 
 
 There were seven of these prisoners, the oldest the 
 man whom Danner had conducted. He sat with his 
 white head cast down, but his blue eyes roamed here 
 and there, taking in the whole court-room. The other 
 prisoners were young men, one of them a negro ; and 
 in the appearance of all there was some pathetic sug- 
 gestion of a toilet. All of them had their hair combed 
 carefully, except the negro, whose hair could give no 
 perceptible evidence of the comb, unless it were the 
 slight, almost invisible part that bisected his head. 
 But he gave the same air of trying somehow to make 
 the best appearance he was capable of on this event- 
 ful day. 
 
 Ward^s eyes ran rapidly along the row, and rested 
 on the brown-haired, well-formed head of the youngest 
 of the group. He was scarcely more than a boy in- 
 deed, and he alone, of all the line, was well dressed. 
 His linen was white, and he wore his well-fitting 
 clothes with a certain vanity and air of style that even 
 his predicament could not divest him of. As Ward 
 glanced at him, an expression of pain came to his 
 
54 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 face; the color left it for an instant, and then it grew, 
 redder than it had been before. 
 
 These prisoners were about to be sentenced for va- 
 rious felonies. Two of them, the old man with the 
 white hair and the negro, had been tried, the one for 
 pocket-picking, the other for burglary. The others 
 were to change their pleas from not guilty to guilty 
 and throw themselves on the mercy of the court. They 
 sat there, whispering with one another, gazing about 
 the room, and speculating on what fate awaited them, 
 or, as they would have phrased it, what sentences they 
 would draw. Like most prisoners they were what the 
 laws define as "indigent," that is, so poor that they 
 could not employ lawyers. The court in consequence 
 had appointed counsel, and the young lawyers who now 
 stood and joked about the fates that were presently to 
 issue from the judge's chambers, were the counsel 
 thus appointed. Now and then the prisoners looked at 
 the lawyers, and some of them may have indulged 
 speculations as to how that fate might have been 
 changed — perhaps altogether avoided — had they been 
 able to employ more capable attorneys. Those among 
 them who had been induced by their young attorneys to 
 plead guilty — under assurances that they would thus 
 fare better than they would if they resisted the law 
 by insisting on their rights under it — probably had not 
 the imagination to divine that they might have fared 
 otherwise at the hands of tlie law if these lawyers had 
 not dreaded the trial as an ordeal almost as great to 
 them as to their appointed clients, or if they had not 
 been so indigent themselves as to desire speedily to 
 draw the fee the State would allow them for their ser- 
 vices. Most of the prisoners, indeed, treated these 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 55 
 
 young law};ers with a certain patience, if not forbear- 
 ance, and now they reHed on them for such mercy as 
 the law might find in its heart to bestow. Most of them 
 might have reflected, had they been given to the prac- 
 tice, that on former experiences they had found the 
 breast of the law, as to this divine quality, withered 
 and dry. They sat and glanced about, and now and 
 then whispered, but for the most part they were still 
 and dumb and hopeless. Meanwhile their lawyers dis- 
 cussed and compared them, declaring their faces to be 
 hard and criminal; one of the young men thought a 
 certain face showed particularly the marks of crime, 
 and when his fellows discovered that he meant the 
 face of Danner, they laughed aloud and had a good 
 joke on the young man. The young man became very 
 red, almost as red as Danner himself, whom, he begged, 
 they would not tell of his mistake. 
 
 At that moment the door of the judge's chambers 
 opened, and instant silence fell. McWhorter, the judge, 
 appeared. He was a man of middle size, with black 
 curly hair, smooth-shaven face, and black eyes that 
 caught in the swiftest glance the row of prisoners, who 
 now straightened and fixed their eyes on him. Mc- 
 Whorter advanced with a brisk step to the bench, 
 mounted it, and nodding, said : 
 
 *'You may open court, Mr. Bailiff.'* 
 
 The bailiff let his gavel fall on the marble slab, 
 and then with his head hanging, his eyes roving in a 
 self-conscious, almost silly way, he said: 
 
 "Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, this honorable court 
 is now in session." 
 
 The bailiff sat down as in relief, but immediately 
 got up again when the judge said: 
 
56 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 **Bring me the criminal docket, Mr. Bailiff." 
 
 The bailiff's bent figure tottered out of the court* 
 room. The court-room was very still ; the ticking of 
 the clock on the wall could be heard. The judge 
 swung his chair about and glanced out of the win- 
 dows. Never once did he permit his eyes to rest on 
 the prisoners. 
 
 i There was silence and waiting, and after a while 
 the bailiff came with the docket. The judge opened 
 the book, put on a pair of gold glasses, and, after a 
 time, reading slowly, said : 
 j "The State versus Patrick Delaney." 
 ' The white-haired prisoner patiently held out two 
 hands, marvelously tatooed, and Danner unlocked the 
 handcuffs. At the same moment one of the young law- 
 yers stood forth from the rest, and Lamborn, an as- 
 sistant prosecutor, rose. 
 
 McWhorter was studying the docket. Presently he 
 said: 
 
 "Stand up, Delaney." 
 
 Delaney rose, kept his eyes on the floor, clasped a 
 hand about his red wrist. Then, for the first time, the 
 judge looked at him. 
 
 } "Delaney," he said, "have you anything to say why 
 the sentence of this court should not be passed upon 
 you?" 
 
 j Delaney looked uneasily at the judge and then let his 
 eyes fall. 
 
 f "No, Judge, yer Honor," he said, "nothing but that 
 
 I'm an innocent man. I didn't do it, yer Honor." 
 
 ;! The remark did not seem to impress tKe judge, who 
 
 turned toward the lawyer. This young man, with a 
 
 venturesome air, stepped a little farther from the shel- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 57 
 
 tering company of his associates and, with a face that 
 was very white and lips that faltered, said in a con- 
 fused, hurried way : 
 
 "Your Honor, we hope your Honor'll be as lenient 
 as possible with this man; we hope your Honor will 
 be as — lenient as possible." The youth's voice died 
 away and he faded back, as it were, into the shelter of 
 his companions. The judge did not seem to be more 
 impressed with what the lawyer had said than he had 
 with what the client had said, and twirling his glasses 
 by their cord, he turned toward the assistant prose- 
 cutor. 
 
 Lamborn, with an affectation of great ease, with one 
 hand in the pocket of his creased trousers, the other 
 supporting a book of memoranda, advanced and said : 
 
 *'May it please the Court, this man is an habitual 
 criminal ; he has already served a term in the peniten- 
 tiary for this same offense, and we understand that he 
 is wanted in New York State at this present time. We 
 consider him a dangerous criminal, and the State feels 
 that he should be severely punished." 
 
 McWhorter studied the ceiling of the court-room a 
 moment, still swinging his eye-glasses by their cord, 
 and then, fixing them on his nose, looked wisely down 
 at Delaney. Presently he spoke : 
 
 "It is always an unpleasant duty to sentence a man 
 to prison, no matter how much he may deserve punish- 
 ment." McWhorter paused as if to let every one realize 
 his pain in this exigency, and then went on: "But it 
 is our duty, and we can not shirk it. A jury, Delaney, 
 after a fair trial, has found you guilty of burglary. It 
 appears from what the prosecutor says that this is not 
 the first time you have been found guilty of this of- 
 
58 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 fense ; the experience does not seem to have done you 
 any good. You impress the Court as a man who has 
 abandoned himself to a life of crime, and the Court 
 feels that you should receive a sentence in this instance 
 that will serve as a warning to you and to others. The 
 sentence of the Court is — " McWhorter paused as if to 
 balance the scales of justice with all nicety, and then 
 he looked away. He did not know exactly how many 
 years in prison would expiate Delaney's crime; there 
 was, of course, no way for him to tell. He thought 
 first of the number ten, then of the number five ; then, 
 as the saying is, he split the difference, inclined the frac- 
 tion to the prisoner and said : 
 
 "The sentence of the Court is that you be confined in 
 the penitentiary at hard labor for the period of seven 
 years, no part of your sentence to'be in solitary confine- 
 ment, and that you pay the costs of this prosecution." 
 
 Delaney sat down without changing expression and 
 held out his hands for the handcuffs. The steel clicked, 
 and the scratch of the judge's pen could be heard as 
 he entered the judgment in the docket. 
 
 These proceedings were repeated again and again. 
 McWhorter read the title of the case, Danner un- 
 shackled the prisoner, who stood up, gazing dumbly at 
 the floor, his lawyer asked the Court to be lenient, 
 Lamborn asked the Court to be severe, McWhorter 
 twirled his gold glasses, looked out of the window, 
 made his little speech, guessed, and pronounced sen- 
 tence. The culprit sat down, held out his hands for the 
 manacles, then the click of the steel and the scratch of 
 the judicial pen. It grew monotonous. 
 
 But just before the last man was called to book, John 
 Eades, the prosecutor, entered the court-room. At 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 59 
 
 sight of liiiii the young lawyers, the loafers on th« 
 benches, even the judge looked up. 
 
 Eades's tall fi'gure had not yet lost the grace of 
 youth, though it was giving the first evidence that he 
 had reached that period of life when it would begin to 
 gather weight. He was well dressed in the blue clothes 
 of a business man, and he was young enough at thirty- 
 five to belong to what may not too accurately be called ^ 
 the new school of lawyers, growing up in a day wheii^ [ 
 the law is changing from a profession to a business, in I 
 distinction from the passing day of long coaFs of pro- 
 fessional black, of a gravity that frequently concealed a 
 certain profligacy, and, wherever it was successful, of 
 native brilliancy that could ignore application. Eades's 
 dark hair was carefully parted above his smooth brow ; 
 he had rather heavy eyebrows, a large nose, and thin, 
 tightly-set lips that gave strength and firmness to a 
 clean-shaven face. He whispered a word to his assist- 
 ant, and then said : 
 
 "May it please the Court, when the case of the State 
 versus Henry C. Graves is reached, I should like to be 
 heard." 
 
 "The Court was about to dispose of that case, Mr. 
 Eades," said the judge, looking over his docket and fix- 
 ing his glasses on his nose. 
 
 "Very well/' said Eades, glancing at the group of 
 young attorneys. "Mr. Metcalf, I believe, represents 
 the defendant." 
 
 The young lawyer thus indicated emerged from the 
 group that seemed to keep so closely together, and 
 said : 
 
 "Yes, your Honor, we'd like to be h^ard also." 
 
 "Graves may stand up," said the judge, removing 
 
6o THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 his glasses and tilting back in His chair as if to listen 
 to long arguments. 
 
 Banner had been unlocking the handcuffs again, and 
 the young man who had been so frequently remarked 
 in the line rose. His youthful face flushed scarlet; 
 he glanced about the court-room, saw Ward, drew a 
 heavy breath, and then fixed his eyes on the floor. 
 
 Eades looked at Metcalf, who stepped forward and 
 began : 
 
 "In this case, your Honor, we desire to withdraw the 
 plea of not guilty and substitute a plea of guilty. And 
 I should like to say a few words for my client." 
 
 "Proceed," said McWhorter. 
 
 Metcalf, looking at his feet, took two or three steps 
 forward, and then, lifting his head, suddenly began : 
 
 "Your Honor, this is the first time this young man 
 has ever committed any crime. He is but twenty-three 
 years old, and he has always borne a good reputation 
 in this community. He is the sole support of a widowed 
 mother, and — yes, he is the sole support of a widowed 
 mother. He — a — has been for three years employed in 
 the firm of Stephen Ward and Company, and has 
 always until — a — this unfortunate affair enjoyed the 
 confidence and esteem of his employers. He stands 
 here now charged in the indictment with embezzle- 
 ment ; he admits his guilt. He has, as I say, never done 
 wrong before — and I believe that this will be a lesson 
 to him which he will not forget. He desires to throw 
 himself on the mercy of the Court, and I ask the Court 
 — to — a — ^be as lenient as possible." 
 
 "Has the State anything to say?" asked the judge. 
 
 "May it please the Court," said Eades, speaking in 
 
THE TURN OE THE BALANCE 6i 
 
 his low, studied tone, "we acquiesce in all that counsel 
 for defense has said. This young man, so far as the 
 State knows, has never before committed a crime. And 
 yet, he has had the advantages of a good home, of an 
 excellent mother, and he had the best prospects in life 
 that a young man could wish. He was, as counsel has 
 said, employed by Mr. Ward — who is here — " Eades 
 turned half-way around and indicated Ward, who rose 
 and felt that the time had come when he should go for- 
 ward. ''He was one of Mr. Ward's trusted employees. 
 Unfortunately, he began to speculate on the Board him- 
 self, and it seems, in the stir of the recent excitement 
 in wheat, appropriated some nine hundred dollars of 
 his employer's money. Mr. Ward is not disposed to 
 Ideal harshly or in any vengeful spirit with this young 
 man; he has shown, indeed, the utmost forbearance. 
 Nor is the State disposed to deal in any such spirit with 
 him ; he, and especially his mother, have my sympathy. 
 But we feel that the law must be vindicated and upheld, 
 and while the State is disposed to leave with the Court 
 the fixing of such punishment as may be appropriate, 
 and has no thought of suggesting what the Court's 
 duty shall be, still the State feels that the punishment 
 should be substantial.'* 
 
 Eades finished and seated himself at the counsel 
 table. The young lawyers looked at him, and, whisper- 
 ing among themselves, said that they considered the 
 speech to have been very fitting and appropriate under 
 the circumstances. 
 
 McWhorter deliberated a moment, and then, glanc- 
 ing toward the young man, suddenly saw Ward, 
 and, thinking that if Ward would speak he would 
 
62 THE TURN UF THE BALANCE 
 
 have more time to guess what punishment to give the 
 boy, he said : 
 
 *'Mr. Ward, do you care to be heard ?'* 
 
 Ward hesitated, changed color, and slowly ad- 
 vanced. He was not accustomed to speaking in public, 
 and this was an ordeal for him. He came forward, 
 halted, and then, clearing his throat, said : 
 
 "I don't know that I have anything much to say, 
 only this — that this is a very painful experience to me. 
 I" — he looked toward the youthful culprit — "I was 
 always fond of Henry ; he was a good boy, and we all 
 liked him." The brown head seemed to sink between 
 its shoulders. "Yes, we all liked him, and I don't know 
 that anything ever surprised me so much as this thing 
 did, or hurt me more. I didn't think it of him. I feel 
 sorry for his mother, too. I — " Ward hesitated and 
 looked down at the floor. 
 
 The situation suddenly became distressing to every 
 one in the court-room. And then, with new effort, 
 Ward went on : "I didn't like to have him prosecuted, 
 but we employ a great many men, many of them young 
 men, and it seemed to be my duty. I don't know ; I've 
 had my doubts. It isn't the money — I don't care about 
 that ; I'd be willing, so far as I'm concerned, to have 
 him go free now. I hope. Judge, that you'll be as easy 
 on him, as merciful as possible. That's about all I can 
 say." 
 
 Ward sat down in the nearest chair, and the judge, 
 knitting his brows, glanced out of the window. Nearly 
 every one glanced out of the window, save Graves, who 
 stood rigid, his eyes staring at the floor. Presently Mc- 
 Whorter turned and said : 
 
 "Graves, have you anything to say why the sentence 
 of this court should not be passed on jrou?" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 63 
 
 The youth raised his head, looked into McWhorter's 
 eyes, and said : 
 
 "No, sir.'* 
 
 McWhorter turned suddenly and looked away. 
 
 *The Court does not remember in all his career a 
 more painful case than this," he began. 'That a young 
 man of your training and connections, of your advan- 
 tages and prospects, should be standing here at the bar 
 of justice, a self-confessed embezzler, is sad, inexpress- 
 ibly sad. The Court realizes that you have done a 
 manly thing in pleading guilty ; it speaks well for you 
 that you were unwilling to add perjury to your other 
 crime. The Court will take that into consideration." 
 McWhorter nodded decisively. 
 
 "The Court will also take into consideration your 
 youth, and the fact that this is your first offense. Your 
 looks are in your favor. You are a young man who, 
 by proper, sober, industrious application, might easily 
 become a successful, honest, worthy citizen. Your em- 
 ployer speaks well of you, and shows great patience, 
 great forbearance; he is ready to forgive you, and he 
 even asks the Court to be merciful. The Court will 
 take that fact into consideration as well." 
 
 Again McWhorter nodded decisively, and then, feel- 
 ing that much was due to a man of Ward's position, 
 went on : 
 
 "The Court wishes to say that you, Mr. Ward," he 
 gave one of his nods in that gentleman's direction, 
 "have acted the part of a good citizen in this affair. 
 You have done your duty, as every citizen should, pain- 
 ful as it was. The Court congratulates you." 
 
 And then, having thought again of the painfulness 
 of this duty, McWhorter went on to tdl how painful 
 
64 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 his own duty was ; but he said it would not do to allow 
 sympathy to obscure judgment in such cases. He 
 talked at length on this theme, still unable to end, be- 
 cause he did not know what sort of guess to make. 
 And then he began to discuss the evils of speculation, 
 and when he saw that the reporters were scribbling 
 desperately to put down all he was saying, he extended 
 his remarks and delivered a long homily on speculation 
 in certain of its forms, characterizing it as one of the 
 worst and most prevalent vices of the day. After he 
 had said all he could think of on this topic, he spoke to 
 Graves again, and explained to him the advantages of 
 being in the penitentiary, how by his behavior he might 
 shorten his sentence by several months, and how much 
 time he would have for reflection and for the forma- 
 tion of good resolutions. It seemed, indeed, before he 
 had done, that it was almost a deprivation not to be 
 able to go to a penitentiary. But finally he came to an 
 end. Then he looked once more out of the window, 
 once more twirled his eye-glasses on their cord, and 
 then, turning about, came to the reserved climax of 
 his long address. 
 
 "The sentence of the Court, Mr. Graves, is that you 
 be confined in the penitentiary at hard labor for the 
 term of one year, no part of said sentence to consist of 
 solitary confinement, and that you pay the costs of this 
 prosecution." 
 
 The boy sat down, held out his wrists for the hand- 
 cuffs, the steel clicked, the pen scratched in the silence. 
 
 Danner got up, marshaled his prisoners, and. they 
 marched out. The eyes of every one in the court-room 
 followed them, the eyes of Ward fixed on Graves. As 
 
 ^. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 65 
 
 he looked, he saw a woman sitting on the last one of 
 the benches near the door. Her head was bowed on her 
 hand, but as the procession passed she raised her face, 
 all red and swollen with weeping, and, with a look of 
 love and tenderness and despair, fixed her eyes on 
 Graves. The boy did not look at her, but marched by, 
 his head resolutely erect. 
 
Vtl 
 
 Ward returned to his office and to his work, but all 
 that day, in the excitement on the floor of the exchange, 
 during luncheon at the club, at his desk, in his carriage 
 going home at evening, he saw before him that row of 
 heads — ^the white poll of old Delaney, the woolly pate 
 of the negro, but, more than all, the brown head of 
 Harry Graves. And when he entered his home at even- 
 ing the sadness of his reflections was still in his face. 
 
 "What's the matter this evening?" asked Elizabeth. 
 "Nerves?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Been on the wrong side to-day ?" 
 
 "Yes, decidedly, I fear," said Ward. 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "I've sent a boy to the penitentiary." Ward felt a 
 kind of relief, the first he had felt all that day, in deal- 
 ing thus bluntly, thus brutally, with himself. Elizabeth 
 knit her brows, and her eyes winked rapidly in the 
 puzzled expression that came to them. 
 
 "You remember Harry Graves ?" asked her father. 
 
 "Oh, that young man ?" 
 
 "Yes, that young man. Well, I've sent him to t-he 
 penitentiary." 
 
 "What is that you say, Stephen?" asked Mrs. Ward, 
 coming just then into the room. She had heard his 
 words, but she wished to hear them again. 
 
 "I just said I'd sent Harry Graves to the peniten- 
 tiary." 
 
 66 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE (,y 
 
 *'For how long?" asked Mrs. Ward, with a judicial 
 desire for all the facts, usually unnecessary in her 
 judgments. 
 
 "For one year." 
 
 "Why, how easily he got off!" said Mrs. Ward. 
 "And do hurry now, Stephen. You're late." 
 
 Elizabeth saw the pain her mother had been so un- 
 conscious of in her father's face, and she gave Ward 
 a little pat on the shoulder. 
 
 "You dear old goose," she said, "to feel that way 
 about it. Of course, you didn't send him — it was John 
 Eades. That's his business." 
 
 But Ward shook his head, unconvinced. 
 
 "Doubtless it will be a good thing for the young 
 man," said Mrs. Ward. "He has only himself to blame, 
 anyway." 
 
 But still Ward shook his head, and his wife looked 
 at him with an expression that showed her desire to 
 help him out of his gloomy mood. 
 
 "You know you could have done nothing else than 
 what you did do," she said. "Criminals must be pun- 
 ished ; there is no way out of it. You're morbid — you 
 shouldn't feel so." 
 
 But once more Ward gave that unconvinced shake 
 of the head, and sighed. 
 
 "See here," said Elizabeth, with the sternness her 
 father liked to have her employ with him, "you stop 
 this right away." She shook him by the shoulder. 
 "You make me feel as if I had done something wrong 
 myself ; you'll have us all feeling that we belong to the 
 criminal classes ourselves." 
 
 "I've succeeded in making myself feel like a dog," 
 Ward replied. 
 
VIII 
 
 The county jail was in commotion. In tHe street out- 
 side a patrol wagon was backed against the curb. The 
 sleek coats of its bay horses were moist with mist ; and 
 as the horses stamped fretfully in the slush, the driver, 
 muffled in his policeman's overcoat, spoke to them, 
 begging them to be patient, and each time looked back 
 with a clouded face toward the outer door of the jail. 
 This door, innocent enough with its bright oak panels 
 and ground glass, was open. Inside, beyond the vesti- 
 bule, beyond another oaken door, stood Danner. He 
 was in black, evidently his dress for such occasions. He 
 wore new, squeaking shoes, and his red face showed the 
 powder a barber had put on it half an hour before. On 
 his desk lay his overcoat, umbrella, and a small valise.; 
 The door of the glass case on the wall, wherein were 
 displayed all kinds of handcuffs, nippers, squeezers, 
 come-alongs and leather strait- jackets, together with 
 an impressive exhibit of monstrous steel keys, was 
 open, and several of its brass hooks were empty. Ban- 
 ner, as he stood in the middle of the room, looked about 
 as if to assure himself that he had forgotten nothing, 
 and then went to the window, drew out a revolver, 
 broke it at the breach, and carefully inspected its loads. 
 That done, he snapped the revolver together and 
 slipped it into the holster that was slung to a belt about 
 
 68 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 69 
 
 his waist. He did not button the coat that concealed 
 this weapon. Then he looked through the window, saw 
 the patrol wagon, took out his watch and shouted an- 
 grily : 
 
 "For God's sake, Hal, hurry up V 
 
 Banner's impatient admonition seemed to be directed 
 through the great barred door that opened oil the other 
 side of the office into the prison, and from within there 
 came the prompt and propitiatory reply of the under- 
 ling: 
 
 "All right, Jim, in a minute." 
 
 The open door, the evident preparation, the spirit of 
 impending change, the welcome break in the monotony 
 of the jail's diurnal routine, all were evidenced in the 
 tumult that was going on beyond that huge gate of 
 thick steel bars. The voice of the under-turnkey had 
 risen above the din of other voices proceeding from the 
 depths of hidden cells ; there was a constant shuffle of 
 feet on cement floors, the rattle of keys, the heavy 
 tumbling of bolts, the clang and grating of steel as the 
 shifting of a lever opened and closed simultaneously 
 all the doors of an entire tier of cells. These noises 
 seemed to excite the inmates, but presently above 
 the discord arose human cries, a chorus of good-bys, 
 followed in a moment by those messages that conven- 
 tionally accompany all departures, though these were 
 delivered in all the various shades of sarcasm and bitter 
 irony. 
 
 "Good-by!" 
 
 "Remember us to the main screw !" 
 
 "Think of us when you get to the big house !" 
 
 Thus the voices called. 
 
 Jind then suddenly, one voice rose above the rest, a 
 
70 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 fine barytone voice that would have been beautiful had 
 not it taken on a tone of mockery as it sang: 
 
 "We're going home ! We're going home ! 
 No more to sin and sorrow.' 
 
 Then other voices took up the lines they had heard 
 at the Sunday services, and bawled the hymn in a hor- 
 rible chorus. The sound infuriated Banner, and he 
 rushed to the barred door and shouted : 
 
 "Shut up ! Shut up !" and he poured out a volume of 
 obscene oaths. From inside came yells, derisive in the 
 safety of anonymity. 
 
 ''You'll get nothing but bread and water for supper 
 after that !" Banner shouted back. He began to unlock 
 the door, but, glancing at the desk, changed his mind 
 and turned and paced the floor. 
 
 But now the noise of the talking, the shuffle of feet 
 on the concrete floors, came nearer. The door of the 
 prison was unlocked ; it swung back, and there marched 
 forth, walking sidewise, with difficulty, because they 
 were all chained together, thirteen men. Two of the 
 thirteen, the first and last, were Gregg and Poole, 
 under-turnkeys. Utter, Banner's first assistant, came 
 last, carefully locking the door behind him. 
 
 ''Line up here," said Banner angrily, "we haven't 
 got all night !" 
 
 The men stood in a row, and Banner, leaning over 
 his desk, began to check off their names. There was the 
 white-haired Belaney, who had seven years for bur- 
 glary ; Johnson, a negro who had been given fifteen 
 years for cutting with intent to kill ; Simmons, five 
 years for grand larceny ; Gunning, four years for 
 housebreaking: ; Schypalski, a Pole, three years for ar- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 71 
 
 son ; Graves, the employee of Ward, one year for em- 
 bezzlement; McCarthy, and Hayes his partner, five 
 years each for burglary and larceny ; "Deacon" Samuel, 
 an old thief, and ''New York Willie," alias "The Kid," 
 a pickpocket, who had each seven years for larceny 
 from the person; and Brice, who had eight years for 
 robbery. These men were to be taken to the peniten- 
 tiary. Nearly all of them were guilty of the crimes of 
 which they had been convicted. 
 
 The sheriff had detailed Danner to escort these pris- 
 oners to the penitentiary, as he sometimes did when 
 he did not care to make the trip himself. Gregg 
 would accompany Danner, while Poole would go only 
 as far as the railway station. Danner was anxious to 
 be off; these trips to the state capital were a great 
 pleasure to him, and he had that nervous dread of 
 missing the train which comes over most people as they 
 are about to start away for a holiday. He was anxious 
 to get away from the jail before anything happened to 
 stay him; he was anxious to be on the moving train, 
 for until then he could not feel himself safe from some 
 sudden recall. He had been^ thinking all day of the 
 black-eyed girl in a brothel not three blocks from the 
 penitentiary, whom he expected to see that night after 
 he had turned the prisoners over to the warden. He 
 could scarcely keep his mind off her long enough to 
 make his entries in the jail record and to see that he 
 had all his mittimuses in proper order. 
 
 The prisoners, standing there in a haggard row, 
 wore the same clothes they had had on when they ap- 
 peared in court for sentence a few weeks before; the 
 same clothes they had had on when arrested. None of 
 Jtbem, of course, had any baggage. The little trinkets 
 
72 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 they Had somehow accumulated while in jail they Had 
 distributed that afternoon among their friends who re- 
 mained behind in the steel cages; all they had in the 
 world they had on their backs. Most of them were 
 dressed miserably. Gunning, indeed, who had been 
 lying in jail since the previous June, wore a straw hat, 
 which made him so absurd that the Kid laughed when 
 he saw him, and said : 
 
 "That's a swell lid youVe got on there. Gunny, my 
 boy. I'm proud to fill in with your mob." 
 
 Gunning tried to smile, and his face, already white 
 with the prison pallor, seemed to be made more ghastly 
 by the mockery of mirth. 
 
 The Kid was well dressed, as well dressed as Graves, 
 who still wore the good clothes he had always loved. 
 Graves was white, too, but not as yet with the prison 
 pallor. He tried to bear himself bravely; he did not 
 wish to break down before his companions, all of whom 
 had longer sentences to serve than he. He dreaded the 
 ride through the familiar streets where a short time be- 
 fore he had walked in careless liberty, full of the joy 
 and hope and ambition of youth. He knew that count- 
 less memories would stalk those streets, rising up un- 
 expectedly at every corner, following him to the station 
 with mows and jeers ; he tried to bear himself bravely, 
 and he did succeed in bearing himself grimly, but he 
 had an aching lump in his throat that would not let 
 him speak. It had been there ever since that hour in 
 the afternoon when his mother had squeezed her face 
 between the bars of his cell to kiss him good-by again 
 and again. The prison had been strangely still while 
 she was there, and for a long time after she went even 
 the Kid had been quiet and had forgotten his joshing 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 73 
 
 and his ribaldry. Graves had tried to be brave for his 
 mother*s sake, and now he tried to be brave for appear- 
 ances* sake. He envied Delaney and the negro, who 
 took it all stolidly, and he might have envied the Kid, 
 who took it all humorously, if it had not been for what 
 the Kid had said to him that afternoon about his own 
 mother. But now the Kid was cheerful again, and kept 
 up the spirits of all of them. To Graves it was like 
 some horrible dream ; everything in the room — Banner, 
 the turnkeys, the exhibit of jailer's instruments on the 
 wall — was unreal to him — everything save the hat-band 
 that hurt his temples, and the aching lump in his throat. 
 His eyes began to smart, his vision was blurred; in- 
 stinctively he started to lift his hand to draw his hat 
 farther down on his forehead, but something jerked, 
 and Schypalski moved suddenly; then he remembered 
 the handcuffs. The Pole was dumb under it all, but 
 Graves knew how Schypalski had felt that afternoon 
 when the young wife whom he had married but six 
 months before was there ; he had wept and grown mad 
 until he clawed at the bars that separated them, and 
 then he had mutely pressed his face against them and 
 kissed the young wife's lips, just as Graves's mother 
 had kissed him. And then the young wife would not 
 leave, and Banner had to come and drag her away 
 across the cement floor. 
 
 Johnson was stupefied ; he had not known until that 
 afternoon that he was to be taken away so soon, and 
 his wife had not known ; she was to bring the children 
 on the next day to see him. For an hour Johnson had 
 been on the point of saying something ; his lips would 
 move, and he would lift his eyes to Banner, but he 
 seemed afraid to speak. 
 
74 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Meanwhile, Banner was making his entries and look- 
 ing over his commitment papers. The Kid had begun 
 to talk with Deacon Samuel. He and the Deacon 
 had been working together and had been arrested for 
 the same crime, but Danner had separated them in the 
 jail so they could not converse, and they were together 
 now for the first time since their arrest. The Kid bent 
 his body forward and leaned out of the line to look 
 down at the Deacon. The old thief was smooth-faced 
 and wore gold-rimmed spectacles. When the Kid 
 caught his mild, solemn eye, looking out benignly from 
 behind his glasses, a smile spread over his face, and 
 he said : 
 
 "Well, old pard, we're fixed for the next five-spot." 
 
 "Yes," said the Deacon. 
 
 "How was it pulled off for you ?" asked the Kid. 
 
 "Oh, it was the same old thing over again," replied 
 the Deacon. "They had us lagged before the trial, but 
 they had to make a flash of some kind, so they put up 
 twelve suckers and then they put a rapper up, and that 
 settled it." 
 
 "There was nothing to it," said the Kid, in a tone 
 that acquiesced in all the Deacon had been saying. "It 
 was that way with me. They were out chewing the rag 
 for five minutes, then they comes in, hands the stiff to 
 the old bloke in the rock, and he hands it to quills, who 
 reads it to me, and then the old punk-hunter made his 
 spiel." 
 
 "Did he?" said the Deacon, interested. "He didn't 
 to me ; he just slung it at me in a lump." 
 
 "Did Snaggles plant the slum ?" 
 
 "Naw," said the Deacon, "the poke was cold and the 
 thimble was a phoney." 
 
 r 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 75 
 
 ''Je's," exclaimed the Kid. "I never got wise ! Well, 
 then there was no chance for him to spring us." 
 
 "No." 
 
 *Tt's tough to fall for a dead one," mused the Kid. 
 
 The other prisoners had been respectfully silent while 
 these two thieves compared notes, but their conversa- 
 tion annoyed Danner. He could not understand what 
 they were saying, and this angered him, and besides, 
 their talking interfered with his entries, for he was ex- 
 cessively stupid. 
 
 "They gave me a young mouthpiece," the Kid was 
 beginning, when Danner raised his head and said : 
 
 "Now you fellows cut that out, do you hear ? I want 
 to get my work done and start." 
 
 *T beg your pardon, papa," said the Kid ; "we're 
 anxious to start, too. Did you engage a lower berth 
 forme?" 
 
 The line of miserable men laughed, not with mirth" 
 so much as for the sake of any diversion, and at the 
 laugh Danner's face and neck colored a deeper red. 
 The Kid saw this change in color and went on : 
 
 "Please don't laugh, gentlemen; you're disturbing 
 the main screw." And then, lifting his eyebrows, he 
 leaned forward a little and said: "Can't I help you, 
 papa ?" 
 
 Danner paid no attention, but he was rapidly grow- 
 ing angry. 
 
 "I'd be glad to sling your ink for you, papa," the Kid' 
 went on, "and anyway you'd better splice yourself in 
 the middle of the line before we start, or you might 
 get lost. You know you're not used to traveling or to 
 the ways of the world — " 
 
 "Cheese it, Kid," said the Deacon v^arningly. But 
 
*j6 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 the spirit of deviltry which he had never been able to 
 resist, and indeed had never tried very hard to resist, 
 >vas upon the Kid, and he went on : 
 
 **Deac, pipe the preacher clothes! And the brand 
 new kicks, and the mush ! They must have put him on 
 the nut for ten ninety-eight." 
 
 "He'll soak you with a sap if you don't cheese it," 
 said the Deacon. 
 
 "Oh, no, a nice old pappy guy like him wouldn't, 
 would you ?" the Kid persisted. "He knows I'm speak- 
 ing for his good. I want him to chain himself to us 
 so's he won't get lost ; if he'd get away and fall off the 
 rattler, he'd never catch us again." 
 
 "Well, I could catch you all right," said Banner, 
 stopping and looking up. 
 
 "Why, my dear boy,'* said the Kid, "you couldn't 
 track an elephant through the snow." 
 
 The line laughed again, even the under-turnkeys 
 could not repress their smiles. But Banner made a 
 great effort that showed in the changing hues of scarlet 
 that swept over his face, and he choked down his anger. 
 He put on his overcoat and picked up his satchel, and 
 said: 
 
 "Come on, now." 
 
 Utter unlocked the outer doors, and the line of men 
 filed out. 
 
 "Good-by, Bud," the Kid called to Utter. "If you 
 ever get down to the dump, look me up." 
 
 The others bade Utter good-by, for they all liked 
 him, and as the line shuffled down the stone steps the 
 men eagerly inhaled the fresh air they had not breathed 
 for weeks, save for the few minutes consumed in going 
 over to the court-house and back, and a thrill of glad- 
 
rFHE TURN OF THE BALANCE 77 
 
 ness momentarily ran through the line. Then the Kid 
 called out : 
 
 "Hold on, Banner!" 
 
 He halted suddenly, and so jerked the whole line to 
 an abrupt standstill. "Fve left my mackintosh in my 
 room !" 
 
 *'U you don't shut up, I'll smash your jaw !" 
 
 The Kid's laugh rang out in the air. 
 
 "Yes, that'd be just about your size !" he said. 
 
 Danner turned quickly toward the Kid, but just at 
 that instant a dark fluttering form flew out of the misty 
 gloom and enveloped Schypalski ; it was his wife, who 
 had been waiting all the afternoon outside the jail. She 
 clung to the Pole, who was as surprised as any of them, 
 and she wept and kissed him in her Slavonic fashion, — 
 wept and kissed as only the Slavs can weep and kiss. 
 Then Danner, when he realized what had occurred, 
 seized her and flung her aside. 
 
 "You damn bitch!" he said. "I'll show you!" 
 
 "That's right, Danner," said the Kid. "You've got 
 some one your size now ! Soak her again." 
 
 Danner whirled, his anger loose now, and struck the 
 Kid savagely in the face. The line thrilled through its 
 entire length; wild, vague hopes of freedom suddenly 
 blazed within the breasts of these men, and they tugged 
 at the chains that bound them. Utter, watching from 
 the door, ran down the walk, and Danner drew his re- 
 volver. 
 
 "Get into that wagon!" he shouted, and then he 
 hurled after them another mouthful of the oaths he 
 always had ready. The little sensation ended, the hope 
 fell dead, and the prisoners moved doggedly on. In a 
 second the Kid had recovered himself, and then, speak- 
 
7^ THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ing thickly, for the blood in his mouth, he said in a 
 low voice : 
 
 "Danner, you coward, I'll serve you out for that, if 
 I get the chair for it !" 
 
 It was all still there in the gloom and the misty rain, 
 save for the shuffle of the feet, the occasional click of 
 a handcuff chain, and presently the sobbing of the 
 Polish woman rising from the wet ground. Danner 
 hustled his line along, and a moment later they were 
 clambering up the steps of the patrol wagon. 
 
 "Well, for God's sake!" exclaimed the driver, "I 
 thought you'd never get here! Did you want to keep 
 these horses standing out all night in the wet ?" 
 
 The men took their seats inside, those at the far end 
 having to hold their hands across the wagon because 
 they were chained together, and the wagon jolted and 
 lurched as the driver started his team and went bowl- 
 ing away for the station. The Pole was weeping. 
 
 **The poor devil!" said the pickpocket. "That's a 
 pretty little broad he has. Can't you fellows do some- 
 thing for him ? Give him a cigarette — or — a chew — or 
 — something." Their resources of comfort were so few 
 that the Kid could think of nothing more likely. 
 
 Just behind the patrol wagon came a handsome 
 brougham, whose progress for an instant through the 
 street which saw so few equipages of its rank had been 
 stayed by the patrol wagon, moving heavily about be- 
 fore it started. The occupants of the brougham had 
 seen the line come out of the jail, had seen it halt, had 
 seen Danner fling the Polish woman aside and strike 
 the pickpocket in the face; they had seen the men 
 hustled into the patrol wagon, and now, as it followed 
 after, Elizabeth Ward heard a voice call impudently : 
 
 **A11 aboard for the stir \" 
 
IX 
 
 The patrol wagon bowled rapidly onward, and the 
 brougham followed rapidly behind. The early darkness 
 of the winter afternoon was enveloping the world, and 
 in the damp and heavy air the roar of the city was in- 
 tensified. The patrol wagon turned into Franklin Street 
 and disappeared in the confusion of vehicles. The street 
 was crowded ; enormous trucks clung obstinately to the 
 car tracks and only wrenched themselves away when 
 the clamor of the gongs became desperate, their drivers 
 swearing at the motormen, flinging angry glances at 
 them. The trolley-cars swept by, filled with shop-girls, 
 clerks, working-men, business men hanging to straps, 
 reading evening papers in the brilliant electric lights ; 
 men clung to the broad rear platforms ; at every cross- 
 ing others attached themselves to these dark masses of 
 humanity, swarming like insects. The sidewalks were 
 crowded, and, as far as one could see, umbrellas bal- 
 anced in the glistening mist. 
 
 The brougham of the Wards succeeded presently in 
 crossing Franklin Street. 
 
 "They were taking them to the penitentiary!" said 
 Elizabeth, speaking for the first time. 
 
 *T presume they were," said her mother. 
 
 "Harry Graves was among them," Elizabeth went 
 on, staring widely before her, her tone low and level. 
 
 Mrs. Ward turned her head. 
 79 
 
8o THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "I saw his face — it stood out among the rest. I can 
 never forget it !" 
 
 She sat with her gloved hands in her lap. Her 
 mother did not speak, but she looked at her. 
 
 "And that man — that big, brutal man, throwing that 
 woman down, and then striking that man in the face !" 
 
 Mrs. Ward, not liking to encourage her daughter's 
 mood, did not speak. 
 
 *'Oh, it makes me sick !" 
 
 Elizabeth stretched forth her hand, drew a cut-glass 
 bottle from its case beside the little carriage clock and 
 mirror, and, sinking back in her cushioned corner, in- 
 haled the stimulating odor of the salts. Then her 
 mother stiffened and said : 
 
 *T don't know what Barker means, driving us down 
 this way where we have to endure such sights. You 
 must control yourself, dear, and not allow disagreeable 
 things to get on your nerves." 
 
 *'But think of that poor boy, and the man who was 
 struck, and that woman !" 
 
 *Trobably they can not feel as keenly as — " 
 
 "And think of all those men ! Oh, their faces ! Their 
 faces ! I can never forget them !" 
 
 Elizabeth continued to inhale the salts, her mind 
 deeply intent on the scene she had just witnessed. 
 They were drawing near to Claybourne Avenue now, 
 and Mrs. Ward's spirits visibly improved at the sight 
 of its handsome lamp posts and the carriages flashing 
 by, their rubber tires rolling softly on the wet asphalt. 
 
 "Well," she exclaimed, settling back on the cush- 
 ions, "this is better! I don't know what Barker was 
 thinking of ! He's very stupid at times !" 
 
 The carriage joined the procession of other equi- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 8i 
 
 pages of its kind. They had left the street at the end of 
 which could be seen the court-house and the jail. The 
 jail was blazing now with light, its iron bars showing 
 black across its illumined windows. And beyond the 
 jail, as if kept at bay by it, a huddle of low buildings 
 stretched crazily along Mosher's Lane, a squalid street 
 that preserved in irony the name of one of the city's 
 earliest, richest and most respectable citizens, long since 
 deceased. The Lane twinkled with the bright lights of 
 saloons, the dim lights of pawnshops, the red lights of 
 brothels — the slums, dark, foul, full of disease and 
 want and crime. Along the streets passed and repassed 
 shadowy, fugitive forms, negroes, Jews, men, and 
 women, and children, ragged, unkempt, pinched by 
 cold and hunger. But above all this, above the turmoil 
 of Franklin Street and the reeking life of the slums 
 behind it, above the brilliantly lighted jail, stood the 
 court-house, gray in the dusk, its four corners shoulder- 
 ing out the sky, its low dome calmly poised above the 
 town. 
 
X 
 
 "And how is your dear mother?'* Miss Masters 
 turned to Eades and wrought her wry face into a smile. 
 Her black eyes, which she seemed able to make sparkle 
 at will, were fixed on him ; her black-gloved hands were 
 crossed primly in her lap, as she sat erect on the stiff 
 chair Elizabeth Ward had given her. 
 
 "She's pretty well, thanks," said Eades. He had al- 
 ways disliked Miss Masters, but he disliked her more 
 than ever this Sunday afternoon in April when he 
 found her at the Wards'. It was a very inauspicious 
 beginning of his spring vacation, to which, after his 
 hard work of the winter term, he had looked forward 
 with sentiments as tender as the spring itself, just be- 
 ginning to show in the sprightly green that dotted the 
 maple trees along Claybourne Avenue. 
 
 "And your sister ?" 
 
 "She is very well, too." 
 
 "Dear me !" the ugly little woman ran on, speaking 
 with the affectation she had cultivated for years enough 
 to make it natural at last to her. "It has been so long 
 since I've seen either of them! I told mama to-day 
 that I didn't go to see even my old friends any more. 
 Of course," she added, lowering her already low tone 
 to a level of hushed deprecation, "we never go to see 
 any of the new-comers ; and lately there are so many, 
 one hardly knows the old town. Still, I f^l that we of 
 
 82 
 
9 
 
 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE S3 
 
 the old families understand each other and are sufficient 
 unto ourselves, as it were,, even if we allow years to 
 elapse without seeing each other — don't you, dear?" 
 She turned briskly toward Elizabeth. 
 
 Eades had hoped to find Elizabeth alone, and he felt 
 it to be peculiarly annoying that Miss Masters, whose 
 exclusiveness kept her from visiting even her friends of 
 the older families, should have chosen for her exception 
 this particular Sunday afternoon out of all the other 
 Sunday afternoons at her command. He had found it 
 impossible to talk with Elizabeth in the way he had 
 expected to talk to her, and he was so out of sorts that 
 he could not talk to Miss Masters, though that maiden 
 aristocrat of advancing years, strangely stimulated by 
 his presence, seemed efficient enough to do all the talk- 
 ing herself. 
 
 Elizabeth was trying to find a position that would 
 give her comfort, without denoting any lapse from the 
 dignity of posture due a family that had been known 
 in that city for nearly fifty years. But repose was im- 
 possible to her that afternoon, and she nervously kept 
 her hands in motion, now grasping the back of her 
 chair, now knitting them in her lap, now raising one to 
 her brow ; once she was on the point of clasping her 
 knee, but this impulse frightened her so that she 
 quickly pressed her belt down, drew a deep breath, 
 resolutely sat erect, crossed her hands unnaturally in 
 her lap, and smiled courageously at her visitors. Eades 
 noted how firm her hands were, and how white ; they 
 were indicative of strength and character. She held 
 her head a little to one side, keeping up her pale srriile 
 of interest for Miss Masters, and Eades thought that 
 he should always think of her as she sat thus, in her 
 
84 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 soft blue dress, her eyes winking rapidly, her dark hair 
 parting of its own accord. 
 
 **And how do you like your new work, Mr. Eades ?" 
 Miss Masters was asking him, and then, without wait- 
 ing for a reply, she went on : "Do you know, I believe 
 I have not seen you since your election to congratulate 
 you. But we've been keeping watch; we have seen 
 what the papers said." 
 
 She smiled suggestively, and Eades inclined his head 
 to acknowledge her tribute. 
 
 "I think we are to be congratulated on having you 
 in that position. I think it is very encouraging to find 
 some of our best people in public office." 
 
 There was a tribute surely in the emphasis she placed 
 on the adjective, and Eades inclined his head again. 
 
 "I really think it was noble in you to accept. It must 
 be very disagreeable to be brought in contact with — 
 you know !" She smiled and nodded as if she could not 
 speak the word. **And you have been so brave and 
 courageous through it all — you are surely to be ad- 
 mired!" 
 
 Eades felt suddenly that Miss Masters was not so 
 bad after all; he relished this appreciation, which he 
 took as an evidence of the opinion prevailing in the 
 best circles. He recalled a conversation he had lately 
 had with Elizabeth on this very subject, and, with a 
 sudden impulse to convict her, he said : 
 
 "I'm afraid Miss Ward will hardly agree with you." 
 
 Miss Masters turned to Elizabeth with an expression 
 of incredulity and surprise. 
 
 "Oh, I am sure — " she began. 
 
 "I believe she considers me harsh and cruel," Eades 
 went on, smiling, but looking intently at Elizabeth. 
 
THE TURN OF, THE BALANCE 85 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Eades is mistaken," she said ; *T'm sure I 
 agree with all the nice things that are said of him." 
 
 She detested the weakness of her quick retreat ; and 
 she detested more the immediate conviction that it 
 came from a certain fear of Eades. She was beginning 
 to feel a kind of mastery in his mere presence, so that 
 when she was near him she felt powerless to oppose 
 him. The arguments she always had ready for others, 
 or for him — when he was gone — seemed invariably to 
 fail her when he was near; she had even gone to the 
 length of preparing them in advance for him, but when 
 he came, when she saw him, she could not even state 
 them, and when she tried, they seemed so weak and 
 puerile and ineffectual as to deserve nothing more seri- 
 ous than the tolerant smile with which he received and 
 disposed of them. And now, as this weakness came 
 over her, she felt a fear, not for any of her principles, 
 which, after all, were but half-formed and superficial, 
 but a fear for herself, for her own being, and she was 
 suddenly grateful for Miss Masters's presence. Still, 
 Eades and Miss Masters seemed to be waiting, and she 
 must say something. 
 
 'Tt's only this," she said. "Not long ago I saw offi- 
 cers taking some prisoners to the penitentiary. I can 
 never forget the faces of those men." 
 
 Over her sensitive countenance there swept the mem- 
 ory of a pain, and she had the effect of sinking in her 
 straight chair. But Eades was gazing steadily at her, 
 a smile on his strong face, and Miss Masters was 
 saying : 
 
 "But, dear me! The penitentiary is the place for 
 such people, isn't it, Mr. Eades ?" 
 
 "I think so/' said Eades. His eyes were still fixed on 
 
86 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Elizabeth, and she looked away, groping in her mind 
 for some other subject. Just then the hall bell rang. 
 
 Elizabeth was glad, for it was Marriott, and as she 
 took his hand and said simply, "Ah, Gordon," the light 
 faded from Eades's face. 
 
 Marriott's entrance dissolved the situation of a 
 moment before. He brought into the drawing-room, 
 dimming now in the fading Hght, a new atmosphere, 
 something of the air of the spring. Miss Masters 
 greeted him with a manner divided between a certain 
 distance, because Marriott had not been born in that 
 city, and a certain necessary approach to his mere 
 deserts as a man. Marriott did not notice this, but 
 dropped on to the divan. Elizabeth had taken a more 
 comfortable chair. Marriott, plainly, was not in the 
 formal Sunday mood, just as he was not in the formal 
 Sunday dress. He had taken in Eades's frock-coat and 
 white waistcoat at a glance, and then looked down at 
 his own dusty boots. 
 
 "I've been hard at work to-day, Elizabeth," he said, 
 turning to her with a smile. 
 
 "Working! You must remember the Sabbath day 
 to keep it — " 
 
 "The law wasn't made for lawyers, was it, John?" 
 He appealed suddenly to Eades, whose conventionality 
 he always liked to shock, and Elizabeth smiled, and 
 Eades became very dignified. 
 
 "I've been out to see our old friends, the Koerners," 
 Marriott went on. 
 
 "Oh, tell me about them!" said Elizabeth, leaning 
 forward with eager interest. "How is Gusta ?" 
 
 "Gusta's well, and prettier than ever. Jove ! What a 
 beauty that girl is !" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 87 
 
 'Isn't she pretty?" said Elizabeth. "She was a de- 
 light in the house for that very reason. And how is 
 poor old Mr. Koerner — and all of them?" 
 
 ''Well," said Marriott, "Koerner's amputated leg is 
 <[\ knotted up with rheumatism." 
 
 Miss Masters's dark face was pinched in a scowl. 
 
 "And Archie's in jail." 
 
 "In jail!" Elizabeth dropped back in her chair. 
 
 "Yes, in jail." 
 
 "Why! What for?" 
 
 "Well, he seems to belong to a gang that was ar- 
 rested day before yesterday for something or other." 
 
 "There, Mr. Eades," said EHzabeth suddenly, "there 
 now, you must let Archie Koerner go." 
 
 "Oh, I'll not let John get a chance at him," said 
 Marriott. "He's charged with a misdemeanor only — 
 he'll go to the workhouse, if he goes anywhere." 
 
 "And you'll defend him?" 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so," said Marriott wearily. "You've 
 given me a whole family of clients, Elizabeth. I went 
 out to see the old man about his case — I think we'll try 
 it early this term." 
 
 "These Koerners are a family in whom I've been in- 
 terested," Elizabeth suddenly thought to explain to 
 Miss Masters, and then she told them of Gusta, of 
 old Koerner's accident, and of Archie's career as a 
 soldier. 
 
 "They've had a hard winter of it," said Martiott. 
 "The old man, of course, can't work, and Archie, by 
 his experience as a soldier, seems to have been totally 
 unfitted for everything — except shooting — and shoot- 
 ing is against the law." 
 
 Now that the conversation had taken this turn. Miss 
 
88 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Masters moved to go. She bade Marriott farewell 
 coldly, and Eades warmly, and Elizabeth went with 
 her into the hall. Eades realized that all hope of a 
 tete-a-tete with Elizabeth had departed, and he and 
 Marriott not long afterward left to walk down town to- 
 gether. The sun was warm for the first time in months, 
 and the hope of the spring had brought the people out 
 of doors. Clayboume Avenue was crowded with car- 
 riages in which families solemnly enjoyed their Sunday 
 afternoon drives, as they had enjoyed their stupefying 
 dinners of roast beef four hours before. Electric auto- 
 mobiles purred past, and now and then a huge touring 
 car, its driver in his goggles resembling some demon, 
 plunged savagely along, its horn honking hoarsely at 
 every street crossing. The sidewalks were thronged 
 with pedestrians, young men whose lives had no other 
 diversion than to parade in their best clothes or stand 
 on dusty down-town corners, smoke cigars and watch 
 the girls that tilted past. 
 
 "That Miss Masters is a fool," said Marriott, when 
 they had got away from the house. 
 
 "Yes, she is," Eades assented. "She was boring Miss 
 Ward to death." 
 
 "Poor Elizabeth !" said Marriott with a little laugh. 
 "She is so patient, and people do afflict her so." 
 
 Eades did not like the way in which Marriott could 
 speak of Elizabeth, any more than he liked to hear 
 Elizabeth address Marriott as Gordon. 
 
 "I see the Courier gave you a fine send-off this morn- 
 ing," Marriott went on. "What a record you made! 
 Not a single acquittal the whole term !" 
 
 Eades made no reply. He was wondering if Eliza- 
 beth had seen the Courier's editorial. In the morning 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 89 
 
 he thought he would send her a bunch of violets, and 
 Tuesday — 
 
 "Your course is most popular," Marriott went on. 
 And Eades looked at him ; he could not always under- 
 stand Marriott, and he did not like to have him speak 
 of his course as if he had deliberately chosen it as a 
 mere matter of policy. 
 
 "It's the right course," he said significantly. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so," Marriott repHed. "Still — I really 
 can't congratulate you when I think of those poor 
 devils—" 
 
 "I haven't a bit of sympathy for them," said Eades 
 coldly. This, he thought, was where Elizabeth got 
 those strange, improper notions. Marriott should not 
 be permitted — 
 
 Just then, in an automobile tearing by, they saw Dick 
 Ward, and Eades suddenly recalled a scene he had 
 witnessed in the club the day before. 
 
 "That young fellow's going an awful gait," he said 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Who, Dick?" 
 
 "Yes, I saw him in the club yesterday — " 
 
 "I know," said Marriott. "It's a shame. He's a nice 
 little chap." 
 
 "Can't you do something for him ? He seems to like 
 you." 
 
 "What can I do?" 
 
 "Well, can't you— speak to him?" 
 
 "I never could preach," said Marriott. 
 
 "Well," said Eades helplessly, "it's too bad." 
 
 "Yes," said Marriott ; "it would break their hearts — 
 Ward's and Elizabeth's." 
 
XI 
 
 The Koerners, indeed, as Marriott said, had had a 
 hard winter. The old man, sustained at first by a fool- 
 ish optimism, had expected that his injury would be 
 compensated immediately by heavy damages from the 
 railroad he had served so long. Marriott had begun 
 suit, and then the law began the slow and wearisome 
 unfolding of its interminable delays. Weeks and 
 months went by and nothing was done. Koerner sent 
 for Marriott, and Marriott explained — the attorneys 
 for the railroad company had filed a demurrer, the 
 docket was full, the case would not be reached for a 
 long time. Koerner could not understand; finally, he 
 began to doubt Marriott ; some of his neighbors, with 
 the suspicion natural to the poor, hinted that Marriott 
 might have been influenced by the company. Koerner^s 
 leg, too, gave him incessant pain. All winter long he 
 was confined to the house, and the family grew tired 
 of his monotonous complainings. To add to this, 
 Koerner was now constantly dunned by the surgeon 
 and by the authorities of the hospital ; the railroad re- 
 fused to pay these bills because Koerner had brought 
 suit ; the bills, to a frugal German like Koerner, were 
 enormous, appalling. 
 
 The Koerners, a year before, had bought the house 
 in which they lived, borrowing the money from a 
 building and loan association. The agent of the asso- 
 
 90 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 91 
 
 elation, who had been so kind and obliging before the 
 mortgage was signed, was now sharp and severe; he 
 had lately told Koerner that unless he met the next 
 instalment of interest he would set the family out in 
 the street. 
 
 Koerner had saved some money from his wages, 
 small as they were; but this was going fast. During 
 the winter Mrs. Koerner, though still depressed and 
 ill, had begun to do washings ; the water, splashing over 
 her legs from the tubs in the cold wood-shed day after 
 day, had given her rheumatism. Gusta helped, of 
 course, but with all they could do it was hard to keep 
 things going. Gusta tried to be cheerful, but this was 
 the hardest work of all ; she often thought of the pleas- 
 ant home of the Wards, and wished she were back 
 there. She would have gone back, indeed, and given her 
 father her wages, but there was much to do at home — 
 the children to look after, the house to keep, the meals 
 to get, the washings to do, and her father's leg to dress. 
 Several times she consulted Marriott about the legal 
 entanglements into which the family was being drawn ; 
 Marriott was wearied with the complications — the dam- 
 age suit, the mortgage, the threatened actions for the 
 doctor's bills. The law seemed to be snarling the Koer- 
 ners in every one of its meshes, and the family was set- 
 tling under a Teutonic melancholia. 
 ' Just at this time the law touched the family at an- 
 other point — ^Archie was arrested. For a while he had 
 sought work, but his experience in the army had un- 
 fitted him for every normal calling ; he had acquired a 
 taste for excitement and adventure, and no peaceful 
 pursuit could content him. He would not return to the 
 army because he had too keen a memory of the indig- 
 
92 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 iiities heaped on a common soldier by officers who had 
 been trained from youth to an utter disregard of all 
 human relations save those that were unreal and arti- 
 ficial. He had learned but one thing in the army, and 
 that was to shoot, and he could shoot well. Somehow 
 he had secured a revolver, a large one, thirty-eight 
 caliber, and with this he was constantly practising. 
 
 Because Archie would not work, Koerner became 
 angry with him ; he was constantly remonstrating with 
 him and urging him to get something to do. Archie 
 took all his father's reproaches with his usual good 
 nature, but as the winter wore slowly on and the 
 shadow of poverty deepened in the home, the old man 
 became more and more depressed, his treatment of his 
 son became more and more bitter. Finally Archie 
 stayed away from home to escape scolding. He spent 
 his evenings in Nussbaum's saloon, where, because he 
 had been a soldier in the Philippines and was attractive 
 and good looking, he was a great favorite and pres- 
 ently a leader of the young men who spent their even- 
 ings there. These young men were workers in a 
 machine shop ; they had a baseball club called the "Vi- 
 kings," and in summer played games in the parks on 
 Sundays. In the winter they spent their evenings in 
 the saloon, the only social center accessible to them; 
 here, besides playing pool, they drank beer, talked 
 loudly, laughed coarsely, sang, and now and then 
 fought, very much like Vikings indeed. 
 
 Later, roaming down town to Market Place, Archie 
 made other acquaintances, and these young men were 
 even more like Vikings. They were known as the 
 Market Place gang, and they made their headquarters 
 in Billy Deno's saloon, though they were well known in 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 93 
 
 all the little saloons around the four sides of the Mar- 
 ket. They were known, too, at the police station, 
 which stood grimly overlooking Market Place, 
 for they had committed many petty raids, and most 
 of them had served terms in the workhouse. One by 
 one they were being sent to the penitentiary, a dis- 
 tinction they seemed to prize, or which their fellows 
 seemed to prize in them when they got back. The gang 
 had certain virtues, — it stuck together; if a member 
 was in trouble, the other members were all willing to do 
 anything to help him out. Usually this willingness took 
 the form of appearing in police court and swearing to 
 an alibi, but they had done this service so often that the 
 police-court habitues and officials smiled whenever they 
 appeared. Their testimonies never convinced the 
 judge ; but they were imperturbable and ever ready to 
 commit perjury in the cause. 
 
 When Archie was out of money he could not buy 
 cartridges for his revolver, and he discovered by chance 
 one afternoon, when he had drifted into a little shoot- 
 ing gallery, that the proprietor was glad to give him 
 cartridges in return for an exhibition with the revolver, 
 for the exhibition drew a crowd, and the boozy sailors 
 who lounged along the Market in the evening were 
 fascinated by Archie's skill and forthwith emulated it. 
 It was in this way that Archie met the members of the 
 Market Place gang, and finding them stronger, braver, 
 more enterprising spirits than the Vikings, he became 
 one of them, spent his days and nights with them, and 
 visited Nussbaum's no more. He became the fast 
 friend of Spud Healy, the leader of the gang, and in 
 this way he came to be arrested. 
 
 Besides Archie and Spud Healy, Red McGuire, 
 
94 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Butch Corrlgan, John Connor and Mike Nailor were 
 arrested. A Market Place grocer had missed a box of 
 dried herrings, reported it to the poHce, and the police, 
 of course, had arrested on suspicion such of the gang as 
 they could find. 
 
 Archie's arrest was a blow to Koerner. He viewed 
 the matter from the German standpoint, just as he 
 viewed everything, even after his thirty-seven years in 
 America. It was a blow to his German reverence for 
 law, a reverence which his own discouraging experi- 
 ence of American law could not impair, and it was a 
 blow to his German conception of parental authority; 
 he denounced Archie, declaring that he would do noth- 
 ing for him even if he could. 
 
 Gusta, in the great love she had for Archie, felt an 
 instant desire to go to him, but when she mentioned 
 this, her father turned on her so fiercely that she did not 
 dare mention it again. On Monday morning, when her 
 work was done, Gusta, dressing herself in the clothes 
 she had not often had occasion to wear during the win- 
 ter, stole out of the house and went down town, — a 
 disobedience in which she was abetted by her mother. 
 Half an hour later Gusta was standing bewildered in 
 the main entrance of the Market Place Police Station. 
 The wide hall was vacant, the old and faded signs on 
 the walls, bearing in English and in German instruc- 
 tions for police-comrt witnesses, could not aid her. 
 From all over the building she heard noises of various 
 activities, — the hum of the police court, the sound of 
 voices, from some near-by room a laugh. She went on 
 and presently found an open door, and within she saw 
 several officers in uniform, with handsome badges on 
 their breasts and stars on the velvet collars of their 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 95 
 
 coats. As she hesitated before this door, a policeman 
 noticed her, and his coarse face Hghted up with a sug- 
 gestive expression as he studied the curves of her fig- 
 ure. He planted himself directly in front of her, his 
 big figure blocking the way. 
 
 * 'T'd like to speak to my brother, if I can," said 
 Gusta. "He's arrested." 
 
 She colored and her eyes fell. The policeman's eyes 
 gleamed. 
 
 "What's hi* name. Miss ?" he asked. • 
 
 "Archie Koerner." 
 
 "What's he infer?" 
 
 "I can't tell you, sir." 
 
 The policeman looked at her boldly, and then he 
 took her round arm in his big hand and turned her 
 toward the open door. 
 
 "Inspector," he said, "this girl wants to see her 
 brother. What's his name ?" he asked again, turning to 
 Gusta. 
 
 "Koerner, sir," said Gusta, speaking to the scowling 
 inspector, "Archie Koerner." 
 
 Inspector McFee, an old officer who had been on the 
 police force for twenty-five years, eyed her suspicious- 
 ly. His short hair was dappled with gray, and his mus- 
 tache was clipped squarely and severely on a level 
 with his upper lip. Gusta had even greater fear of 
 him than she had of the policeman, who now released 
 his hold of her arm. Instinctively she drew away from 
 him. 
 
 "Archie Koerner, eh?" said the inspector in a gruff 
 voice. 
 
 At the name, a huge man, swart and hairy, in civil- 
 ian's dress, standing by one of the big windows, turned 
 
96 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 suddenly and glowered at Gusta from under thick 
 black eyebrows. His hair, black and coarse and closely 
 clipped, bristled almost low enough on his narrow fore- 
 head to meet his heavy brows. He had a flat nose, and 
 beneath, half encircling his broad, deep mouth, was a 
 black mustache, stubbed and not much larger than his 
 eyebrows. His jaw was square and heavy. A gleam 
 showed in his small black eyes and gave a curiously 
 sinister aspect to his black visage. 
 
 ''What's that about Koerner?" he said, coming for- 
 ward aggressively. Gusta shrank from him. She felt 
 herself in the midst of powerful, angry foes. 
 
 "You say he's your brother ?" asked the inspector. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "What do you want of him ?'* 
 
 "Oh, I just want to see him, sir," Gusta said. "I 
 just want to talk to him a minute — that's all, sir." 
 
 Her blue eyes were swimming with tears. 
 
 "Hold on a minute," said the man of the dark visage. 
 He went up to the inspector, whispered to him a mo- 
 ment. The inspector listened, finally nodded, then took 
 up a tube that hung by his desk and blew into it. Far 
 away a whistle shrilled. 
 
 "Let this girl see Koerner," he said, speaking into 
 the tube, "in Kouka's presence." Then, dropping the 
 tube, he said to Gusta : 
 
 "Go down-stairs — you can see him." 
 
 The policeman took her by the arm again, and led 
 her down the hall and down the stairs to the turnkey's 
 room. The turnkey unlocked a heavy door and tugged 
 it open; inside, in a little square vestibule, Gusta saw 
 a dim gas-jet burning. The turnkey called : 
 
 "Koerner!" 
 
THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 97 
 
 Then he turned to Gusta and said : 
 
 'This way." 
 
 She went timidly into the vestibule and found her- 
 self facing a heavy door, crossed with iron bars. On 
 the other side of the bars was the face of Archie. 
 
 "Hello, Gusta," he said. 
 
 She had lifted her skirts a little ; the floor seemed 
 to her unclean. The odor of disinfectants, which, strong 
 as it was, could not overpower the other odors it was 
 intended to annihilate, came strongly to her. Through 
 the bars she had a glimpse of high whitewashed walls, 
 pierced near the top with narrow windows dirty beyond 
 all hope. On the other side was a row of cells, their 
 barred doors now swinging open. Along the wall 
 miserable figures were stretched on a bench. Far back, 
 where the prison grew dark as night, other figures 
 slouched, and she saw strange, haggard faces peering 
 curiously at her out of the gloom. 
 
 "Hello, Gusta," Archie said. 
 
 She felt that she should take his hand, but she dis- 
 liked to thrust it through the bars. Still she did so. 
 In slipping her hand through to take Archie's hand it 
 touched the iron, which was cold and soft as if with 
 some foul grease. 
 
 "Oh, Archie," she said, "what has happened ?" 
 
 "Search me," he said, "I don't know what I'm here 
 for. Ask Detective Kouka there. He run me in." 
 
 Gusta turned. The black-visaged man was standing 
 beside her. Archie glared at the detective in open ha- 
 tred, and Kouka sneered but controlled himself, and 
 looked away as if, after all, he were far above such 
 things. 
 
 Then they were silent, for Gusta could not speak. 
 
98 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "How did you hear of the phich?" asked Archie 
 presently. 
 
 "Mrs. Schopfle was in — she told us," replied Gusta. 
 
 "What did the old man say ?" 
 
 "Oh, Archie ! He's awful mad !" 
 
 Archie hung his head and meditatively fitted the toe 
 of his boot into one of the squares made by the crossed 
 bars at the bottom of the door. 
 
 "Say, Gusta," he said, "you tell him I'm in wrong; 
 will you ? Honest to God, I am !" 
 
 He raised his face suddenly aad held it close to the 
 bars. 
 
 "I will, Archie," she said. 
 
 "And how's ma?" 
 
 "Oh, she's pretty well." Gusta could not say the 
 things she wished ; she felt the presence of Kouka. 
 
 "Say, Gusta," said Archie, "see Air. Marriott; tell 
 him to come down here ; I want him to take my case. 
 I'll work and pay him when I get out. Say, Gusta," he 
 went on, "tell him to conre down this afternoon. My 
 God, I've got to get out of here ! Will you ? You know 
 where his office is ?" 
 
 "I'll find it," said Gusta. 
 
 "It's in the Wayne Building." 
 
 Gusta tried to look at Archie ; she tried to keep her 
 eyes on his face, on his tumbled yellow hair, on his 
 broad shoulders, broader still because his coat and 
 waistcoat were ofiF, and his white throat was revealed 
 by his open shirt. But she found it hard, because her 
 eyes were constantly challenged by the sights beyond — 
 the cell doors, the men sleeping off their liquor, the 
 restless figures that haunted the shadows, the white 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 99 
 
 laces peering out of the gloom. The smell that came 
 from within was beginning to sicken her. 
 
 "Oh, Archie," she said, "it must be awful in there!" 
 
 Archie became suddenly enraged 
 
 "Awful?" he said. "It's heU! This place ain't fit for 
 a dog to stay in. Why, Gusta, it's alive — it's crawlin' ! 
 That's what it is! I didn't sleep a wink last night! 
 Not a wink ! Say, Gusta," he grasped the bars, pressed 
 his face against them, "see Mr. Marriott and tell him 
 to get me out of here. Will you? See him, will you?" 
 
 "I will, Archie," she said. "I'll go right away." 
 
 She was eager now to leave, for she had already 
 turned sick with loathing. 
 
 "And say, Gusta," Archie said, "get me some cigar- 
 ettes and send 'em down by Marriott." 
 
 "All right," she said. She was backing away. 
 
 "Good-by," he called. The turnkey was kxJdng the 
 door on him. 
 
 Outside, Gusta leaned a moment against the wall of 
 the building, breathing in the outdoor air; presently 
 she went on, but it was long before she could cleanse 
 her mouth of the taste or her nostrils of the odor of the 
 foul air of that prison in which her brother was locked. 
 
xn 
 
 Gusta hurried out of the alley as fast as she could 
 go; she wished to get away from the police station, 
 and to forget the faces of those men in prison. It was 
 now nine o'clock and the activity of the Market was 
 waning; the few gardener's wagons that lingered with 
 the remnants of their loads were but a suggestion of the 
 hundreds of wagons that had packed the square before 
 the dawn. Under the shed, a block long, a constable 
 was offering at public vendue the household goods of 
 some widow who ha,ti been evicted ; the torn and rusty 
 mattresses, broken chairs and an old bed were going 
 for scarcely enough to pay the costs; a little, blue- 
 bearded man, who had forced the sale, stood by sharply 
 watching, ready to bid the things in himself if the 
 dealers in second-hand furniture should not offer 
 enough. Gusta hurried on, past butcher-shops, past 
 small saloons, and she hurried faster because every one 
 — the policemen, the second-hand dealers, the drivers 
 of the market-wagons, the butchers in their blood- 
 stained smock frocks — turned to look at her. It was 
 three blocks to the Wayne Building, rearing its fifteen 
 stories aloft from the roaring tide of business at its 
 feet, and Gusta was glad to lose herself in the crowds 
 that swarmed along the street. 
 
 The waiting-room of Marriott's office was filled ; the 
 door which was lettered with his name was closed, and 
 
 100 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE loi 
 
 Gusta had to wait. She joined the group that sat silent 
 in the chairs along the walls, and watched theVg^'rl wM\i^ 
 the yellow hair at the typewriter. The girl's white fin- 
 gers twinkled over the keys ; the little bell tinkled and 
 the girl snatched back the carriage of the machine with 
 a swift grating sound ; she wrote furiously, and Gusta 
 was fascinated. She wished she might be a typewriter ; 
 it must be so much easier to sit here in this pleasant, 
 sunlit office, high above the cares and turmoil of the 
 world, and write on that beautiful machine; so much 
 easier than to toil in a poor, unhappy home with a 
 mother ill, a father maimed and racked by pains so 
 that he was always morose and cross, a brother in jail, 
 and always work — the thankless task of washing at a 
 tub, of getting meals when there was little food to get 
 them with. Gusta thought she might master the ma- 
 chine, but no — her heart sank — she could not spell nor 
 understand all the long words the lawyers used, so that 
 was hopeless. 
 
 After a while the door marked "Mr. Marriott" 
 opened, and a man stepped out, a well-dressed man, 
 with an air of prosperousness ; he glanced at the yel- 
 low-haired typewriter as he passed out of the office. 
 Marriott was standing in his door, looking at the line 
 of waiting clients ; his face was worn and tired. He 
 seemed to hesitate an instant, then he nodded to one 
 of the waiting women, and she rose and entered the 
 private office. Just as Marriott was closing the door, 
 he saw Gusta and smiled, and Gusta was cheered; it 
 was the first friendly smile she had seen that day. 
 
 She had to wait two hours. The men did not detain 
 Marriott long, but the women remained in his private 
 office an interminable time, and whenever he opened 
 
I02 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 his door to dismlbs one of them, he took out his watch 
 afadJookalat'it.' At last, however, when all had gone, 
 he said : 
 
 "Well, Gusta, what can I do for you ?" He dropped 
 into his chair, swung round to face her, rested one 
 elbow on the top of the desk and leaned his head in his 
 hand. 
 
 'T came to see about Archie." 
 
 Marriott felt the deadly ennui that came over him 
 at the thought of these petty criminal cases. The crimes 
 were so small, so stupid, and so squalid, they had noth- 
 ing to excuse them, not even the picturesque quality of 
 adventure that by some sophistry might extenuate 
 crimes of a more enterprising and dangerous class. 
 They were so hopeless, too, and Marriott could hardly 
 keep a straight face while he defended the perpetrators, 
 and yet he allowed himself to be drawn into them ; he 
 found himself constantly pleading for some poor devil 
 who had neither money to pay him nor the decency to 
 thank him. Sometimes he wondered why he did it, and 
 whenever he wondered he decided that he would never 
 take another such case. Then the telephone would ring, 
 and before he knew it he would be in police court mak- 
 ing another poor devil's cause his own, while more 
 important litigation must wait — for the petty criminals 
 were always in urgent need; the law would not stay 
 for them nor abide their convenience ; with them it was 
 imperative, implacable, insistent, as if to dress the bal- 
 ance for its delay and complaisance with its larger crim- 
 inals. Marriott often thought it over, and he had 
 thought enough to recognize in these poor law-breakers 
 a certain essential innocence; they were so sublimely 
 foolish, so illogical, they made such lavish sacrifice 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 103 
 
 of all that was best in their natures ; they lived so hard- 
 ly, so desperately ; they paid such tremendous prices 
 and got so little ; they were so unobservant, they learned 
 nothing by experience. And yet with one another they 
 were so kind, so considerate, so loyal, that it seemed 
 hard to realize that they could be so unkind and so dis- 
 loyal to the rest of mankind. In his instinctive love of 
 human nature, their very hopelessness and helplessness 
 appealed to him. 
 
 *'Mr. Marriott, do you think he is guilty ?'* Gusta was 
 asking. 
 
 ''Guilty?" said Marriott, automatically repeating the 
 word. **Guilty? What difference does that make?" 
 
 ''Oh, Mr. Marriott!" the girl exclaimed, her blue 
 eyes widening. "Surely, it makes all the difference in 
 the world!" 
 
 "To you?" 
 
 "Why— yes— shouldn't it ?" 
 
 "No, it shouldn't, Gusta, and what's more, it doesn't. 
 And it doesn't to me, either. You don't want him sent 
 to prison even if he is guilty, do you ?" 
 
 "N — no," Gusta hesitated as she assented to the 
 heresy. 
 
 "No, of course you don't. Because, Gusta, we know * 
 him — we know he's all right, don't we, no matter what 
 he has done? Just as we know that we ourselves are 
 all right when we do bad things — isn't that it?" 
 ? The girl was sitting with her yellow head bent ; she 
 was trying to think. 
 
 "But father would say — " 
 
 "Oh, yes," Marriott laughed, "father would say and i 
 grandfather would say, too — that's just the trouble. ' 
 Father got his notions from thq Ojd World, but we — 
 
104 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 i Gusta, we know more than father or grandfather in 
 *^ this country." 
 
 Marriott enjoyed the discomfiture that Gusta plainly 
 showed in her inability to understand in the least what 
 he was saying. He felt a little mean about it, for he 
 recognized that he was speaking for his own benefit 
 rather than for hers ; he had wished Elizabeth might 
 be there to hear him. 
 
 ''I don't know much about it, Mr. Marriott," Gusta 
 said presently, "but when will you go to see him ?" 
 
 "Oh, I'll try to get down this afternoon." 
 
 "All right. He told me to ask you please to bring him 
 some cigarettes. Of course," she was going on in an 
 apologetic tone, but Marriott cut her short : 
 
 "Oh, he wants cigarettes ? Well, I'll take them to 
 him:" 
 
 Then they talked the futilities which were all such a 
 case could inspire, and Marriott, looking at his watch, 
 made Gusta feel that she should go. But the world 
 wore a new aspect for her when she left Marriott's of- 
 fice. The spring sun was warm now, and she felt that 
 she had the right to glory in it. The crowds in the 
 streets seemed human and near, not far away and 
 strange as they had been before ; she felt that she had 
 somehow been restored to her own rights in life. She 
 had not understood Marriott's philosophy in the least, 
 but she went away with the memory of his face and the 
 memory of his smile; she could not realize her 
 thoughts ; it was a feeling more than anything else, but 
 she knew that here was one man, at least, who believed 
 in her brother, and it seemed that he was determined 
 ta believe in him no matter what the brother did ; and 
 
Elizabeth saw that her tears were falling Page lO^ 
 
• • « « «. 
 
 • • •-. * • • 
 
 TV 
 
 u/v/ves- 
 
 Of 
 
 si£ORN*ft, 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 105 
 
 he believed in her, too, and this was everything — this 
 made the whole world glad, just as the sun made the 
 whole world glad that morning. 
 
 But Gusta's heart sank at the thought of going 
 home; there was nothing there now but discord and 
 toil. The excitement, the change of the morning, the 
 little interview with Marriott, had served to divert 
 her, and now the thought of returning to that dull and 
 wearisome routine was more than ever distasteful. It 
 was nearly noon, and she would be expected, but she, 
 did not like to lose these impressions, and she did not; 
 like to leave this warm sunshine, these busy, moving 
 streets, this contact with active Hfe, and so she wan- 
 dered on out Claybourne Avenue. There was slowly 
 taking form within her a notion of eking out her pleas- 
 ure by going to see Elizabeth Ward, but she did not let 
 the thought wholly take form ; rather she let it lie dor- 
 mant under her other thoughts. She walked along in 
 the sunlight and looked at the automobiles that went 
 trumpeting by, at the carriages rolling home with their,- 
 aristocratic mistresses lolling on their cushions. Gusta 
 found a pleasure in recognizing many of these women ; 
 she had opened the Wards' big front door to them, 
 she had served them with tea, or at dinner; she had 
 heard their subdued laughter; she had covertly in- 
 spected their toilets ; some of them had glanced for an 
 instant into her eyes and thanked her for some little 
 service. And then she could recall things she had heard 
 them say, bits of gossip, or scandal, some of which gave 
 her pleasure, others feelings of hatred and disgust. A 
 rosy young matron drove by in a phaeton, with her 
 pretty children piled about her feet, and the sight 
 
io6 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 pleased Gusta. She smiled and hurried on with quick- 
 ened step. 
 
 At last she saw the familiar house, and then to her 
 joy she saw Elizabeth on the veranda, leaning against 
 one of the pillars, evidently taking the air, enjoying the 
 sun and the spring. Elizabeth saw Gusta, too, and her 
 eyes brightened. 
 
 "Why, Gusta!" she said. "Is that you?" 
 
 Gusta stood on the steps and looked up at Elizabeth. 
 Her face was rosy with embarrassment and pleasure. 
 Elizabeth perched on the rail of the veranda and ex- 
 amined the vine of Virginia roses that had not yet be- 
 gun to put forth. ' 
 
 "And how are you getting along?" she said. "How 
 are they all at home ?" 
 
 Gusta told her of her father and of her mother and of 
 the children. i 
 
 Elizabeth tried to talk to her ; she was fond of her, 
 but there seemed to be nothing to talk about. She knew, 
 too, how Gusta adored her, and she felt that she must 
 always retain this adoration, and constantly prove her 
 kindness to Gusta. But the conversation was nothing 
 but a series of questions she extorted from herself by a 
 continued effort that quickly wearied her, especially 
 as Gusta's replies were delivered so promptly and so 
 laconically that she could not think of other questions 
 fast enough. At last she said : 
 
 "And how's Archie?" 
 
 And then instantly she remembered that Archie was 
 in prison. Her heart smote her for her thoughtless- 
 jiess. Gusta's head was hanging. 
 
 "IVe just been to see him," she said. 
 
 "I wished to hear of him, Gusta/^ Elizabeth said. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 107 
 
 trying by her tone to destroy the quality of her first 
 question. *T spoke to Mr. Marriott about him — I'm 
 sure he'll get him off." 
 
 Gusta made no reply, and Elizabeth saw that her 
 tears were fallmg. 
 
 "Come, Gusta/' she said sympathetically, "you 
 mustn't feel bad." 
 
 The girl suddenly looked at her, her eyes full of 
 tears. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Elizabeth," she said, "if you could only 
 know ! To see him down there — in that place ! Such a 
 thing never happened to us before !" 
 
 "But I'm sure it'll all come out right in the end — 
 I'm sure of that. There must have been some mistake. 
 Tell me all about it." 
 
 And then Gusta told her the whole story. 
 
 "You don't know how it feels, Miss Elizabeth," she 
 said when she had done, "to have your own brother — 
 such a thing couldn't happen to you — here." Gusta 
 glanced about her, taking in at a glance, as it were, the 
 large house, and all its luxury and refinement and 
 riches, as if these things were insurmountable barriers 
 to such misfortune and disgrace. 
 
 ' Elizabeth saw the glance, and some way, suddenly, 
 the light and warmth went out of the spring day for 
 her. The two girls looked at each other a moment, 
 then they looked away, and there was silence. Eliza- 
 beth's brows were contracted ; in her eyes there was a 
 look of pain. 
 
 1 When Gusta had gone Elizabeth went indoors, but 
 her heart was heavy. She tried to throw off the feeling, 
 but could not. She told herself that it was her imagi- 
 nation, always half morbid, but this did not satisfy her. 
 
io8 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 She was silent at the luncheon-table until her mother 
 said: 
 
 "Elizabeth, what in the world ails you ?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing." 
 
 "I know something does," insisted Mrs. Ward. 
 
 Elizabeth, with her head inclined, was outlining with 
 the prong of a fork the pattern on the salad bowl. 
 
 "Gusta has been here, telling me her troubles." 
 
 "Oh, that's it, is it?" said Mrs. Ward. 
 
 "You know her brother has been arrested." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Stealing." 
 
 "Indeed! Well! I do wish she'd keep away! I'm 
 sure I don't know what we've done that we should have 
 such things brought into our house !" 
 
 "But it's too bad," said Elizabeth. "The young 
 man — " 
 
 "Yes, the young man ! If he'd go to work and earn 
 an honest living, he wouldn't be arrested for stealing !" 
 
 "I was just thinking — " Elizabeth finished the pat- 
 tern on the salad bowl and inclined her head on the 
 other side, as if she had really designed the pattern and 
 were studying the effect of her finished work, — "that 
 if Pick— " 
 
 "Why, Elizabeth !" Mrs. Ward cried. "How can you 
 $ay such a thing?" 
 
 Elizabeth smiled, and the smile irritated her mother. 
 
 "I'm sure it's entirely different!" Mrs. Ward went 
 on. "Dick does not belong to that class at all !" 
 
XIII 
 
 The truth was that EHzabeth had been' worried f of 
 days about Dick. A few evenings before, Ward, who 
 took counsel of his daughter rather than of his wife in 
 such affairs, had told her of his concern aboilt his son. 
 
 "I don't know what to do with the boy," he had said. 
 "He seems to have no interest in anything ; he tired of 
 school, and he tired of college; and now he is of ag;e 
 and — doing nothing." 
 
 She remembered how he had sat there, puffing at his 
 cigar as if that could assist him to some conclusion. 
 
 "I tried him in the office for a while, you know, but 
 he did not seem to take it seriously — oi course, it 
 wasn't really serious ; the work went on as well without 
 him as with him. I guess he, knew that." 
 
 Elizabeth sat and thought, but the problem which her 
 father had put to her immediately overpowered her; 
 there seemed to be no solution at all — she coujld not 
 even arrange its terms in her mind, and she was silent, 
 yet her silence was charged with sympathy. 
 
 "I've talked to him, but that does no good. I've 
 pleaded with him, but that does no good. I tried giving 
 him unlimited money, then I put him on an allowance, 
 then I cut him off altogether — it was just the saifne." 
 
 Ward smoked a moment in silence. 
 
 "I've thought of every known profession. He says 
 he doesn't want to be a lawyer or a doctor ; he has no 
 
 109 
 
no THE TURN OF THiE JBALaNCE 
 
 taste for mechanics, and he seems to have no interest 
 in business. I've thought of sending him abroad, or out 
 West, but he doesn't want to do that." 
 
 And again the silence and the smoking and the pain. 
 
 **He's out to-night — where, I don't know. I don't 
 want to know — I'm afraid to know !" 
 
 There was something wild, appealing and pathetic in 
 this cry wrung from a father's heart. Elizabeth had 
 looked up quickly, her own heart aching with pity. 
 She recalled how he had said : 
 
 "Your mother — she doesn't understand; I don't 
 know that I want her to; she idoHzes the boy; she 
 thinks he can't do wrong." 
 
 And then Elizabeth had slipped her arm about his 
 neck, and, leaning over, had placed her cheek against 
 his ; her tears had come, and she had felt that his tears 
 had come ; he had patted her hand. They had sat thus 
 for a long while. 
 
 "Poor boy !" Ward had said again. "He's only mak- 
 ing trouble for himself. I'd like to help him, but some- 
 how, Bess, I can't get next to him ; when I try to talk 
 to him, when I try to be confidential and all that — 
 something comes between us, and I can't say it right. 
 I can't talk to him as I could to any other man. I don't 
 know why it is ; I sometimes think that it's all my fault, 
 that I haven't reared him right, that I haven't done 
 my duty by him, and yet, God knows, I've tried !" 
 
 "Oh, papa," she had replied protestingly, "you 
 mustn't blame yourself — you've done everything." 
 
 "He's really a good boy," Ward had gone on irrele- 
 vantly, ignoring himself in his large, unselfish thought 
 for his son. "He's kind and generous, and he means 
 well enough — and — and — I think he likes me." 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE in 
 
 This had touched her to the quick, and she had wept 
 softly, stroking her father's cheek. 
 
 "Can't you — couldn't you — " he began. **Do you 
 think you could talk to him, Bess?" 
 
 "I'll try/' she said, and just then her brother had 
 come into the room, rosy and happy and unsuspecting, 
 and their confidences were at an end. 
 
 Ward did not realize, of course, that in asking Eliza- 
 beth to speak to Dick he was laying a heavy burden on 
 her. She had promised her father in a kind of pity for 
 him, a pity w^hich sprang from her great love ; but as 
 she thought it over, wondering what she was to say, 
 the ordeal grew greater and greater — greater than any 
 she had ever had to encounter. For several days she 
 was spared the necessity of redeeming her promise, for 
 Dick was so little at home, and fortunately, as Elizabeth 
 felt, when he was there the circumstances were not pro- 
 pitious. Then she kept putting it off, and putting it off ; 
 and the days went by. Her father had not recurred to 
 the subject; having once opened his heart, he seemed 
 suddenly to have closed it, even against her. His atti- 
 tude was such that she felt she could not talk the matter 
 over with him ; if she could she might have asked him 
 to give her back her promise. She could not talk it over 
 with her mother, and she longed to talk it over with 
 some one. One evening she had an impulse to tell Mar- 
 riott about it. She knew that he could sympathize with 
 her, and, what was more, she knew that he could sym- 
 pathize with Dick, whereas she could not sympathize 
 with Dick at all. Though she laughed, and sang, and 
 read, and talked, and drove, and Uved her customary 
 life, the subject was always in her thoughts. Finally 
 she discovered that she was adopting little subterfuges 
 
112 THE TURIST-'OF THE BALANCE 
 
 in order to evade it, and she became disgusted with her- 
 self. She had morbid fears that her character would 
 give way under the strain. At night she lay awake 
 waiting, as she knew her father must be waiting, for the 
 ratchet of Dick's key in the night-latch. 
 
 In the many different ways she imagined herself ap- 
 proaching the siibject with Dick, in the many different 
 conversations she planned, she always found herself 
 facing an impenetrable barrier — she did not know with 
 what she was to reproach him, with what wrong she 
 was to charge him. She conceived of the whole affair, 
 as the Anglo-Saxon mind feels it must always deal 
 with wrong, in the forensic form — indictment, trial, 
 judgment, execution. But after all, what had Dick 
 done ? As she saw him coming and going through the 
 house, at the table, or elsewhere, he was still the same 
 Dick — and this perplexed her; for, looking at him 
 through the medium of her talk with her father, Dick 
 seemed to be something else than her brother ; he 
 seemed to have changed into something bad. Thus his 
 misdeeds magnified themselves to her mind, and she 
 thought of them instead of him, of the sin instead of the 
 sinner. 
 
 That night Dick did not come at all. In the morning 
 when her father appeared, Elizabeth saw that he was 
 haggard and old. As he walked heavily toward his 
 waiting carriage, her love and pity for him received a 
 sudden impetus. 
 
 Dick did not return until the next evening, and the 
 following morning he came down just as his father 
 was leaving the house. If Ward heard his son's step on 
 the stairs, he did not turn, but went on out, got into his 
 brougham, and sank back wearily on its cushions. It 
 
THE TURN of: THE BALANCE 113 
 
 happened that Elizabeth came into the hall at that 
 moment; she saw her father, and she saw her brother 
 coming down the stairs, dressed faultlessly in new 
 clothes and smoking a cigarette. As Elizabeth saw 
 him, so easy and unconcerned, her anger suddenly 
 blazed out, her eyes flashed, and she took one quick 
 step toward him. His fresh, ruddy face wore a smile, 
 but as she confronted him and held out one arm in dra- 
 matic rigidity and pointed toward her father, Dick 
 •halted and his smile faded. 
 
 "Look at him !" Elizabeth said, pointing to her father. 
 "Look at him ! Do you know what you're doing ?" 
 
 "Why, Bess" — Dick began, surprised. 
 
 "You're breaking his heart, that's what you're do- 
 ing!" 
 
 She stood there, her eyes menacing, her face flushed, 
 her arm extended. The carriage was rolling down the 
 drive and her father had gone, but Elizabeth still had 
 the vision of his bent frame as he got into his carriage. 
 
 "Did you see him ?" she went on. "Did you see how 
 He's aging, how much whiter his hair has grown in the 
 last few weeks, how his figure has bent ? You're killing 
 him, that's what you're doing, killing him inch by inch. 
 Why can't you do it quick, all at once, and be done with 
 it ? That would be kinder, more merciful !" 
 
 Her lip curled in sarcasm. Dick stood by the newel- 
 post, his face white, his lips open as if to speak. 
 
 "You spend your days in idleness and your nights 
 in dissipation. You won't work. You won't do any- 
 thing. You are disgracing your family and your name. 
 Can't you see it, or won't you ?" 
 
 "Why, Bess," Dick began, "what's the—" 
 
 She looked at him a moment ; he was like her mother. 
 
114 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 so good-natured, so slow to anger. His attitude, his ex- 
 pression, infuriated her; words seemed to have no 
 effect, and in her fury she felt that she must make 
 him see, that she must force him to realize what he was 
 doing — force him to acknowledge his fault — force him 
 to be good. 
 
 *'Of course, you'd just stand there!" sHe said. "Why 
 don't you say something? You know what you're doing 
 — you know it better than I. I should think you'd be 
 ashamed to look a sister in the face !" 
 
 Dick had seen Elizabeth angry before, but never 
 quite like this. Slowly within him his own anger was 
 mounting. What right, h^ thought, had she to take him 
 thus to task — ^him, a man? He drew himself up, his 
 face suddenly lost its pallor and a flush of scarlet mot- 
 tled it. Strangely, in that same instant, Elizabeth's face 
 became very white. • 
 
 "Look here," he said, speaking in a heavy voice, "I 
 don't want any more of this from you !" 
 
 For an instant there was something menacing in his 
 manner, and then he walked away and left her. 
 
 Elizabeth stood a moment, trembling violently. He 
 had gone into the dining-room ; he was talking with his 
 mother in low tones. Elizabeth went up the stairs to 
 her room and closed the door, and then a great wave of 
 moral sickness swept over her. She sat down, trying to 
 compose herself, trying to still her nerves. The whole 
 swift scene with her brother flashed before her in all 
 its squalor. Had she acted well or rightly? Was her 
 anger what is called a righteous indignation ? She was 
 sure that she had acted for the best, for her father in 
 the first place, and for Dick more than all, but it was 
 suddenly revealed to her that she had failed ; she had 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 115 
 
 not touched his heart at all ; she had expended all her 
 force, and it was utterly lost; she had failed — failed. 
 This word repeated itself in her brain. She tried to 
 think, but her brain was in turmoil ; she could think but 
 one thing — she had failed. She bent her head and wept. 
 
XIV 
 
 Archie Koemer and Spud Healy and tHe others oi 
 the gang lay in prison for a week ; each morning they 
 were taken with other prisoners to the bull-pen, and 
 there they would stand — for an hour, two hours, three 
 hours — and look through the heavy wire screen at 
 officers, lawyers, court attaches, witnesses and prosecu- 
 tors who passed and repassed, peering at them as at 
 caged animals, some curiously, some in hatred and re- 
 venge, some with fear, now and then one with pity. 
 The session would end, they would be taken down- 
 stairs again — the police were not yet ready. But finally, 
 one Saturday morning, they were taken into the court- 
 room and arraigned. Bostwick, the judge, heard a part 
 of the evidence ; it was nearly noon, and court never 
 sat on Saturday afternoons. Bostwick and the prosecu- 
 tor both were very anxious to get away for their half- 
 holiday. The session had been long and trying, the 
 morning was sultry, a summer day had fallen unex- 
 pectedly in the midst of the spring. Bostwick was 
 uncomfortable in his heavy clothes. He hurried the 
 hearing and sent them all to the workhouse for thirty 
 days, and fined them the costs. Marriott had realized 
 the hopelessness of the case from the first ; even he was 
 glad the hearing was over, glad to have Archie off his 
 mind. 
 
 The little trial was but a trivial incident iti th^ JHe of 
 ii6 
 
 J^ 
 
4 
 
 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 117 
 
 the city ; Bostwick and the prosecutor, to whom it was 
 but a part of the day's work, forgot it in the zest of or- 
 dering a luncheon; the poHce forgot it, excepting 
 Kouka, who boasted to the reporters and felt important 
 for a day. Frisby, a little lawyer with a catarrhal voice, 
 thought of it long enough to be thankful that he had 
 demanded his fee in advance from the mother of the 
 boy he had defended — it took her last cent and made 
 her go hungry over Sunday. Back on the Flats, in the 
 shadow of the beautiful spire of St. Francis, there were 
 cries, Gaelic lamentations, keening, counting of beads 
 and prayers to the Virgin. The reporters made para- 
 graphs for their newspapers, writing in the flippant 
 spirit with which they had been taught to treat the daily 
 tragedies of the police court. Some people scanned the 
 paragraphs, and life passed by on the other side; 
 the crowds of the city surged and swayed, and 
 Sunday dawned with the church-bells ringing peace- 
 fully. 
 
 The Koerner family had the news that evening from 
 Jerry Crowley, the policeman who had recently been 
 assigned to that beat, his predecessor. Miller, having 
 been suspended for drunkenness. Crowley had had a 
 hard time of it ever since he came on the beat. The 
 vicinity was German and he was Irish, and race hatred 
 pursued him daily with sneers, and jibes, and insults, 
 now and then with stones and clods. The children took 
 their cue from the gang at Nussbaum's ; the gang made 
 his life miserable. Yet Crowley was a kindly Irishman, 
 with many a jest and joke, and a pleasant word for 
 every one. Almost anybody he arrested could get 
 Crowley to let him go by begging hard enough. On 
 the warm evenings Koerner would sit on the stoop, 
 
ti8 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 and Crowley, coming by, would stop for a dish of gos- 
 sip. 
 
 "Oh, come now, Mr. Koerner," he said that Saturday 
 night, after he had crudely told the old German of his 
 son's fate, "I wouldn't take it that hard; shure an' 
 maybe it's good 'twill be doin' the lad an' him needin' it 
 the way he does." 
 
 Officer Crowley was interrupted in his comforting 
 by a racket at the corner — ^the warm, soft nights were 
 bringing the gang out, and he went away to wage his 
 hopeless battle with it. When he returned, old man 
 Koerner had gone indoors. 
 
 Gusta shared all her father's humiliation and all her 
 mother's grief at Archie's imprisonment. She felt that 
 she should visit her brother in prison, but it was a whole 
 week before she could get away, and then on a brilliant 
 Sunday afternoon she went to the workhouse. The 
 hideous prison buildings were surrounded by a high 
 fence, ugly in its dull red paint; the office and the ad- 
 joining quarters where the superintendent lived had a 
 grass plot in which some truckling trusty had made 
 flower-beds to please the superintendent's wife. In the 
 office an old clerk, in a long black coat, received Gusta 
 solemnly. He was sitting, from the habit of many 
 years, on the high stool at the desk where he worked ; 
 ordinarily he crouched over his books in the fear that 
 political changes would take his job from him ; now a 
 Sunday paper, which the superintendent and his family 
 had read and discarded, replaced the sad records, but 
 he bent over this none the less timidly. After a long 
 while an ill-natured guard, whose face had grown par- 
 ticularly sinister and vicious in the business, ordered 
 Gusta to follow him, and led her back into the building. 
 
TPIE TURN OF THE BALANCE 119 
 
 Reluctantly he unlocked doors and locked them behind 
 her, and Gusta grew alarmed. Once, waiting for him to 
 unlock what proved to be a final door, he waited while 
 a line of women, fourteen or fifteen of them, in uniform 
 of striped gingham, went clattering up a spiral iron 
 stairway ; two or three of the women were negresses. 
 They had been down to the services some Christian 
 people had been holding for the inmates, preaching to 
 them that if they believed on Jesus they would find 
 release, and peace, and happiness. These people, of 
 course, did not mean release from the workhouse, and 
 the peace and happiness, it seemed, could not come un- 
 til the inmates died. So long as they lived, their only 
 prospect seemed to be unpaid work by day, bread and 
 molasses to eat, and a cell to sleep in at night, with 
 iron bars locking them in and armed men to watch 
 them. However, the inmates enjoyed the services be- 
 cause they were allowed to sing. 
 
 After the women disappeared, Gusta stood fearfully 
 before a barred door and looked down into a cell-house. 
 The walls were three stories high, and sheer from the 
 floor upward, with narrow windows at the top. Inside 
 this shell of brick the cells were banked tier on tier, 
 with dizzy galleries along each tier. Though Gusta 
 could see no one, she could hear a multitude of low 
 voices, like the humming of a bee-hive — the prisoners, 
 locked two in each little cell, were permitted to talk 
 during this hour. The place was clean, but had, of 
 course, the institutional odor. The guard called another 
 guard, and between them they unlocked several locks 
 and threw several levers ; finally a cell-door opened — 
 and Gusta saw Archie come forth. He wore a soiled 
 ill-fitting suit of gray flannel with wide horizontal 
 
120 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 stripes, and his hair had been clipped close to his head. 
 The sight so confused and appalled Gusta that she 
 could not speak, and the guard, standing suspiciously 
 by her side to hear all that was said, made it impossible 
 for her to talk. The feeling was worse than that she 
 had had at the police station when an iron door had 
 thus similarly separated her from her brother. 
 
 Archie came close and took hold of the bars with both 
 his hands and peered at her ; he asked her a few ques- 
 tions about things at home, and charged her with a few 
 unimportant messages and errands. But she could only 
 stand there with the tears streaming down her face. 
 Presently the guard ordered Archie back to his cell, 
 and he went away, turning back wistfully and repeating 
 his messages in a kind of desperate wish to connect 
 himself with the world. 
 
 When Gusta got outside again, she determined that 
 she would not go home, for there the long shadow of 
 the prison lay. She did not know where to go or what 
 to do, but while she was trying to decide she heard 
 from afar the music of a band — surely there would be 
 distraction. So she walked in the direction of the 
 music. About the workhouse, as about all prisons, 
 were the ramshackles of squalid poverty and worse; 
 but little Flint Street, along which she took her way, 
 began to pick up, and she passed cottages, painted and 
 prim, where w^orkmen lived, and the people she saw, 
 and their many children playing in the street, were 
 well dressed and happy. It seemed strange to Gusta 
 that any one should be happy then. When suddenly 
 she came into Eastend Avenue, she knew at last where 
 she was and whence the music came ; she remembered 
 that Miami Park was not far away. The avenue was 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 121 
 
 crowded with vehicles, not the styUsh kind she had 
 been accustomed to on Claybourne Avenue, but bug- 
 gies from livery-stables, in which men drove to the 
 road-houses up the river, surreys with whole families 
 crowded in them, now and then some grocer's or butch- 
 er's delivery wagon furnished with seats and filled with 
 women and children. The long yellow trolley-cars 
 that went sliding by with incessant clangor of gongs 
 were loaded; the only signs of the aristocracy Gusta 
 once had known were the occasional automobiles, 
 bound, like the Sunday afternoon buggy-riders, up the 
 smooth white river road. 
 
 Eastend Avenue ran through the park, and just be- 
 fore it reached that playground of the people it was 
 lined with all kinds of amusement pavilions, little 
 vaudeville shows, merry-go-rounds, tintype studios, 
 shooting galleries, pop-corn and lemonade stands, pub- 
 lic dance halls where men and girls were whirling in 
 the waltz. On one side was a beer-garden. All these 
 places were going noisily, with men shouting out the 
 attractions inside, hand-organs and drums making 
 a wild, barbaric din, and in the beer-garden a Ger- 
 man band braying out its meretricious tunes. But 
 at the beginning of the park a dead-line was invisibly 
 drawn — beyond that the city would not allow the 
 catch-penny amusements to go. On one side of the 
 avenue the park sloped down to the river, on the other 
 it stretched into a deep grove. The glass roof of a 
 botanical house gleamed in the sun, and beyond, hid- 
 den among the trees, were the zoological gardens, 
 where a deer park, a bear-pit, a monkey house, and a 
 yard in which foxes skulked and racoons slept, strove 
 with their mild-mannered exhibits for the beginnings 
 
122 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE , 
 
 of a menagerie. And everywhere were people strolling 
 along the walks, lounging under the trees, hundreds 
 of them, thousands of them, dressed evidently in their 
 best clothes, seeking relief from the constant toil that 
 kept their lives on a monotonous level. 
 
 Gusta stood a while and gazed on the river. On the 
 farther shore its green banks rose high and rolled 
 away with the imagination into woods and fields and 
 farms. Here and there little cat-boats moved swiftly 
 along, their sails white in the sun ; some couples were 
 out in rowboats. But as Gusta looked she suddenly 
 became self-conscious ; she saw that, of all the hun- 
 dreds, she was the only one alone. Girls moved about, 
 or stood and talked and giggled in groups, and every 
 girl seemed to have some fellow with her. Gusta felt 
 strange and out of place, and a little bitterness rose in 
 her heart. The band swelled into a livelier, more stri- 
 dent strain, and Gusta resented this sudden burst of 
 joyousness. She turned to go away, but just then she 
 saw that a young man had stopped and was looking at 
 her. He was a well-built young fellow, as strong as 
 Archie ; he had dark hair and a small mustache curled 
 upward at the corners in a foreign way. His cheeks 
 were ruddy; he carried a light cane and smoked a 
 cigar. When he saw that Gusta had noticed him he 
 smiled and Gusta blushed. Then he came up to her 
 and took off his hat. 
 
 "Are you taking a walk ?" he asked. 
 
 'T was going home," Gusta replied. She wondered 
 how she could get away without hurting the young 
 man's feelings, for he seemed to be pleasant, harmless 
 and well meaning. 
 
TIJE TURN OF THE BALANCE 123 
 
 "It's a fine day," he said. "There's lots o' people 
 out." 
 
 "Yes," said Gusta. 
 
 "Where Tx)uts do you live ?" 
 
 "On Bolt Street." 
 
 "Oh, I live out that way myself!" said the young 
 man. "It's quite a ways from here. Been out to see 
 some friends?" 
 
 "Yes." Gusta hesitated. "I had an errand to do out 
 this way." 
 
 "Don't you want to go in the park and see the zoo ? 
 There's lots of funny animals back there." The young 
 man pointed with his little cane down one of the gravel 
 walks that wound among the trees. Gusta looked, and 
 saw the people — young couples, women with children, 
 and groups of young men, sauntering that way. Then 
 she looked at the street-cars, loaded heavily, with pas- 
 sengers clinging to the running-boards ; she was tempt- 
 ed to go, but it was growing late. 
 
 "No, thanks," she said, "I must be going home now." 
 
 "Are you going to walk or take the car ?" asked the 
 young man. 
 
 "I'll walk, I guess," she said ; and then, lest he think 
 she had no car fare, she added: "the cars are so 
 crowded." 
 
 She started then, and was surprised when the young 
 man naturally walked along by her side, swinging his 
 cane and talking idly to her. At first she was at a loss 
 whether to let him walk with her or not; she had a 
 natural fear, a modesty, the feminine instinct, but she 
 did not know just how to dismiss him. She kept her 
 face averted and her eyes downcast ; but finally, when 
 
124 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 her fears had subsided a little, she glanced at him occa- 
 sionally; she saw that he was good-looking, and she 
 considered him very well dressed. He had a gold watch 
 chain, and when she asked him what time it was he 
 promptly drew out a watch. Their conversation, from 
 being at the first quite general, soon became personal, 
 and before they had gone far Gusta learned that the 
 young man's name was Charlie Peltzer, that he was a 
 plumber, and that sometimes he made as much as 
 twenty dollars a week. By the time they parted at the 
 corner near Gusta's home they felt very well acquainted 
 and had agreed to meet again. 
 
 After that they met frequently. In the evening after 
 supper Gusta would steal out, Peltzer would be waiting 
 for her at the corner, and they would stroll under the 
 trees that were rapidly filling with leaves. Once, pass- 
 ing Policeman Crowley, Gusta saw him looking at them 
 narrowly. There was a little triangular park not far 
 from Gusta's home, and there the two would sit all the 
 evening. The moon was full, the nights were soft and 
 mild and warm. On Sundays they went to the park 
 where they had met, and now and then they danced in 
 the public pavilion. But Gusta never danced with any 
 of the other men there, nor did Peltzer dance with any 
 of the other girls ; they danced always together, looking 
 into each other's eyes. Now she could endure the 
 monotony and the drudgery at home, the children's 
 peevishness, her mother's melancholy, her father's 
 querulousness. Even Archie's predicament lost its 
 horror and its sadness for her. She had not yet, how- 
 ever, told Peltzer, and she felt ashamed of Archie, as 
 if, in creating the possibility of compromising her, he 
 had done her a wrong. She went about in a dream, 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 125 
 
 thinking of Peltzer all the time, and of the wonderful 
 thing that had brought all this happiness into her life. 
 
 Gusta had not, however, as yet allowed Peltzer to 
 go home with her ; he went within half a block of the 
 house, and there, in the shadow, they took their long 
 farewell. But Peltzer was growing more masterful; 
 each night he insisted on going a little nearer, and at 
 last one night he clung to her, bending over her, look- 
 ing into her blue eyes, his lips almost on hers, and be- 
 fore they were aware they were at her door. Gusta was 
 aroused by Crowley's voice. Crowley was there with 
 her father, telling him again the one incident in all his 
 official career that had distinguished him for a place in 
 the columns of the newspapers. He was just at the 
 climax of the thrilling incident, and they heard his 
 voice ring out : 
 
 "An' I kept right on toowards him, an' him shootin' 
 at me breasht four toimes — " 
 
 He had got up, in the excitement he so often evoked 
 in living over that dramatic moment again, to illustrate 
 the action, and he saw Gusta and Charlie. Peltzer 
 stopped, withdrew his arm hurriedly from Gusta's 
 waist, and then Crowley, forgetting his story, called 
 out: 
 
 "Oh-ho, me foine bucko !" 
 
 Then Koerner saw Gusta, and, forgetting for a mo- 
 ment, tried to rise to his feet, then dropped back again. 
 
 "Who's dot feller mit you, huh? Who's dot now?" 
 he demanded. 
 
 "Aw, tut, tut, man," said Crowley. "Shure an' the 
 girl manes no harm at all — an' the laad, he's a likely 
 wan. Shure now, Misther Koerner, don't ye be haard 
 on them — they're that young now ! An' 'tis the spring, 
 
126 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 do ye moind — and it's well I can see the phite flower 
 on the thorn tra in me ould home these days !" 
 
 Gusta's heart and Peltzer's heart warmed to Crow- 
 ley, but old Koerner said : 
 
 **In mit you !" 
 
 And she slipped hurriedly indoors. 
 
 But nothing could harm her now, for the world had 
 changed. 
 
XV 
 
 Archie Koerner served his thirty days in the work- 
 house, then, because he was in debt to the State for the 
 costs and had no money with which to pay the debt, he 
 was kept in prison ten days longer, although it was 
 against the constitution of that State to imprison a 
 man for debt. Forty days had seemed a short time to 
 Bostwick when he pronounced sentence ; had he chosen, 
 he might have given Archie a sentence, in fine and im- 
 prisonment, that would have kept him in the workhouse 
 for two years; he frequently did this with thieves. 
 These forty days, too, had been brief to Marriott, and 
 to Eades, and they had been brief to Elizabeth, who 
 had found new happiness in the fact that Mr. Amos 
 Hunter had given Dick a position in the banking de- 
 partment of his Title and Trust Company. These forty 
 days, in fact, had passed swiftly for nearly every one in 
 the city, because they were spring days, filled with 
 warm sunshine by day, and soft and musical showers 
 by night. The trees were pluming themselves in new 
 green, the birds were singing, and people were happy 
 in their release from winter; they were busied about 
 new clothes, with riding and driving, with plans for 
 summer vacations and schemes for the future; they 
 were all imbued with the spirit of hope the spring had 
 brought to the world again. To Gusta, too, in her love, 
 these days had passed swiftly, like a hazy, golden 
 
128 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 But to Archie these forty days had not been forty 
 days at all, but a time of infinite duration. He counted 
 each day as it dragged by ; he counted it when he came 
 from his bunk in the morning ; he counted it every hour 
 during the long day's work over the hideous bricks he 
 could find no joy in making; he counted it again at 
 evening, and the last thing before he fell asleep. It 
 seemed that forty days would never roll around. 
 
 They did pass finally, and a morning came when he 
 could leave the comrades of his misery. He felt some 
 regret in doing this; many of them had been kind to 
 him, and friendships had been developed by means of 
 whispers and signs, but more by the silent influence of 
 a common suffering. He had quarreled and almost 
 fought with some of them, for the imprisonment had 
 developed the beast that was in them, and had made 
 many of them morose, ugly, suspicious, dangerous, fill- 
 ing them with a kind of moral insanity. But he forgot 
 all these enmities in the joy of his release, and he bade 
 his friends good-by and wished them luck. In the su- 
 perintendent's office they gave him back his clothes, 
 and he went out again into the world. 
 
 It was strange to be at liberty again. His first un- 
 conscious impulse was to take up his life where he had 
 left it off, but he did not know how to do this. For 
 behind him stretched an unknown time, a blank, a 
 break in his existence, which refused to adjust itself 
 to the rest of his life ; it bore no relation to that exist- 
 ence which was himself, his being, and yet it was there. 
 The world that knew no such blank or break had gone 
 on meanwhile and left him behind, and he could not 
 catch up now. He was like a man who had been un- 
 conscious and had awakened with a blurred conception 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 129 
 
 of things ; it was as if he had come out of a profound 
 anaesthesia, to find that he had been irrevocably maimed 
 by some unnecessary operation in surgery. 
 
 Archie did not, of course, realize all this clearly ; had 
 he been able to do so, he might have avoided some of 
 the consequences. But he had a troubled sense of 
 change, and he was to learn it and realize it fully only 
 by a slow, torturing process, a bit at a time. He had the 
 first sensation of this change in the peculiar gleam that 
 came into the eye of a policeman he passed in Market 
 Place, and he felt it, too, when, half fearfully, he pre- 
 sented himself at the back door of his home. His 
 father's fury had long since abated, but he showed that 
 he could not look on Archie as he once had done, and 
 Gusta showed it, too. Bostwick may have thought he 
 had sentenced Archie to forty days in prison, but he 
 had really sentenced him to a lifetime in prison ; for the 
 influences of those forty days could never leave Archie 
 now ; the shadows of that prison were ever lengthening, 
 and they were for evermore to creep with him wherever 
 he went, keeping him always within their shades. He 
 was thereafter to be but an umbra at the feast of life. 
 
 Archie could not think of the whole matter very 
 clearly; of the theft of which he had been conyicted 
 he scarcely thought at all. The change that came in 
 the world's attitude toward him did not seem to be 
 concerned with that act; it was never mentioned or 
 even suggested to him at home or elsewhere. The thing 
 that marked him was not the fact that he had been a 
 thief, but that he had been a prisoner. When he did 
 think of the theft, he told himself that he had paid for 
 that; the score had been wiped out; the world had 
 Jiaken its revenge on him. This revenge was expressed 
 
130 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 by the smile that lit up the face of the grocer whose 
 herrings had been stolen ; it had been shown in the 
 satisfaction of the prosecutor when the judge an- 
 nounced his finding; it had been expressed by the 
 harshness of the superintendent and the guards at the 
 workhouse; it was shown even by the glance of that 
 policeman he met in the Market. The world had 
 wreaked its vengeance on him, and Archie felt that it 
 should be satisfied now. 
 
 There was but one place now where the atmosphere 
 lacked the element of suspicion and distrust, but one 
 place where he was not made to feel the barrier that 
 separated him from other men, and that was with the 
 gang. The gang welcomed him with a frank hearti- 
 ness ; they showed almost the same eagerness and pleas- 
 ure in him that they showed in welcoming Spud and the 
 others. There was balm in their welcome ; they asked 
 no questions, they drew no distinctions ; to them he was 
 the same old Archie, only grown nearer because now 
 he could unite with them in experience — they all had 
 those same gaps in their lives. 
 
 That afternoon they celebrated with cans of beer in 
 the shade of a lumber pile, and that night the gang 
 went down the line. Having some money, they were 
 welcome in all the little saloons, and the girls in short 
 dresses, who stood about the bars rolling cigarettes 
 constantly, were glad to see them. And Archie found 
 that no questions were asked here, that no distinctions 
 were made even when respected, if not respectable, men 
 appeared, even when the prosecutor of the police court 
 came along with a companion, and spent a portion of 
 the salary these people contributed so heavily to pay, 
 even when the detectives came and received the tribute 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 131 
 
 money. And it dawned on Archie that here was a 
 Httle quarter of the world where he was wanted, where 
 he was made to feel at home, where that gap in his life 
 made no difference. It was a small quarter, covering 
 scarcely more than a dozen blocks. It was filled with 
 miserable buildings, painted garishly and blazing with 
 light; there was ever the music of pianos and orches- 
 tras, and in the saloons that were half theaters, bands 
 blared out rapid tunes. And here was swarming life; 
 here, in the midst of death. But it was an important 
 quarter of the town; in rents and dividends and fines 
 it contributed largely of the money it made at such risk 
 and sacrifice of body and of soul, to all that was ac- 
 counted good and great in the city. It helped to pay 
 the salaries of the mayor and the judges and the pros- 
 ecutors and the clerks and the detectives and the police- 
 men ; some of its money went to support in idleness and 
 luxury many dainty and exclusive women in Clay- 
 bourne Avenue, to build enormous churches, to pay for 
 stained-glass windows with pictures of Christ and the 
 Magdalene, pictures that in soft artistic hues lent a 
 gentle religious and satisfying melancholy to the ladies 
 and gentlemen who sat in their pews on Sundays; it 
 even helped to send missionaries to far countries like 
 Japan and China and India and Africa, in order that 
 the heathen who lived there might receive the light of 
 the Cross. 
 
 While in the workhouse Archie had occupied the 
 same cell with a man called Joseph Mason, which was 
 not his name. The prison was crowded, and it was 
 necessary for the prisoners to double up. The cells 
 were narrow and had two bunks, one above and the 
 Other below — there was as much room as there is in a 
 
132 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 section of a sleeping-car. In these cells the men slept 
 and ate and lived, spending all the time they did not 
 pass at labor in the brick-yard. During those forty 
 days Archie became well acquainted with Mason ; they 
 sat on their little stools all day Sunday and talked, and 
 when they climbed into their bunks at night they whis- 
 pered. They shared with each other their surreptitious 
 matches and tobacco — all they had. 
 
 This man Mason was nearly fifty years old. His 
 close-cropped hair and his close-shaven beard gave his 
 head and cheeks and lips a uniform color of dark blue ; 
 his lips were thin and compressed from a habit of taci- 
 turnity, his eyes were small, bright and alert; at any 
 sound he would turn quickly and glance behind him. 
 He had spent twenty years in prison — ten years in 
 Dannemora, five in Columbus, three in Allegheny and 
 two in Joliet. This, however, did not include the time 
 he had been shut up in police stations, calabooses, 
 county jails and workhouses. In the present instance 
 he had been arrested for pocket-picking, and had 
 agreed to plead guilty if the offense were reduced to 
 petit larceny ; the authorities had accepted his proposal, 
 and he had been sentenced to six months in the work' 
 house. He had served four and a half months of his 
 sentence when Archie went into the workhouse. 
 
 The only time when Mason showed any marked 
 sense of humor was when he told Archie of his having 
 confessed to pocket-picking. The truth was that he 
 was totally innocent of this crime, and if the police had 
 been wise they would have known this. Mason was a 
 Johnny Yegg, that is, an itinerant safe-blower. As a 
 yegg man, of course, he never had picked a pocket, and 
 could not have done so had he wished, for he did not 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 133 
 
 know how ; and if he had known how, still he would 
 not have done so, for the yeggs held such crimes as 
 picking pockets in contempt. All of the terms he had 
 served in states' prisons had been for blowing safes, 
 and all of the safes had been in rural post-offices. The 
 technical charge was burglary, though he was not a 
 burglar, either, in the sense of entering dwellings by 
 night; this was a class of thieving left to prowlers. 
 The preceding fall, however, a safe had been blown in 
 a country post-office near the city, and Mason knew that 
 the United States inspectors would suspect him if they 
 found him, and while he had been innocent of that par- 
 ticular crime, he knew that this would make no differ- 
 ence to the inspectors ; they would willingly "job" him, 
 as he expressed it, justifying the act to any one who 
 might question it — they would not need to justify it to 
 themselves — by arguing that if he had not blown that 
 particular safe he had blown others, so that the balance 
 would be dressed in the end. Consequently, when the 
 police arrested him for pocket-picking, he hailed it as a 
 stroke of good fortune and looked on the workhouse 
 as an asylum. He had been a model prisoner, and had 
 given the authorities no trouble. He did this partly 
 because he was a philosophical fellow, patient and un- 
 complaining, partly because he did not wish to attract 
 attention to himself. His picture and his measure- 
 ments, taken according to the Bertillon system, were in 
 every police station in the land. 
 
 Mason told Archie many interesting stories of his 
 life, of cooking over a fire in the woods, riding on 
 freight trains, of hang-outs in sand-houses, and so on, 
 and he told circumstantially of numerous crimes, 
 thoygh i*ever did he identify himself as concerned in 
 
134 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 any of them excepting those of which he had been con- 
 victed, and in these he did not give the names of his 
 accomplices. Before their companionship ended he 
 had taught Archie the distinctions between yegg men 
 and peter men and gay cats, guns of various kinds, 
 prowlers, and sure-thing men, and the other unidenti- 
 fied horde of criminals who belong to none of these 
 classes. 
 
 He had taught Archie also many little tricks whereby 
 a convict's lot may be lightened — as, for instance, how 
 to split with a pin one match into four matches, how 
 to pass little things from one cell to another by a 
 "trolley" or piece of string, how to lie on a board, and 
 so on. But, above all, he had set Archie the example of 
 a patient man who took things as they came, without 
 question or complaint. 
 
 Archie missed Mason. He could see him sitting in 
 the gloom of their little cell, upright and almost never 
 moving, talking in a low tone, his lips, which had a 
 streak of tobacco always on them, moving slowly, shut- 
 ting tightly after each sentence, until he had swallowed, 
 then deliberately he would go on. Mason's view of life 
 interested Archie, who, up to that time, had never 
 thought at all, had never made any distinctions, and so 
 had no view of life at all. Many of Mason's views 
 were striking in their insight, many were childish in 
 their lack of it; they were curiously straightforward 
 at times, at others astonishingly oblique. He had a 
 great hatred of sham and pretense, and he considered 
 all so-called respectable people as hypocrites. He had 
 about the same contempt for them that he had for the 
 guns, who were sneaks, he said, afraid to take chances. 
 
 ■i 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 135 
 
 He had a high admiration for boldness and courage, 
 and a great love of adventure, and he thought that all 
 these qualities were best exemplified in yegg men. For 
 the courts he had no respect at all ; his contempt was 
 so deep-rooted that he never once considered the pos- 
 sibility of their doing justice, and spoke as if it were 
 axiomatic that they could not do justice if they tried. 
 He had the same contempt for the church, although he 
 seemed to know much about the life of Jesus and had 
 respect for His teachings. He called the people who 
 came to pray and sing on Sundays "mission stiffs" ; he 
 treated them respectfully enough, but he told Archie 
 that those prisoners who took an interest in the services 
 did so that they might secure favors and perhaps par- 
 dons. He had known many convicts to secure their 
 liberty in that way, and while he gave them credit for 
 cleverness and was not disposed to blame them, still he 
 did not respect them. Such convicts he called "false 
 alarms." 
 
 There were one or two judges before whom he had 
 been tried that he admired and thought to be good 
 men. He did not blame them for the sentences they 
 had given him, but explained to Archie that they had 
 to do this as an incident of their business, and he spoke 
 as if they might have shared his own regret in the cruel 
 necessity. Of all prosecutors, however, he had a 
 hatred; especially of Eades, of whom he seemed to 
 have heard much. He told Archie that as a result of 
 Eades's severity the thieves some day would "rip" the 
 town. 
 
 He looked on his own occupation and spoke of it as 
 any man might look on his pwn occupation ; it simply 
 
136 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 happened that that was his business. He seemed to con- 
 sider it as honest as, or at least no more dishonest than, 
 any other business. He had certain standards, and 
 these he maintained. On the whole, however, he con- 
 cluded that his business hardly paid, though it had its 
 compensations in its adventure and in its free life. 
 
XVI 
 
 Archie was loitering along Market Place, not sure 
 of what he would do that evening, but ready for any 
 sensation chance might offer. Men were brushing 
 through the flapping green doors of the small saloons, 
 talking loudly, and swearing, many of them already 
 drunk. Pianos were going, and above all the din he 
 heard the grating of a phonograph grinding out the 
 song some minstrel once had sung to a banjo; the 
 banjo notes were realistic, but the voice of the singer 
 floated above the babel of voices like the mere ghost 
 of a voice, inhuman and not alive, as perhaps the singer 
 might not then have been alive. Archie, wondering 
 where the gang was, suddenly met Mason. The sight 
 gave him real pleasure. 
 
 "Hello, Joe !" he cried as he seized Mason^s hand. 
 
 Mason smiled faintly, but Archie's joy made him 
 happy. 
 
 "Je's," said Archie, "Pm glad to see you — it makes 
 me feel better. When M you get out ?" 
 
 "This morning," Mason replied. "Which way ?" 
 
 "Oh, anywhere," said Archie. "Where you goin' ?" 
 
 "Up to Gibbs's. Want to go 'long?" 
 
 Archie's heart gave a little start; to go to Danny 
 Gibbs's under Mason's patronage would be a distinc- 
 tion. The evening opened all at once with sparkling 
 possibilities. 
 
 137 
 
138 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "An old friend o' mine's there," Mason explained 
 as they walked along up Kentucky Street. **He's just 
 got out of a shooting scrape; he croaked that fellow 
 Benny Moon. Remember?" 
 
 Gibbs's place was scarcely more than a block away ; 
 it displayed no sign ; a three-story building of brick, a 
 side door, and a plate-glass window in front ; a curtain 
 hiding half the window, a light above — that was all. 
 
 Mason entered with an assurance that impressed 
 Archie, who had never before felt the need of assur- 
 ance in entering a saloon. He looked about; it was 
 like any other saloon, a long bar and a heavy mirror 
 that reflected the glasses and the bottles of green and 
 yellow liqueurs arranged before it. At one table sat a 
 tattered wreck of a man, his head bowed on his fore- 
 arms crossed on the table, fast asleep — one of the many 
 broken lives that found with Danny Gibbs a refuge. 
 Over the mirror behind the bar hung an opium pipe, 
 long since disused, serving as a relic now, the dreams 
 with which it had once relieved the squalor and re- 
 morse of a wasted life long since broken. 
 
 At Mason's step, however, there was a stir in the 
 room behind the bar-room, and a woman entered. She 
 walked heavily, as if her years and her flesh were bur- 
 densome ; her face was heavy, tired and expressionless. 
 She was plainly making for the bar, as if to keep alive 
 the pretense of a saloon, but when she saw Mason she 
 stopped, her face lighted up, becoming all at once 
 matronly and pleasant, and she smiled as she came for- 
 ward, holding out a hand. 
 
 "Why, Joe," she said, "is that you? When did you 
 get out?" 
 
 "This morning," he said. "Where's Dan ?" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 139 
 
 "He's back here ; come in," and she turned and led 
 the way. 
 
 Mason followed, drawing Archie behind him, and 
 they entered the room behind the bar-room. The at- 
 mosphere changed — the room was light, it was lived in, 
 and the four men seated at a round bare table gave to 
 the place its proper character. Three of the men had 
 small tumblers filled with whisky before them, the 
 fourth had none; he sat tilted back in his chair, his 
 stiff hat pulled down over his eyes, his hands sunk in 
 the pockets of his trousers ; his fat thighs flattened on 
 the edge of his chair. He was dressed in modest gray, 
 and might have been taken for a commonplace business 
 man. He lifted his blue eyes quickly and glanced at 
 the intruders ; his face was round and cleanly shaved, 
 save for a little blond mustache that curled at the cor- 
 ners of his mouth. His hair, of the same color as his 
 mustache, glistened slightly at the temples, where it 
 was touched by gray. This man had no whisky glass 
 before him — he did not drink, but he sat there with an 
 air of presiding over this little session, plainly vested 
 with some authority — sat, indeed, as became Danny 
 Gibbs, the most prominent figure in the under world. 
 
 Gibbs's place was only ostensibly a saloon ; in reality 
 it was a clearing-house for thieves, where accounts 
 were settled with men who had been robbed under cir- 
 cumstances that made it advisable for them to keep 
 the matter secret, and where balances were adjusted 
 with the police. All the thieves of the higher class — 
 those who traveled on railway trains and steamboats, 
 fleecing men in games of cards, those of that class who 
 were well-dressed, well-informed, pleasant-mannered, 
 apparently respectable, who passed everywhere for 
 
140 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 men of affairs, and stole enormous sums by means of 
 a knowledge of human nature that was almost miracu- 
 lous — were friends of Gibbs. He negotiated for them ; 
 he helped them when they were in trouble ; when they 
 were in the city they lived at his house — sometimes they 
 lived on him. The two upper floors of his establish- 
 ment, fitted like a hotel, held many strange and mys- 
 terious guests. Gibbs maintained the same relation with 
 the guns, the big-mitt men, and sneak-thieves, and he 
 bore the same relation to the yegg men and to the 
 prowlers. By some marvelous tact he kept apart all 
 these classes, so different, so antipathetic, so jealous 
 and suspicious of one another, and when they happened 
 to meet he kept them on terms. There never were loud 
 words or trouble at Gibbs's. To all these classes of 
 professional criminals he was a kind of father, an ever- 
 ready friend who never forgot or deserted them. When 
 they were in jail he sent lawyers to them, he provided 
 them with delicacies, he paid their fines. Sometimes he 
 obtained pardons and commutations for them, for he 
 was naturally influential in politics and maintained re- 
 lations with Ralph Keller, the boss of the city, that 
 were as close as those he maintained with the police. 
 He could provide votes for primaries, and he could do 
 other things. The police never molested him, though 
 now and then they threatened to, and then he was 
 forced to increase the tribute money, already enormous. 
 A part of his understanding with the police, a clause in 
 the modus vivendi, was that certain friends of Gibbs's 
 were to be harbored in the city on condition that they 
 committed no crimes while there ; now and then when a 
 crime was committed in the city, it would be made the 
 excuse by the police for further extortion. The detec- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 141 
 
 tives came and went as freely at Gibbs's as the guns, 
 the yeggs, the prowlers, the sure-thing men, the gam- 
 blers and bunco men. 
 
 "Ah, Joe," said Gibbs, glancing at Mason. 
 
 "Dan," said Mason, as he took a chair beside Gibbs. 
 They had spoken in low, quiet tones, yet somehow the 
 simplicity of their greeting suggested a friendship that 
 antedated all things of the present, stretching back into 
 other days, recalling ties that had been formed at times 
 and under circumstances that were lost in the past and 
 forgotten by every one, even the police. However well 
 the other three might have known Gibbs, they deli- 
 cately implied that their relation could not be so close 
 as that of Joe Mason, and they were silent for an in- 
 stant, as if they would pay a tribute to it. But the 
 silence held, losing all at once its deference to the 
 friendship of Gibbs and Mason, and taking on a quality 
 of constraint, cold and repellent, plainly due to Archie's 
 presence. Archie felt this instantly, and Mason felt it, 
 for he knew the ways of his kind, and, turning to Gibbs, 
 he said : 
 
 "A friend of mine ; met him in the boob." And then 
 he said : "Mr. Gibbs, let me introduce Mr. Koerner." 
 
 Gibbs looked at Archie keenly and gave him his 
 hand. Then Mason introduced Archie to the three 
 other men — ^Jackson, Mandell and Keenan. Gibbs, 
 meanwhile, turned to his wife, who had taken a chair 
 against the wall and folded her arms. 
 
 "Get Joe and his friend something to drink, Kate," 
 he commanded. The woman rose wearily, asked them 
 what they wished to drink, and went into the bar-room 
 for the whisky glasses. 
 
 The little company had accepted Archie tentatively 
 
142 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 on Mason's assurance, but they resumed their conver- 
 sation guardedly and without spontaneity. Mason, 
 however, gave it a start again when he turned to 
 Jackson and said : 
 
 "Well, Curly, I read about your trouble. I was glad 
 you wasn't ditched. I thought for a while there that 
 you was the fall guy, all right." 
 
 Jackson laughed without mirth and flecked the ash 
 from his cigarette. 
 
 "Yes, Joe, I come through." 
 
 "He sprung you down there, too !" said Mason with 
 more surprise than Archie had ever known him to 
 show. *T figured you'd waive, anyhow." 
 
 "Well, I wanted a show-down, d'ye see ?'* said Jack- 
 son. "I knew they couldn't hold me on the square." 
 
 "Didn't they know anything ?" 
 
 "Who, them chuck coppers ?" Jackson sneered. "Not 
 a thing ; they guessed a whole lot, and when I got out 
 they asked if I'd object to be mugged." Jackson was 
 showing his perfect teeth in a smile that attracted 
 Archie. "They'd treated me so well, I was ready to 
 oblige them — d'ye see? — and I let 'em — so they took 
 my Bertillon. I didn't think one more would hurt 
 much." 
 
 Jackson looked down at the table and smiled intro- 
 spectively. The smile won Archie completely. He was 
 looking at Jackson with admiration in his eyes, and 
 Jackson, suddenly noticing him, conveyed to Archie 
 subtly a sense of his own pleasure in the boy's admira- 
 tion. 
 
 "Well, I tell you, Curly," Mason was going on. "You 
 done right — that fink got just what was comin' to him. 
 You showed the nerve, too. I couldn't 'ave waited half 
 
THE TURN OF THlfi BALANCE 143 
 
 that long. But I didn't think you'd stand a show with 
 Bostwick. I knowed you'd get off in front of a jury, 
 but I had my misdoubts about that fellow Eades. God I 
 he's a cold proposition ! But in front of Bostwick — !" 
 Mason slowly and incredulously   shook his head, then 
 ended by swallowing his little glassful of whisky sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Well, you see, Joe," Jackson began, speaking in a 
 high, shrill voice, as if it were necessary to convince 
 Mason, "there was nothin' to it. There was no chance 
 for the bulls to job me on this thing," and he went 
 on to explain, as if he had to vindicate his exercise of 
 judgment in a delicate situation, seeming to forget how 
 completely the outcome had justified it. 
 
 Archie had scarcely noticed Keenan and Mandell; 
 once he had wrested his eyes from Gibbs, he had 
 not taken them from Jackson. He had been puzzled at 
 first, but now, in a flash, he recognized in Jackson the 
 man who had shot Moon. 
 
 "You see, Joe," Mandell suddenly spoke up — ^his 
 voice was a rumbling bass in harmony with his heavy 
 jaws — "it was a clear case of self-defense. The sham- 
 ming-pusher starts out to clean up down the line, he 
 unsloughs up there by Connie's place on Caldwell, and 
 musses a wingy, and then he goes across the street and 
 bashes a dinge; he goes along that way, bucklin' into 
 everybody he meets, until he meets Curly, who was 
 standing down there by Sailor Coin's drum chinnin' 
 Steve Noonan — he goes up to them and begins. Curly 
 mopes off; he dogs him down to Cliff Decker's cor- 
 ner, catches up and gives Curly a clout in the gash — " 
 
 Mason was listening intently, leaning forward, his 
 keen eyes fixed on Mandell's. He was glad, at last, to 
 
144 THE TURN OE THE BALANCE 
 
 have the story from one he could trust to give the de- 
 tails correctly ; theretofore he had had nothing but the 
 accounts in the newspapers, and he had no more confi- 
 dence in the newspapers than he had in the courts or 
 the churches, or any other institution of the world 
 above him. Archie listened, too, finding a new fascina- 
 tion in the tale, though he had had it already from one 
 of the gang, Pat Whalen, who had been fortunate 
 enough to see the tragedy, and had had the distinction 
 of testifying in the case. Whalen had seen Moon, a 
 bartender with pugilistic ambitions, make an unpro- 
 voked assault on Jackson, follow him to the corner, and 
 knock him down; he had seen Jackson stagger to his 
 feet, draw his revolver and back away. He had told 
 Archie how deathly white Jackson's face had gone as 
 he backed, backed, a whole block, a crowd following, 
 and Moon coming after, cursing and swearing, taunt- 
 ing Jackson, daring him to shoot, telling him he was 
 "four-flushing wuth that smoke-wagon," warning him 
 to make a good job when he did shoot, for he intended 
 to make him eat his gun. He had told how marvel- 
 ously cool Jackson was ; he had said in a low voice, "I 
 don't want to shoot you — I just want you to let me 
 alone." And Whalen had described how Moon had 
 flung off his coat, how bystanders had tried to restrain 
 him, how he had rushed on, how Jackson had gone 
 into the vacant lot by old Jim Peppers's shanty, coming 
 out on the other side, until he was met by Eva Clason, 
 who tried to open a gate and let Jackson into the brothel 
 she called home. Whalen had given Archie a sense of 
 the ironical fate that that day had led Eva's piano 
 player to nail up the gate so that the chickens she had 
 bought could not get out of the yard. The gate would 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 145 
 
 not open and Moon was on him again; and Jackson 
 backed and backed, clear around to the sidewalk on 
 Caldwell Street, and then, when he had completed the 
 circuit. Moon had sprung at him. Then the revolver 
 had cracked, the crowd closed in, and there lay Moon 
 on the sidewalk, dead — ^and Jackson looking down at 
 him. Then the cries for air, the patrol wagon, and the 
 police. 
 
 As Mandell told the story now, Archie kept his eyes 
 on Jackson. At the point where he had said, 'T don't 
 want to shoot you," Jackson's eyes grew moist with 
 tears; he blinked and knocked the ashes from his 
 cigarette with the nail of his little finger, sprinkling 
 them on the floor. When Mandell had done. Mason 
 looked up at Jackson. 
 
 "Well, Curly," he said, "you had the right nerve." 
 
 "Nerve!" said Mandell. "I guess so!" 
 
 "Nerve!" repeated Keenan. "He had enough for a 
 whole mob !" 
 
 "Ach!" said Jackson, twisting away from them on 
 his chair. 
 
 "I'd 'a' let him have it when he first bashed me," said 
 Keenan. 
 
 ? "Yes !" cried Jackson suddenly, rising and catching 
 his chair by the back. "Yes — and been settled for it ! 
 I didn't want to do it ; I didn't want to get into trouble. 
 You always was that way, Jimmy." 
 
 Archie looked at Curly Jackson as he stood with 
 an arm outstretched toward Keenan ; his figure was tall 
 and straight and slender, and as he noted the short 
 brown curls that gave him his name, the tanned cheeks, 
 the attitude in which he held himself, something con- 
 fused Archie, some thought he could not catch — some 
 
146 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 idea that evaded him, coming near till he was just on 
 the point of grasping it, then eluding him, like a name 
 one tries desperately to recall. 
 
 i "I didn't have my finger on the trigger," Jackson 
 went on, speaking in his high, shrill, excited voice. "I 
 held it on the trigger-guard all the time." 
 ! And then suddenly it came to Archie — that bronzed 
 skin, that set of the shoulders, that trimness, that alert- 
 ness, that coolness, Jackson could have got nowhere but 
 in the army. He had been a soldier — what was more, 
 he had been a regular. And Archie felt something like 
 devotion for him. 
 
 "Sit down. Curly," said Gibbs, and Jackson sank into 
 his chair. A minute later Jackson turned to Mason and 
 said quietly : 
 
 "You see, Joe, I don't like to talk about it — ^nor to 
 think of it. I didn't want to kill him, God knows. I 
 don't see anything in it to get swelled about and be the 
 wise guy." 
 
XVII 
 
 Curly Jackson sat for a moment idly making little 
 circles on the polished surface of the table with the 
 moist bottom of his glass; then abruptly he rose and 
 left the room. The others followed him with their 
 eyes. Archie was deeply interested. He longed to talk 
 to Jackson, longed to show him how he admired him, 
 but he was timid in this company, and felt that it be- 
 came him best to remain quiet. But Jackson's conduct 
 in the tragedy had fired Archie's imagination, and 
 Jackson was as much the hero in his eyes as he was in 
 the eyes of his companions. And then Archie thought 
 of his own skill with the carbine and the revolver, and 
 he wished he could display it to these men ; perhaps in 
 that way he could attract their notice and gain their 
 approval. 
 
 "He doesn't want to talk about it," said Mason when 
 Jackson had disappeared. 
 
 "No," said Gibbs. "Let him alone." 
 
 Jackson was gone but a few minutes, and then he 
 returned and quietly took his seat at the table. They 
 talked of other things then, but Archie could under- 
 stand little they said, for they spoke in a language that 
 was almost wholly unintelligible to him. But he sat 
 and listened with a bewildering sense of mystery that 
 made their conversation all the more fascinating. What 
 they said conveyed to him a sense of a wild, rough, 
 dangerous life that was full of adventure and a kind of 
 
 147 
 
148 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 low romance, and Archie felt tliat he would like to 
 know these men better ; if possible, to be one of them, 
 and at the thought his heart beat faster, as at the sud- 
 den possibility of a new achievement. 
 
 As they talked voices were heard in the bar-room 
 outside, and presently a huge man stood in the door- 
 way. He was fully six feet in height, and blond. His 
 face was red, and he was dressed in dark gray clothes, 
 a blue polka-dotted cravat giving his attire its one 
 touch of color. He reminded Archie of some one, and 
 he tried to think who that person was. 
 
 "Oh, Dan," the man in the doorway said, "come here 
 a minute." 
 
 Gibbs went into the bar-room. 
 
 "Who's that?" asked Mandell. 
 
 "He's a swell, all right," said Keenan. 
 
 The three, Mandell, Keenan and Jackson, looked at 
 Mason as if he could tell. But Archie suddenly re- 
 membered. 
 
 "He looks like an army officer," he said, speaking 
 his thought aloud. 
 
 "What do you know about army officers, young fel- 
 low?" demanded Jackson. The others turned, and 
 Archie blushed. But he did not propose to have Jack- 
 son put him down. 
 
 "Well," he said with spirit, "I know something — I 
 was in the regular army three years." 
 
 "What regiment?" Jackson fixed Archie with his 
 blue eyes, and there seemed to be just a trace of con- 
 cern in their keen, searching glance. 
 
 "The twelfth cavalry," said Archie. "I served in the 
 Philippines." 
 
 t 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 149 
 
 "Oh!" said Jackson, as if relieved, and he released 
 Archie from his look. Archie felt relieved, too, and 
 went on : 
 
 ''He looks just like a colonel in the English army I 
 saw at Malta. Our transport stopped there." 
 
 *'It's Lon McDougall," said Mason when Archie had 
 finished. "He's a big-mitt man." 
 
 The others turned away with an effect of lost interest 
 and something like a sneer. 
 
 "I suppose there's a lot o' those guns out there," said 
 Keenan. 
 
 "A mob come in this afternoon," said Mason; 
 "they're working eastward out of Chicago with the 
 rag. 
 
 "Well, let's make a get-away," said Keenan, unable 
 to conceal a yegg man's natural contempt of the guns. 
 
 They all got up, Archie with them, and went out. In 
 the bar-room five men were standing; they were all 
 men of slight figure, dressed well and becomingly, and 
 with a certain alert, sharp manner. They cast quick, 
 shifty glances at the men who came out of the back 
 room, but there was no recognition between them. 
 These men, as Mason had said, were all pickpockets; 
 they had come to town that afternoon, and naturally 
 repaired at once to Gibbs's. They had come in advance 
 of a circus that was to be in the city two days later, 
 and were happy in the hope of being able to work 
 under protection. They knew Cleary as a chief of 
 police with whom an arrangement could be made, and 
 McDougall, who had come in to work on circus day 
 himself, had kindly agreed to secure them this protec- 
 tion. At that moment, indeed, McDougall was whis- 
 
150 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 pering with Gibbs at the end of the bar; they were 
 discussing the "fixing" of Cleary. 
 
 The pickpockets had been talking rather excitedly. 
 They were glad at the prospect of the circus, and, in 
 common with the rest of humanity, they were glad 
 that spring had come, partly from a natural human 
 love of this time of joy and hope, partly because the 
 spring was the beginning of the busy season. They 
 could do more in summer, when people were stirring 
 about, just as the yegg men could do more in winter, 
 when the nights were long and windows were closed 
 and people kept indoors. But at the appearance of 
 Mason and his friends, one of the pickpockets gave the 
 thieves* cough, and they were silent. McDougall 
 glanced about, then resumed his low talk with Gibbs. 
 
 "Give us a little drink, Kate," said Jackson, who 
 seemed to have money. As they stood there pouring 
 out their whisky, a little girl with a tray of flowers en- 
 tered the saloon, and the pickpockets instantly bought 
 all her carnations and adorned themselves. And then 
 a man entered, a small man, with a wry, comical face 
 and a twisted, deformed figure; his left hand was 
 curled up as if he had been paralyzed on that side from 
 his youth. But once behind the big walnut screen which 
 shut off the view from the street, he straightened sud- 
 denly and became as well formed as any one. His 
 comedian's face broke into a smile, and he greeted 
 every one there familiarly; he knew them all — Gibbs 
 and McDougall, the pickpockets, and the yegg men, 
 and he burst into loud congratulations when he saw 
 Jackson. 
 
 "Well, Curly," he said, "you gave that geezer all 
 that was coming to him ! You — " 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 151 
 
 "Cheese it, Jimmy," said Jackson. "I don't want to 
 hear any more about that." 
 
 Jackson spoke with such authority that the Httle 
 fellow stepped back, the smile that was on his lips 
 faded suddenly, and he joined the pickpockets. The 
 little fellow was a grubber; he could throw his body 
 instantly into innumerable hideous shapes of deform- 
 ity ; he had not the courage to be a thief, was afraid to 
 sleep in a barn, and so had become a beggar. 
 
 As Mason bade Gibbs good night and went out he 
 was laughing, and Archie had not often seen him laugh. 
 On the way down the street he told stories of Jimmy's 
 abilities as a beggar, and they all laughed, all save 
 Jackson, who was gloomy and morose and walked 
 along shrouded in a kind of gloom that impressed 
 Archie powerfully. 
 
 And now new days dawned for Archie — days of 
 association with Mason, Jackson, Keenan and Mandell. 
 The Market Place gang had no standing among pro- 
 fessional criminals, though it had furnished recruits, 
 and now Archie became a recruit, and soon approved 
 himself. It was not long until he could speak their 
 language ; he called a safe a "peter" and nitroglycerin 
 "soup," a freight-train was a "John O'Brien" ; he spoke 
 of a man convicted as a "fall man", conveying thus 
 subtly a sense of vicarious sacrifice; he called police- 
 men "bulls", and jails "pogeys" ; the penitentiary where 
 all these men had been was the "stir", and the little 
 packages of buttered bread and pie that were handed 
 out to them from kitchen doors were "lumps". And he 
 learned the distinctions between the classes of men who 
 defy society and its laws ; he knew what gay cats were, 
 and guns and dips, lifters, moll-buzzers, hoisters, tools. 
 
152 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 scratchers, stalls, damper-getters, housemen, gopher- 
 men, peter-men, lush-touchers, super-twisters, penny- 
 weighters, and so forth. And after that he was seen at 
 home but seldom; his absences grew long and mys- 
 terious. 
 
XVIII 
 
 Elizabeth did not go often to the Country Club, and 
 almost never for any pleasure she herself could find; 
 now and then she went with her father, in order to lure 
 him out of doors ; but to-day she had come with Dick, 
 who wanted some fitting destination for his new tour- 
 ing car. She was finding on a deserted end of the 
 veranda a relief from the summer heat that for a week 
 had smothered the city. A breeze was blowing off the 
 river, and she lay back languidly in her wicker chair 
 and let it play upon her brow. In her lap lay an open 
 book, but she was not reading it nor meditating on it ; 
 she held it in readiness to ward off interruption; her 
 reputation as a reader of books, while it made her for- 
 midable to many and gave her an unpopularity that was 
 more and more grieving her mother, had its compensa- 
 tions — ^people would not often intrude upon a book. 
 She looked off across the river. On its smooth surface 
 tiny sail-boats were moving ; on the opposite bank there 
 was the picturesque windmill of a farm-house, white 
 against the bright green. The slender young oak trees 
 were rustling in the wind ; the links were dotted with 
 players in white, and the distant flags and fluttering 
 guidons that marked hidden putting greens. Then sud- 
 denly Marriott was before her. He had come in from 
 the links, and he stood now bareheaded, glowing from 
 his exercise, folding his arms on the veranda rail. His 
 forearms were blazing red from their first burning of 
 
 153 
 
154 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 the season, and his nose was burned red, giving him 
 a merry look that made Ehzabeth smile. 
 
 "My ! but you're burned !" she exclaimed 
 
 *'Am I ?" said Marriott, pleased. 
 
 "Yes — like a mower," she added, remembering some 
 men working in a field that had fled past them as they 
 came out in the automobile. She remembered she had 
 fancied the men burned brown as golfers, and she had 
 some half-formed notion of a sentence she might turn 
 at the expense of a certain literary school that viewed 
 life thus upside down. She might have gone on then 
 and talked, it over with Marriott, but her brain was too 
 tired; she could moralize just then no further than 
 to say : 
 
 "You don't deserve to be burned as a mower — your 
 work isn't as hard." 
 
 "No," said Marriott, "it isn't work at all — it's exer- 
 cise ; it's a substitute for the work I should be doing." 
 A look of disgust came to his face. 
 
 She did not wish then to talk seriously ; she was try- 
 ing to forget problems, and she and Marriott were al- 
 ways discussing problems. 
 
 "It's absurd," Marriott was saying. "I do this to get 
 the exercise I ought to get by working, by producing 
 something — ^the exercise is the end, not an incident of 
 the means. You don't see any of these farmers around 
 here playing golf. They're too tired — " 
 
 "Gordon," said Elizabeth, "I'm going away." 
 
 "Where to ?" he asked, looking up suddenly. 
 
 "To Europe," she said. 
 
 "Europe ! Why, when ? You must have decided hur- 
 riedly." 
 
 "Yes, the other night after I came home from Mr. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 155 
 
 Parrish's — we decided rather quickly — or papa decided 
 for us." 
 
 ^Well!" Marriott exclaimed again. "That's fine!'' 
 
 He looked away toward the first tee, where his 
 caddie was waiting for him. He beckoned, and the boy 
 came with his bag. 
 
 "Tell Mr. Phillips I'll not play any more — I'll see 
 him later." 
 
 The caddie took up the bag and went lazily away, 
 stopping to take several practice swings with one of 
 Marriott's drivers. The boy was always swinging this 
 club in the hope that Marriott would give it to him. 
 
 Marriott placed his hands on the rail, sprang over it, 
 and drew up a chair. 
 
 "Well, this is sudden," he said, "but it's fine for you." 
 He took out a cigarette. "How did it happen?" 
 
 "Do you want the real reason ?" she asked. 
 
 "Of course ; I've a passion for the real." 
 
 "I'm going in order to get away." 
 
 Marriott was sheltering in his palms a match for his 
 cigarette. He looked up suddenly, the cigarette still 
 between his lips. 
 
 "Away from what ?" 
 
 "Oh, from — everything !'* She waved her hands de- 
 spairingly. Marriott did not understand. 
 
 "That's it," she said, looking him In the eyes. He 
 saw that she was very serious. He lighted his cigar- 
 ette, and flung away the match that was just beginning 
 to burn his fingers. 
 
 "I'm going to run away; I'm going to forget for 3 
 whole summer. I'm going to have a good time. When 
 I come back in the fall I'm going to the Charity Bureau 
 and do some work^ but until then — " 
 
156 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Who's going with you?" asked Marriott. He had 
 thought of other things to say, but decided against 
 them. 
 
 "Mama." 
 
 "And your father?" 
 
 "Oh, he can't go. He and Dick will stay at home." 
 
 "Then you won't shut up the house ?" 
 
 "No, we'll let the maids go, but we've got Gusta 
 Koerner to come in every day and look after things. 
 I'm glad for her sake — and ours. We can trust her." 
 
 "I should think Dick would want to go." 
 
 "No, he has this new automobile now, and he says, 
 too, that he can't leave the bank." She smiled as she 
 thought of the seriousness with which Dick was re- 
 garding his new duties. 
 
 "Then you'll not go to Mackinac ?" 
 
 "No, we'll close the cottage this summer. Papa 
 doesn't want to go there without us, and — " 
 
 "But Dick will miss his yacht." 
 
 "Oh, the yacht has been wholly superseded in his af- 
 fections by the auto." 
 
 "Well," said Marriott, "I'll not go north myself then. 
 I had thought of going up and hanging around, but 
 now — " 
 
 She looked to see if he were in earnest. 
 
 "Really, I'm not as excited over the prospect of go- 
 ing to Europe as I should be," said Elizabeth with a 
 little regret in her tone. "I haven't been in Europe 
 since I graduated, and I've been looking forward to go- 
 ing again — " 
 
 "Oh, you'll have a great time," Marriott interrupted. 
 
 She leaned back and Marriott eyed her narrowly; 
 he saw that her look was weary. 
 
THE TURN of: THE BALANCE 157; 
 
 "Well, you need a rest. It was such a long, hard 
 winter." 
 
 Elizabeth did not reply. She looked away across the 
 river and Marriott followed her gaze; the sky in the 
 west was darkening, the afternoon had grown sultry. 
 
 "Gordon," she said presently, "I want you to do 
 something for me." 
 
 His heart leaped a little at her words. 
 
 "Anything you say," he answered. 
 
 "Won't you" — she hesitated a moment — "won't you 
 look after Dick a little this summer? Just keep an eye 
 on him, don't you know ?" 
 
 Marriott laughed, and then he grew sober. He re- 
 alized that he, perhaps, understood the seriousness that 
 was behind her request better than she did, but he said 
 nothing, for it was all so difficult. 
 
 "Oh, he doesn^t need any watching," he said, by way 
 of reassuring her. 
 
 "You will understand me, I'm sure." She turned her 
 gray eyes on him. "I think it is a critical time with 
 him. I don't know what he does — I don't want to 
 know ; I don't mean that you are to pry about, or do 
 anything surreptitious, or anything of that sort. You 
 know, of course ; don't you ?" 
 
 "Why, certainly," he said. 
 
 "But I have felt — ^you see," she scarcely knew how to 
 go about it; "I have an idea that if he could have a 
 certain kind of influence in his life, something whole- 
 some — I think you could supply that." 
 
 Marriott was moved by her confidence; he felt a 
 great affection for her in that instant. 
 
 "It's good in you, Elizabeth," he said, and he lin- 
 gered an instant in pronouncing the syllables of her 
 
158 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 name, "but you really overestimate. Dick's all right, 
 but he's young. I'm not old, to be sure ; but he'd think 
 me old.'' 
 
 "I can see that would be in the way," she frankly ad- 
 mitted. "I don't know just how it could be done; per- 
 haps it can't be done at all." 
 
 "And then, besides all that," Marriott went on, "I 
 don't know of any good I could do him. I don't know 
 that there is anything he really needs more than we all 
 need." 
 
 "Oh, yes there is," she insisted. "And there is much 
 you could give him. Perhaps it would bore you — " , 
 
 He protested. 
 
 "Oh, I know !" she said determinedly. "We can be 
 frank with each other, Gordon. Dick is a man only in 
 size and the clothes he wears ; he's still a child — a good, 
 kind-hearted, affectionate, thoughtless child. The 
 whole thing perplexes me and it has perplexed papa — 
 you might as well know that. I have tried, and I can 
 do nothing. He doesn't care for books, and somehow 
 when I prescribe books and they fail, or are not accept- 
 ed, I'm at the end of my resources. I have been trying 
 to think it all out, but I can't. I know that something 
 is wrong, but I can't tell you what it is. I only know 
 that I feel it, and that it troubles me and worries me — 
 and that I am tired." Then, as if he might misunder- 
 stand, she went on with an air of haste : "I don't mean 
 necessarily anything wrong in Dick himself, but some- 
 thing wrong in — oh, I don't know what I mean !" 
 
 She lifted her hand in a little gesture of despair. 
 
 "I feel somehow that the poor boy has had no chance 
 in the world — though he has had every advantage and 
 opportunity." Her f^ce lighted up instantly with a 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 159 
 
 kind of pleasure. "That's it!" she exclaimed. "You 
 see" — it was all clear to her just then, or would be if 
 she could put the thought into words before she lost it 
 — "there is nothing for him to do ; there is no work for j 
 him, no necessity for his working at all. This new -* 
 place he has in the Trust Company — he seems happy 
 and important in it just now, but after all it doesn't 
 seem to me real ; he isn't actually needed there ; he got 
 the place just because Mr. Hunter is a friend of pa- 
 pa." The thought that for an instant had seemed on 
 the point of being posited was nebulous again. "Don't 
 you understand ?" she said, turning to him for help. 
 
 "I think I do," said Marriott. His brows were con- 
 tracted and he was trying to grasp her meaning. 
 
 "It's hard to express," Elizabeth went on. "I think 
 I mean that Dick would be a great deal better off if he 
 did not have a — rich father." She hesitated before say- 
 ing it, a little embarrassed. "If he had to work, if he 
 had his own way to make in the world — " 
 
 "It is generally considered a great blessing to have a 
 rich father," said Marriott. 
 
 ': "Yes," said Elizabeth, "it is. I've heard that very 
 word used — in church, too. But with Dick" — she went 
 back to the personal aspect of the question, which 
 seemed easier — "what is his life ? Last summer, up at 
 the island, it was the yacht — with a hired skipper to do 
 the real work. This summer it's the touring-car; it's 
 always some sensation, something physical, something 
 to kill time with — and what kind of conception of life 
 is that?" 
 
 She turned and looke(i at him witK a little arch of 
 triumph in her brows, at having attained this expres- 
 sion of her thought, 
 
i6o THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "We all have a conception of life that is more or less 
 confused," Marriott generalized. "That is, when we 
 have any conception at all/' 
 
 "Of course," said Elizabeth, "I presume Dick's con- 
 ception is as good as mine ; and that his life is quite as 
 useful. My life has been every bit as objective — I have 
 a round of little duties — teas and balls and parties, and 
 all that sort of thing, of course. I've been sheltered, 
 like all girls of my class ; but poor Dick — ^he's exposed, 
 that is the difference." 
 
 She was silent for a while. Marriott had not known 
 before how deep her thought had gone. 
 
 "I'm utterly useless in the world," she went on, "and 
 I'm sick of it ! Sick of it !" She had grown vehement, 
 and her little fists clenched in her lap, until the 
 knuckles showed white. 
 
 "Do you know what I've a notion of doing?" she 
 said. 
 
 "No; what?" 
 
 "I've a notion to go and work in a factory, say half 
 a day, and give some poor girl a half -holiday." 
 
 "But you'd take her wages from her," said Marriott. 
 
 "Oh, I'd give her the wages." 
 
 Marriott shook his head slowly, doubtingly. 
 
 "I know it's impractical," Elizabeth went on. "Of 
 course, I'd never do it. Why, people would think I'd 
 gone crazy ! Imagine what mama would say !" 
 
 She smiled at the absurdity. 
 
 "No," she said, "I'll have to go on, and lead my idle, 
 useless life. That's what it is, Gordon." He saw the 
 latent fires of indignation and protest leap into her eyes. 
 "It's this life — this horrible, false, insane life ! That's 
 what it is ! The poor boy is beside himself with it, and 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE i6i 
 
 he doesn't know it. There is no place for him, nothing 
 for him to do ; it's the logic of events." 
 
 He was surprised to see such penetration in her. 
 
 "I've been thinking it out," she hurried to explain. 
 "I've suffered from it myself. I've felt it for a long 
 time, without understanding it, and I don't understand 
 it very well now, but I'm beginning to. Of what use 
 am I in the world? Not a bit — ^there isn't a single 
 thing I can do. All this whole winter I've been going 
 about to a lot of useless affairs, meeting and chattering 
 with a lot of people who have no real life at all — who 
 are of no more use in the world than I. I'm wearing 
 myself out at it — and here I am, glad that the long, 
 necessary waste of time is over — tired and sick, of this 
 — this — sofa-pillow existence !" She thumped a silken 
 pillow that lay on a long wicker divan beside her, 
 thumped it viciously and with a hatred. 
 
 "Sometimes I feel that I'd like to leave the town and 
 never see anybody in it again!" Elizabeth exclaimed. 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 "Yes— but— " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "But is there any place where we could escape it all ?" 
 
 "There must be some place — some place where we 
 know no one, so that no one's cares could be our cares, 
 where we could be mere disinterested spectators and sit 
 aloof, and observe life, and not feel that it was any con- 
 cern of ours at all. That's what I want. I'd like to es- 
 cape this horrible ennui." 
 
 "Well, the summer's here and we can have our vaca- 
 tions. Of course," he added whimsically, "the Koem- 
 ers will have no vacation." 
 
 "Gordon, don't you ever dare to mention the Koem- 
 ers again !" 
 
XIX 
 
 A few days later Eades and Marriott stood on a step 
 at the Union Station, and watched the majestic Limited 
 pull out for the east. The white-haired engineer in his 
 faded blue jumper looked calmly down from the high 
 window of his cab, the black porters grinned in the 
 vestibule, the elderly conductor carrying his responsi- 
 bilities seriously and unaffectedly, swung gracefully 
 aboard, his watch in his hand, and there, on the ob- 
 servation platform, stood Elizabeth, very pretty in her 
 gray gown and the little hat with the violets, Eades's 
 flowers in one hand, Marriott's book in the other, wav- 
 ing her adieux. They watched her out of sight, and 
 then Ward, standing beside them, sighed heavily. 
 
 "Well," he said, **it'll be lonesome now, with every- 
 body out of town." 
 
 They waited for Dick, who alone of all of them had 
 braved the high corporate authority at the gate, and 
 gone with the travelers to their train. He came, and 
 they went through the clamorous station to the street, 
 where Dick's automobile was waiting, shaking as if it 
 would shake itself to pieces. They rode down town in 
 solemn silence. Eades and Marriott, indeed, had had 
 little to say ; during the strain of the parting moments 
 with Elizabeth they had been stiff and formal with each 
 other. 
 
 "I hope to get away myself next week," said Eades, 
 ".The town will soon be empty." 
 
 162 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 163 
 
 The city day was drawing to a close. Forge fires 
 were glowing in the foundries they passed. Through 
 the gloom within they could see the workmen, stripped 
 like gunners to the waist, their moist, polished skins 
 glowing in the fierce glare. They passed noisy machine- 
 shops whence machinists glanced out at them. In some 
 of the factories bevies of girls were thronging the win- 
 dows, calling now and then to the workmen, who, for 
 some reason earlier released from toil, were already 
 trooping by on the sidewalk. In the crowded streets 
 great patient horses nodded as they easily drew the 
 empty trucks that had borne such heavy loads all day ; 
 their drivers were smoking pipes, greeting one another, 
 and whistling or singing; one of them in the cama- 
 raderie of toil had taken on a load of workmen, to haul 
 them on their homeward way. The street-cars were 
 filled with men whose faces showed the grime their 
 hasty washing had not removed. 
 
 Suddenly whistles blew, then there was a strange si- 
 lence. Something like a sigh went up from all that 
 quarter of the town. 
 
 The automobile was tearing through the tenderloin 
 with its gaudily-painted saloons and second-hand stores 
 sandwiched between. Old clothes fluttered above the 
 sidewalk, and violins, revolvers, boxing-gloves and bits 
 of jewelry, the trash and rubbish of wasted, feverish 
 lives showed in the windows. Fat Jewish women sat 
 in the doorways of pawn-shops, their swarthy children 
 playing on the dirty sidewalk. In the swinging green 
 doors of saloons stood bartenders; and everywhere 
 groups of men and women, laughing, joking, haggling, 
 scuffling and quarreling. Now and then girls with 
 their tawdry finery tripped down from upper rooms. 
 
i64 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 stood a moment in the dark, narrow doorways, looked 
 up and down the street, and then suddenly went forth. 
 In some of the cheap theaters, the miserable tunes that 
 never ended, day or night, were jingling from metallic 
 pianos. They passed on into the business district. 
 Shops were closing, the tall office buildings, each a city 
 in itself, were pouring forth their human contents ; the 
 sidewalks were thronged — everywhere life, swarming, 
 seething life, spawned out upon the world. 
 
Book II 
 
I 
 
 All day long Archie Koerner and Curly Jackson had 
 ridden in the empty box-car. They had made them- 
 selves as comfortable as they could, and had beguiled 
 the time with talk and stories and cigarettes. Now and 
 then they had fallen asleep, but not for long, for their 
 joints ached with the jolting of the train, and, more 
 than all else, there was a constant concern in their 
 minds that made them restless, furtive and uneasy. 
 The day was warm, and toward noon the sun beat 
 down, hotter and hotter ; the car was stifling, its atmos- 
 phere charged with the reminiscent odors of all the 
 cargoes it had ever hauled. Long before daylight 
 that morning they had crawled into the car as it stood 
 on a siding in a village a hundred miles away. Just 
 before dawn the train came, and they heard the con- 
 ductor and brakeman moving about outside ; now and 
 then they caught the twinkle of their lanterns. Then 
 the car was shunted and jolted back and forth for half 
 an hour ; finally the train was made up, and pulled out 
 of the sleeping village they were so glad to get away 
 from. With the coming of the dawn, they peeped out 
 to see the sun come up over the fields. They watched 
 the old miracle in silence until they saw a farmer com- 
 ing across th^ field with a team. The farmer stopped, 
 
i68 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 watched the train go by, then turned and began to plow 
 corn. 
 
 "Pipe the Hoosier," Curly had said, the sight of a 
 human being reHeving the silence imposed by nature in 
 her loneliness. "We call 'em suckers. He'll be plow- 
 ing all day, but next winter he'll be sitting by a fire^— 
 and we'll — we'll be macing old women for lumps at the 
 back doors." 
 
 Archie was not much affected by Curly's sarcastic 
 philosophy ; he had not yet attained to Curly's point of 
 view. 
 
 Two days before, at evening, they had left the city 
 afad spent the first half of the night on foot, trudging 
 along a country road; then a freight-train had taken 
 them to a little town far to the south, where, in the 
 small hours of the morning, they had broken into a 
 post-office, blown open the safe with nitroglycerin, 
 and taken out the stamps and currency. Curly consid- 
 ered the venture successful, though marred by one mis- 
 hap : in the explosion the currency had been shattered 
 and burned. But he had carefully gathered up the 
 remnants, wrapped them in a paper, and stowed them 
 away in his pocket with the stamps. The next day they 
 hid in a wood. Curly made a fire, cooked bacon, and 
 brewed tea in a tomato can, and these, with bread, had 
 made a meal for them. Then he had carefully sorted 
 the stamps, and had hidden in the ground all the five- 
 and ten-cent stamps, preserving only those of the one- 
 and two-cent denominations. After that he had lain 
 down on the grass and slept. 
 
 While Curly slept, Archie sat and examined with an 
 expert's loving interest and the fascination of a boy a 
 new revolver he had stolen from a hardware store in 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 169 
 
 the city three days before. Curly at first had opposed 
 the theft of the revolver, but had finally consented be- 
 cause he recognized Archie's need ; Archie had had no 
 revolver since he was sent to the workhouse. The one 
 he had when he was arrested had been confiscated — as 
 it is called — by the police, and given by Bostwick to a 
 friend, a lawyer who had long wanted a revolver to 
 shoot burglars in case any should break into his home. 
 Curly had consented to Archie's stealing the revolver, 
 but he had commanded him to take nothing else, and 
 had waited outside while Archie went into the hard- 
 ware store. Archie had chosen a fine one, a double- 
 acting, self-cocking revolver of thirty-eight caliber, like 
 those carried by the police. He had been childishly 
 happy in the possession of this weapon ; he had taken it 
 out and looked at it a hundred times, and had been 
 tempted when they were alone in the woods to take a 
 few practice shots, but when Curly ordered him not to 
 think of such nonsense, he drew the cartridges, aimed 
 at trees, twigs, birds, and snapped the trigger. Every 
 little while in the box-car that day he had taken it out, 
 looked at it, caressed it, turned it over in his palm, deli- 
 cately tested its weight, and called Curly to admire it 
 with him. He thought much more of the revolver than 
 he did of the stamps and blasted currency they had 
 stolen, and Curly had spoken sharply to him at last and 
 said : 
 
 "If you don't put up that rod, I'll ditch it for you." 
 Archie obeyed Curly, but when he had restored the 
 revolver to his pocket, he continued to talk of it, and 
 then of other weapons be had owned, and he told 
 Curly how he had won the sharp-shooter's medal in the 
 army. 
 
170 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 But finally, in his weariness, Archie lost interest 
 even in his new revolver, and when Curly would not let 
 him go to the door of the car and look out, lest the 
 trainmen should see them and force them into an en- 
 counter, Archie had fallen asleep in a corner. 
 
 It was a relief to Curly when Archie went to sleep, 
 for in addition to his joy in his revolver, Archie had 
 been excited over their adventure. Curly was in many 
 ways peculiar ; he was inclined to be secretive ; he fre- 
 quently worked alone, and his operations were as much 
 a mystery to his companions and to Gibbs as they were 
 to the police. He had had his eye on the little post- 
 office at Trenton for months ; it had called to him, as 
 it were, to come and rob it. It had advantages, the 
 building was old ; an entrance could be effected easily. 
 He had stationed Archie outside to watch while he 
 knocked off the peter, and Archie had acquitted himself 
 to Curly's satisfaction. The affair came off smoothly. 
 Though it was in the short summer night, no one had 
 been abroad ; they got away without molestation. Now, 
 as they drew near the city. Curly felt easy. 
 
 Late in the afternoon Curly saw signs of the city's 
 outposts — the side-tracks were multiplying in long 
 lines of freight-cars. Then Curly wakened Archie, and 
 when the train slowed up, they dropped from the car. 
 
 It was good to feel once more their feet on the 
 ground, to walk and stretch their tired, numb muscles, 
 good to breathe the open air and, more than all, good to 
 see the city looming under its pall of smoke. They 
 joined the throngs of working-men; and they might 
 have passed for working-men themselves, for Curly 
 wore overalls, as he always did on his expeditions, and 
 they were both so black from the smoke and cinders of 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 171 
 
 their journey, that one might easily have mistaken their 
 grime for that of honest toil. 
 
 They came to the river, pressed up the long approach 
 to its noble bridge, and submerged themselves in the 
 stream of Ufe that flowed across it, the stream that was 
 made up of all sorts of people — ^working-men, clerks, 
 artisans, shop-girls, children, men and women, the old 
 and the yoimg, each individual with his burden or his 
 care or his secret guilt, his happiness, his hope, his 
 comedy or his tragedy, losing himself in the mass, 
 merging his identity in the crowd, doing his part to 
 make the great epic of life that flowed across the bridge 
 as the great river flowed under it — the stream in which 
 no one could tell the good from the bad, or even wish 
 thus to separate them, in which no one could tell Archie 
 or Curly from the teacher of a class in a Sunday-school. 
 Here on the bridge man's little distinctions were lost 
 and people were people merely, bound together by the 
 common possession of good and bad intentions, of good 
 and bad deeds, of frailties, errors, sorrows, sufferings 
 and mistakes, of fears and doubts, of despairs, of hopes 
 and triumphs and heroisms and victories and boundless 
 dreams. 
 
 Beside them rumbled a long procession of trucks and 
 wagons and carriages, street-cars moved in yellow pro- 
 cession, ringing their cautionary gongs ; the draw in the 
 middle of the bridge vibrated under the tread of all 
 those marching feet ; its three red lights were already 
 burning overhead. Far below, the river, growing dark, 
 rolled out to the lake ; close to its edge on the farther 
 shore could be descried, after long searching of the 
 eye, the puffs of white smoke from crawling trains; 
 vessels could be picked out, tugs and smaller craft. 
 
172 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 great propellers that bore coal and ore and lumber up 
 and down the lakes ; here and there a white passenger- 
 steamer, but all diminutive in the long perspective. 
 Above them the freight-depots squatted; above these 
 elevators lifted themselves, and then, as if on top of 
 them, the great buildings of the city heaved themselves 
 as by some titanic convulsive effort in a lofty pile, sur^ 
 mounted by the high office buildings in the center, 
 with here and there towers and spires striking upward 
 from the jagged sky-line. All this pile was in a neu- 
 tral shade of gray, — lines, details, distinctions, all were 
 lost ; these huge monuments of man's vanity, or greed, 
 or ambition, these expressions of his notions of utility 
 or of beauty, were heaped against a smoky sky, from 
 which the light was beginning to fade. Somewhere, 
 hidden far down in this mammoth pile, among all the 
 myriads of people that swarmed and lost themselves 
 below it, were Gusta and Dick Ward, old man Koerner 
 and Marriott, Modderwell and Banner, Bostwick and 
 Parrish, and Danny Gibbs, and Mason, and Eades, but 
 they were lost in the mass of human beings — the 
 preachers. and thieves, the doctors and judges, and al- 
 dermen, and merchants, and working-men, and social 
 leaders, and prostitutes — who went to make up the 
 swarm of people that crawled under and through this 
 pile of iron and stone, thinking somehow that the dis- 
 tinctions and the grades they had fashioned in their lit- 
 tle minds made them something more or something less 
 than what they really were. 
 
II 
 
 And yet, after having crossed the bridge in the si- 
 lence that was the mysterious effect of the descent of 
 evening over the city, after having been gathered back 
 again for a few moments into human relations with 
 their fellow mortals, Archie and Curly became thieves 
 again. This change in them occurred when they saw 
 two poUcemen standing at the corner of High Street, 
 where the crowd from the bridge, having climbed the 
 slope of River Street, began to flow in diverging lines 
 this way and that. The change was the more marked 
 in Archie, for at sight of the policemen he stopped 
 suddenly. ' 
 
 *'Look !" he whispered. 
 
 "Come on !" commanded Curly, and Archie fell into 
 step. "You never want to halt that way ; it don't make 
 any difference with harness bulls, but if a fly dick was 
 around, it might put him hip." 
 
 It was a relief to Archie when at last they turned 
 «ito Danny Gibbs's ; the strange shrinking sensation he 
 had felt in the small of his back, the impulse to turn 
 around, the starting of his heart at each footfall behind 
 him, now disappeared. It was quiet at Gibbs's; the 
 place was in perfect order ; in the window by the door, 
 under the bill which pictured two pugilists, the big cat 
 he had seen now and then slinking about the place was 
 curled in sleep ; and two little kittens were playing near 
 her. At one of the tables, his head bowed in his hands, 
 
 173 
 
174 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 was the wreck of a man Archie had so often seen in 
 that same attitude and in that same place — the tahle in- 
 deed seemed to be used for no other purpose. Gibbs 
 himself was there, in shirt-sleeves, leaning over the 
 evening paper he had spread before him on his bar. 
 He was freshly shaven, and was reading his paper and 
 smoking his cigar in the peace that had settled on his 
 establishment; his shirt was fresh and clean; the 
 starch was scarcely broken in its stiff sleeves, and 
 Archie was fascinated by the tiny red figures of horse- 
 shoes and stirrups and jockey caps that dotted it; he 
 had a desire to possess, some day, just such a shirt 
 himself. At the approaching step of the two men, 
 Gibbs looked up suddenly, and the light flashed blue 
 from the diamond in the bosom of his shirt. Curly 
 jerked his head toward the back room. Gibbs looked 
 at Curly an instant and then at Archie, a question in his 
 glance. 
 
 "Sure,'' said Curly ; "he's in." Then Gibbs carefully 
 and deliberately folded his paper, stuck it in one of the 
 brackets of his bar, and went with the two men into 
 the back room. There he stood beside the table, his 
 hands thrust into his pockets, his cigar rolling in the 
 corner of his mouth, his head tilted back a little. Archie 
 was tingling with interest and expectation. 
 ' "Well," said Gibbs, in an introductory way. 
 
 Curly was unbuttoning his waistcoat ; in a moment 
 he had drawn from its inner pocket a package, un- 
 wrapped it, and disclosed the sheets of fresh new 
 stamps, red and green, and stiff with the shining muci- 
 lage. He counted them over laboriously and separated 
 them, making two piles, one of the red two-cent stamps, 
 another of the green one-cent stamps, while Gibbs 
 
TME TURN OF THE BALANCE 175 
 
 stood, squinting downward at the table. When Curly 
 was done, Gibbs counted the sheets of postage stamps 
 himself. 
 
 *7ust fifty of each, heh?" he asked when he had 
 done. 
 
 "That's right," said Curly. 
 
 "That's right, is it?" Gibbs repeated; a shrewdness 
 in his squint. 
 
 "Yes," Curly said. 
 
 "Sixty per cent.," said Gibbs. 
 
 "All right," said Curly. 
 
 "I can't give more for the stickers just now," Gibbs 
 went on, as if the men were entitled to some word of 
 explanation; "business is damned bad, and I'm not 
 making much at that." 
 
 "That's all right," said Curly somewhat impatiently, 
 as one who disliked haggling. 
 
 "That goes with you, does it, Dutch ?" Gibbs said to 
 Archie. 
 
 "Sure," said Archie, glancing hastily at Curly, 
 "whatever he says goes with me all right." And then 
 he smiled, his white teeth showing, his face ruddier, 
 his blue eyes sparkling with the excitement he felt — 
 smiled at this new name Gibbs had suddenly given 
 him. 
 
 Curly had thrust his hand into another pocket mean- 
 while, and he drew out another package, done up in a 
 newspaper. He laid this on the table, opened it slowly, 
 and carefully turning back the folds of paper, disclosed 
 the bundle of charred bank-notes. Gibbs began shak- 
 ing his head dubiously as soon as he saw the contents. 
 
 "I can't do much with that," he said. "But you 
 leave it and I'll see." 
 
176 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Well, now, that's all right," said Curly, speaking in 
 his high argumentative tone ; *T ain't wolfing. You can 
 give us our bit later." 
 
 "All right," said Gibbs, and carefully doing up the 
 parcels, he took them and disappeared. In a few mo- 
 ments he came back, counted out the money on the ta- 
 ble — ninety dollars — and then went out with the air of 
 a man whose business is finished. 
 
 Curly divided the money, gave Archie his half, and 
 they went out. The bar-room was just as they had 
 left it ; the wreck of a man still bowed his head on his 
 forearms, the cat was still curled about her kittens. 
 Gibbs had taken down his paper, and resumed his 
 reading. 
 
 "I'm going to get a bath and a shave," Curly said. 
 He passed his hand over his chin, rasping its palm on 
 the stubble of his beard. Archie was surprised and a 
 little disappointed at the hint of dismissal he felt in 
 Curly's tone. He wished to continue the companion- 
 ship, with its excitement, its interest, its pleasure, above 
 all that quality in it which sustained him and kept up 
 his spirits. He found himself just then in a curious 
 state of mind ; the distinction he had felt but a few mo- 
 ments before in the back room with Gibbs, the impor- 
 tance in the success of the expedition, more than all, 
 the feeling that he had been admitted to relationships 
 which so short a time before had been so mysterious 
 and inaccessible to him, — all this was leaving him, dy- 
 ing out within, as the stimulus of spirits dies out in a 
 man, and Archie's Teutonic mind was facing the dark- 
 ness of a fit of despondency ; he felt blue and unhappy ; 
 he longed to stay with Curly. 
 
 "Look at, Dutch," Curly was saying; "youVe got a 
 
THE TURN of: THE BALANCE 177 
 
 little of the cush now — it ain't much, but it's something. 
 You want to go and give some of it to your mother ; 
 don't go and splash it up in beer." 
 
 It pleased Archie to have Curly call him Dutch. 
 There was something affectionate in it, as there is in 
 most nicknames — something reassuring. But the men- 
 tion of his mother overcame this sense; it unmanned 
 him, and he looked away. 
 
 "And look at," Curly was going on, "you'll bit up 
 on that burned darb ; you be around in a day or two." 
 
 Curly withdrew into himself in the curious, baffling 
 way he had; the way that made him mysterious and 
 somewhat superior, and, at times, brought on him the 
 distrust of his companions, always morbidly suspicious 
 at their best. Archie disliked to step out of Gibbs's 
 place into the street; it seemed like an exposure. He 
 glanced out. The summer twilight had deepened into 
 darkness. The street was deserted and bare, though 
 the cobblestones somehow exuded the heat and tur- 
 moil of the day that had just passed from them. Archie 
 thought for an instant of what Curly had said about 
 his mother; he could see her as she would be sitting 
 in the kitchen, with the lamp on the table ; Gusta would 
 be bustling about getting the supper, the children mov- 
 ing after her, clutching at her skirts, retarding her, 
 getting in her way, seeming to endanger their own lives 
 by scalding and burning and falling and other do- 
 mestic accidents, which, though always impending, 
 never befell. The kitchen would be full of the pleasant 
 odor of frying potatoes, and the coffee, bubbling over 
 now and then and sizzling on the hot stove — Archie 
 had a sense of all these things, and his heart yearned 
 and softened. And then suddenly he thought of his 
 
178 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 father, and he knew that the conception of the home 
 he had just had was the w^ay it used to be before his 
 father lost his leg and all the ills following that acci- 
 dent had come upon the family; the house was no 
 longer cheerful ; the smell of boiling coffee was not in 
 it as often as it used to be ; his mother was depressed 
 and his father quarrelsome, even Gusta had changed; 
 he would be sure to encounter that lover of hers, that 
 plumber whom he hated. He squeezed the roll of bills 
 in his pocket; suddenly, too, he remembered his new 
 revolver and pressed it against his thigh, and he had 
 pleasure in that. He went out into the street. After 
 all, the darkness was kind; there were glaring and 
 flashing electric lights along the street, of course ; the 
 cheap restaurant across the way was blazing, people 
 were drifting in and out, but they were not exactly the 
 same kind of people in appearance that had thronged 
 the streets by day. There was a new atmosphere — a 
 more congenial atmosphere, for night had come, and 
 had brought a change and a new race of people to the 
 earth — a race that lived and worked by night, with 
 whom Archie felt a kinship. He did not hate them as 
 he was unconsciously growing to hate the people of the 
 daylight. He saw a lame hot-tamale man in white, 
 hobbling up the street, painfully carrying his steaming 
 can ; he saw cabmen on their cabs down toward Chero- 
 kee Street ; he saw two girls, vague, indistinct, sugges- 
 tive, flitting hurriedly by in the shadows ; the electric 
 lights were blazing with a hard fierce glare, but there 
 were shadows, deep and black and soft. He started 
 toward Cherokee Street ; he squeezed the money in his 
 pocket ; he was somehow elated with the independence 
 it gave him. At the corner he paused again; he had 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 179 
 
 no plan, he was drifting along physically just as he was 
 morally, following the line of least resistance, which 
 line, just then, was marked by the lights along Market 
 Place. He started across that way, when all at once 
 a hand took him by the lapel of his coat and Kouka's 
 black visage was before him. Archie looked at the de- 
 tective, whose eyes were piercing him from beneath the 
 surly brows that met in thick, coarse, bristling hairs 
 across the wide bridge of his nose. 
 
 "Well," said Kouka, "so I've got you again !" 
 
 Archie's heart came to his throat. A great rage sud- 
 denly seized him, a hatred of Kouka, and of his black 
 eyes; he had a savage wish to grind the heel of his 
 boot heavily, viciously, remorselessly into that face, 
 right there where the eyebrows met across the nose — 
 grinding his heel deep, feeling the bones crunch be- 
 neath it. For some reason Kouka suddenly released 
 his hold. 
 
 "You'd better duck out o' here, young fellow," 
 Kouka was saying. "You hear ?" 
 
 Archie heard, but it was a moment before he could 
 fully realize that Kouka knew nothing after all. 
 
 "You hear ?" Kouka repeated, bringing his face close 
 to Archie's. 
 
 "Yes, I hear," said Archie sullenly, as it seemed, but 
 thankfully. 
 
 "Don't let me see you around any more, you — " 
 
 Archie, saved by some instinct, did not reply, and he 
 did not wait for Kouka's oath, but hurried away, and 
 Kouka, as he could easily feel, stood watching him. 
 He went on half a block and paused in a shadow. He 
 saw Kouka still standing there, then presently saw him 
 turn and go away. 
 
i8o THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Archie paused in the shadow ; he thought of Kouka, 
 remembering all the detective had done to him ; he re- 
 membered those forty days in the workhouse; he 
 thought of Bostwick, of the city attorney, of the whole 
 town that seemed to stand behind him ; the bitterness of 
 those days in the workhouse came back, and the force 
 of all the accumulated hatred and vengeance that had 
 been spent upon him was doubled and quadrupled in 
 his heart, and he stood there with black, mad, insane 
 thoughts clouding his reason. Then he gripped his 
 roll of money, he pressed his new revolver, and he felt 
 a kind of wild, primitive, savage satisfaction, — the 
 same primitive satisfaction that Kouka, and Bostwick, 
 the city attorney, the whole police force, and the whole 
 city had seemed to take in sending him to the work- 
 house. And then he went on toward the tenderloin. 
 
Ill 
 
 Gibbs, never sure that the police would keep their 
 word with him, rose earlier than usual the next morn- 
 ing, ate his breakfast, called a cab — ^he had an eccentric 
 fondness for riding about in hansom-cabs — and was 
 driven rapidly to the corner of High and Franklin 
 Streets, the busiest, most distracting corner in the city. 
 There the enormous department store of James E. Bills 
 and Company occupied an entire building five stories 
 high. The store was already filled with shoppers, 
 mostly women, who crowded about the counters, on 
 which all kinds of trinkets were huddled, labeled with 
 cards declaring that the price had just been reduced. 
 The girls behind the counters, all of whom were 
 dressed in a certain extravagant imitation of the wom- 
 en who came every day to look these articles over, 
 were already tired ; their eyes lay in dark circles that 
 were the more pronounced because their cheeks were 
 covered with powder, and now and then they lifted 
 their hands, their highly polished finger-nails gleaming, 
 to the enormous pompadours in which they had ar- 
 ranged their hair. Many of the women in the store, 
 clerks and shoppers, wore peevish, discontented expres- 
 sions, and spoke in high ugly voices ; the noise of their 
 haggling filled the whole room and added to the din 
 made by the little metal money-boxes that whizzed by 
 on overhead wires, and increased the sense of confu- 
 
 i8i 
 
i82 THE tmN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 sion produced by the cheap and useless things which, 
 With their untruthful placards, were piled about every- 
 where. The air in the store was foul and unwhole- 
 some; here and there pale little girls who carried 
 bundles in baskets ran about on their little thin legs, 
 piping out shrill numbers. 
 
 Gibbs was wearied the moment he entered, and irri- 
 tably waved aside the sleek, foppish floor-walker. The 
 only person to whom he spoke as he passed along was 
 a private detective leaning against one of the counters ; 
 Gibbs had already had dealings with him and had got 
 back for him articles that had been stolen by certain 
 women thieves who were adept in the art of shoplifting. 
 Gibbs went straight back to the elevator and was Hfted 
 out of all this din and confusion into the comparative 
 quiet of the second floor, where the offices of the estab- 
 lishment occupied a cramped space behind thin wooden 
 partitions. Gibbs entered the offices and glanced about 
 at the clerks, who worked in silence ; on each of them 
 had been impressed a subdued, obedient demeanor; 
 they glanced at Gibbs surreptitiously. It was plain 
 that all spirit had been drilled out of them ; they were 
 afraid of something, and, driven by their necessities, 
 they toiled like machines. Gibbs felt a contempt for 
 them as great as the contempt he felt for the floor- 
 walkers below, a contempt almost as great as that he 
 had for Bills himself. A timid man of about forty-five, 
 with a black beard sprouting out of the pallor of his 
 skin, came up, and lifted his brows with amazement 
 when Gibbs, ignoring him, made plainly for the door 
 that was lettered : "Mr. Bills.'' 
 
 "Mr. Bills is engaged just now," the man said in a 
 hushed tone. 
 
THE TURN OP THE BALANCE i% 
 
 . "Well, tell him Mr. Gibbs is here." 
 
 "But he's engaged just now, sir; he's dictating.*' 
 The man leaned forward and whispered the word "dic- 
 tating" impressively. 
 
 But Gibbs kept on toward the door; then the man 
 blocked his way. 
 
 "Tell him if you want to," said Gibbs, "if not, I will." 
 
 It seemed that Gibbs might walk directly through 
 the m.an, who retreated from him, and, having no other 
 egress, went through Mr. Bills's door. A moment more 
 and he held it open for Gibbs. 
 
 Bills was sitting at an enormous desk which was set 
 in perfect order; on either side of him were baskets 
 containing the letters he was methodically answering. 
 Bills's head showed over the top of the desk; it was 
 a round head covered with short black hair, smoothly 
 combed and shining. His black side-whiskers were 
 likewise short and smooth. His neck was bound by a 
 white collar and a little pious, black cravat, and he wore 
 black clothes. His smoothly-shaven lips were pursed 
 in a self-satisfied way ; he was brisk and unctuous, very 
 clean and proper, and looked as if he devoutly anoint- 
 ed himself with oil alter his bath. In a word, he bore 
 himself as became a prominent business man, who, be- 
 sides his own large enterprise, managed a popular Sun- 
 day-school, and gave Sunday afternoon "talks" on 
 "Success," for the instruction of certain young men of 
 the city, too mild and acquiescent to succeed as any- 
 thing but conformers. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Gibbs," he said. "You will excuse me a 
 moment." 
 
 Bills turned and resumed the dictation of his stereo- 
 typed phrases of business. He dictated several letterS|, 
 
i84 iTHE TURN OE THE BALANCE 
 f ' •> 
 
 then dismissed his stenographer and, turning about, 
 said with a smile : 
 
 "Now, Mr. Gibbs." 
 
 Gibbs drew his chair close to Bills's desk, and, taking 
 a package from his pocket, laid out the stamps. 
 
 "One hundred sheets of twos, fifty of ones," he said. 
 
 Bills had taken off his gold glasses and slowly low- 
 ered them to the end of their fine gold chain ; he rubbed 
 the little red marks the glasses left on the bridge of his 
 nose, and in his manner there was an uncertainty that 
 seemed unexpected by Gibbs. 
 
 *T was about to suggest, Mr. Gibbs," said Bills, plac- 
 ing his fingers tip to tip, "that you see our Mr. Wilson ; 
 he manages the mail-order department, now." 
 
 "Not for mine," said Gibbs decisively. "I've always 
 done business with you. I don't know this fellow 
 Wilson." 
 
 Bills, choosing to take it as a tribute, smiled and went 
 on: 
 
 "I think we're fully stocked just now, but — ^how 
 would a sixty per cent, proposition strike you ?" 
 
 "No," said Gibbs, as decisively as before. 
 
 "No?" repeated Bills. 
 
 "No," Gibbs went on, "seventy-five." 
 
 Bills thought a moment, absently lifting the rustling 
 sheets. 
 
 "How many did you say there were ?" 
 
 "They come to one-fifty," said Gibbs ; "count 'em.'* 
 
 Bills did count them, and when he had done, he said ; 
 
 "That would make it one-twelve-fifty ?" 
 
 "That's it." 
 
 "Very well. Shall I pass the amount to your cred- 
 it?" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 185 
 
 "No; I'll take the cash." 
 
 "I thought perhaps Mrs. Gibbs would be wanting 
 some things in the summer line," said Bills. 
 
 Gibbs shook his head. 
 
 **We pay cash," said he. 
 
 Bills smiled, got up, walked briskly with a little 
 spring to each step and left the room. He returned 
 presently, closed the door, sat down, counted the bills 
 out on the leaf of his desk, laid a silver half-dollar on 
 top and said : 
 
 "There you are." 
 
 Gibbs counted the money carefully, rolled it up delib- 
 erately and stuffed it into his trousers pocket. 
 
 Gibbs had one more errand that morning, and he 
 drove in his hansom-cab to the private bank Amos 
 Hunter conducted as a department of his trust com- 
 pany. Gibbs deposited his money, and then went into 
 Hunter's private office. Hunter was an old man, thin 
 and spare, with white hair, and a gray face. He sat 
 with his chair turned away from his desk, which he 
 seldom used except when it became necessary for him 
 to sign his name, and then he did this according to the 
 direction of a clerk, who would lay a paper before him, 
 dip a pen in ink, hand it to Hunter, and point to the 
 space for the signature. Hunter was as economical of 
 his energy in signing his name as in everything else; 
 he wrote it "A. Hunter." He sat there every day with- 
 out moving, as it seemed, apparently determined to 
 eke out his life to the utmost. His coachman drove 
 him down town at ten each morning, at four in the 
 afternoon he came and drove him home again. It was 
 only through the windows of the carriage and through 
 the windows of his private office that Hunter looked 
 
i86 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 out on a world with whicH for forty years he had never 
 come in personal contact. His inert manner gave the 
 impression of great age and senility ; but the eyes un- 
 der the thick white brows were alert, keen, virile. He 
 was referred to generally as "old Amos." 
 
 Gibbs went in, a parcel in his hand. 
 
 "Just a little matter of some mutilated currency," he 
 said. 
 
 Old Amos's thin lips seemed to smile. 
 
 "You may leave it and we'll be glad to forward it to 
 Washington for you, Mr. Gibbs," he said, without mov- 
 ing. 
 
 Gibbs laid the bundle on old Amos's desk, and, tak- 
 ing up a bit of paper, wrote on it and handed it to 
 Hunter. 
 
 "Have you a memorandum there?" asked Hunter. 
 He glanced at the paper and wrote on the slip : 
 
 "A. H." 
 
 Then he resumed the attitude that had scarcely been 
 altered, laid his white hands in his lap and sat there 
 with his thin habitual smile. 
 
 Gibbs thanked him and went away. His morning's 
 work among the business men of the city was done. 
 
IV 
 
 It promised to be a quiet evening at Danny Gibbs^s. 
 There had been a vicious electrical storm that after- 
 noon, but by seven o'clock the lightning played prettily 
 in the east, the thunder rolled away, the air cooled, and 
 the rain fell peacefully. The storm had been predicted 
 to Joe Mason in the rheumatism that had bitten his 
 bones for two days, but now the ache had ceased, and 
 the relief was a delicious sensation he was content sim- 
 ply to realize. He sat in the back room, smoking and 
 thinking, a letter in his hand. Gibbs's wife had gone to 
 bed — she had been drinking that day. Old Johnson, 
 the sot who, by acting as porter, paid Gibbs for his 
 shelter and the whisky he drank — ^he ate very little, go- 
 ing days at a time without food — had set the bar- 
 room in order and disappeared. Gibbs was somewhere 
 about, but all was still, and Mason liked it so. From 
 time to time Mason glanced at the letter. The letter 
 was a fortnight old ; it had been written from a work- 
 house in a distant city by his old friend Dillon, known 
 to the yeggs as Slim. Mason had not seen Dillon for 
 a year — not, in fact, since they had been released from 
 Dannemora. This was the letter : 
 
 Old Pal — I thought I would fly you a kite, and take 
 chances of its safe arrival at your loft. I was lagged 
 wrong, but I am covered and strong and the bulls can't 
 throw me. I am only here for a whop, and I'll hit the 
 
 187 
 
i88 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 road before the dog is up. I have filled out a country 
 jug that can be sprung all right. We can make a safe 
 lamas. There is a John O'Brien at 1 130 a. m., and a 
 rattler at 3 150. The shack next door is a cold slough, 
 and the nearest kip to the joint is one look and a peep. 
 There is a speeder in the shanty, and we can get to the 
 main stem and catch the rattler and be in the main fort 
 by daylight. The trick is easy worth fifty centuries. 
 Now let me know, and make your mark and time. I 
 am getting this out through a broad who will give it to 
 our fall-back, you know who. 
 
 Yours in durance vile, 
 
 Slim. 
 
 Mason had not answered the letter, and only the day 
 before Dillon had appeared, bringing with him a youth 
 called Squeak. And now this night, as Mason sat there, 
 he did not like to think of Dillon. Dillon had traveled 
 hundreds of miles by freight-trains to be with Mason, 
 to give him part in his enterprise ; he had been to the 
 little town and examined the bank; he had even en- 
 tered it by night alone. He had laid his plans, and, 
 like all his kind, could not conceive of their miscarry- 
 ing. He had estimated the amount they would pro- 
 cure; he considered five thousand dollars a conserv- 
 ative estimate. It was the big touch, of which they 
 were always dreaming as a means of reformation. But 
 Mason had refused. Then Dillon asked Curly, and 
 Curly refused. Mason gave Dillon no reason for his 
 refusal, but Curly contended that summer was not the 
 time for such a big job; the nights were short and 
 people slept lightly, with open windows, even if the 
 old stool-pigeon was not up. Dillon had taunted him 
 and hinted contemptuously at a broad. They had al- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 189 
 
 most come to blows. Finally Dillon had left, taking 
 with him Mandell and Squeak and Archie — all eager 
 to go. 
 
 Mason sat there and thought of Dillon and his com- 
 panions. He could imagine them on the John O'Brien, 
 jolting on through the rain, maybe dropping off when 
 the train stopped, to hide under some water-tank, or 
 behind some freight-shed — ^he had done it all so many, 
 many times himself. Still he tried not to think of Dil- 
 lon, for he could not do so without a shade of self-re- 
 proach; it seemed like pigging to refuse Dillon as he 
 had ; they had worked so long together. Dillon's long, 
 gaunt figure presented itself to his memory as crouch- 
 ing before some old rope mold, a bit of candle in his 
 left hand, getting ready to pour the soup, and then 
 memory would usually revert to that night when Dillon 
 had suddenly doused the candle — ^but not before Mason 
 had caught the gleam in his eyes and the setting of his 
 jaw — and, pulling his rod, had barked suddenly into 
 the darkness. Then the flight outside, the rose-colored 
 flashes from their revolvers in the night, the race down 
 the silent street — white snow in the fields across the 
 railroad tracks, and the bitter cold in the woods. 
 
 He shook his head as if to fling the memories from 
 him. But Dillon's figure came back, now in the front 
 rank of his company, marching across the hideous 
 prison yard, his long legs breaking at the middle as he 
 leaned back in the lock-step. Mason tried to escape 
 these thoughts, but they persisted. He got a news- 
 paper, but understood little of what he read, except one 
 brief despatch, which told of a tramp found cut in two 
 beside the tracks, five hundred dollars sewed in his coat. 
 The despatch wondered how a hobo could have so 
 
190 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 much money, and this amused Mason; he would tell 
 Gibbs, and they would have a laugh — their old laugh at 
 the world above them. Then they themselves would 
 wonder — wonder which one of the boys it was; it 
 might be weeks before the news would reach them in 
 an authoritative form. He enjoyed for a moment his 
 laugh at the stupid world, the world which could not 
 understand them in the least, the world which shud- 
 dered in its ignorance of them. Then he thought of 
 Dillon again. Dillon had never refused him ; he had not 
 refused him that evening in northern Indiana, when the 
 sheriff and the posse of farmers, armed with pitchforks 
 and shot-guns and old army muskets, had brought 
 them to bay in the wheat stubble ; his ammunition had 
 given out, but old Dillon, with only three cartridges 
 left, had stood cursing and covering his retreat. Mason 
 was beginning to feel small about it, and yet — Dillon 
 did not understand ; when he came back he would ex- 
 plain it all to him. This notion gave him some comfort, 
 and he lighted his cigar, turned to his newspaper again, 
 and listened for the rain falling outside. Suddenly 
 there was a noise, and Mason started. Was that old 
 Dillon crouching there beside him, his face gleaming 
 in the flicker of the dripping candle ? He put his hand 
 to his head in a kind of daze. 
 
 "Je's !" he exclaimed. "Fm getting nutty." 
 He was troubled, for his head had now and then 
 gone off that way in prison — they called it stir simple. 
 Mason sat down again, but no longer tried to read. 
 He heard the noise in the bar-room, the noise of high 
 excitement, and he wondered. His curiosity was great, 
 but he had learned to control his curiosity. He could 
 bear talking, laughmg, cursing, the shuffle of feet, the 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 191 
 
 clink of glasses — some sports out for a time, no doubt. 
 In a moment the door opened and Gibbs appeared. 
 
 ''Where's Kate?" he demanded. 
 
 "She went to bed half an hour ago," said Mason. 
 "Why — what's the excitement ?" 
 
 "Eddie Dean's here — come on out." Gibbs disap- 
 peared ; the door closed. 
 
 Mason understood ; no wonder the place thrilled with 
 excitement. He had heard of Eddie Dean. Down into 
 his world had come stories of this man, of his amazing 
 skill and cleverness, of the enormous sums he made 
 every year — made and spent. Dean had the fascination 
 for Mason that is born of mystery ; he had had Dean's 
 methods and the methods of other big-mitt men de- 
 scribed to him ; he had heard long discussions in sand- 
 house hang-outs and beside camp-fires in the woods, 
 but the descriptions never described; he could never 
 grasp the details. He could understand the common, 
 ordinary thefts ; he could see how a pickpocket by long 
 practice learned his art, but the kind of work that Dean 
 did had something occult in it. How a man could go 
 out, wearing good clothes, and, without soiHng his 
 fingers, merely by talking and playing cards, make such 
 sums of money — Mason simply could not realize it. 
 Surely it was worth while to have a look at him. He 
 started out, then he remembered; he passed his hand 
 over the stubble of hair that had been growing 
 after the shaving at the workhouse, and he picked up 
 his low-crowned, narrow-brimmed felt hat — the kind 
 worn by the brakemen he now and then wished to be 
 taken for — ^pulled it down to his eyebrows, and went 
 out. 
 
 Eddie Dean, who 3tood at the bar in the blue clothes 
 
192 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 that perfectly exemplified the fashion of that summer, 
 was described in the police identification records as a 
 man somewhat above medium size, and now, at forty, 
 he was beginning to take on fat. His face was heavy, 
 and despite the fact that his nose was twisted slightly 
 to one side, and his upper lip depressed where it met 
 his nose, the women whom Dean knew considered him 
 handsome. His face was smooth-shaven and blue, like 
 an actor^s, from his heavy beard. His mouth was large, 
 and his lips thin ; he could close them and look serious 
 and profound; and when he smiled and disclosed the 
 gold fillings in his teeth, he seemed youthful and gay. 
 His face showed vanity, a love of pleasure, vulgarity, 
 selfishness, sensuality accentuated by dissipation, and 
 the black eyes that were so sharp and bright and 
 penetrating were cruel. Mason, however, could not 
 analyze ; he only knew that he did not like this fellow, 
 and merely grunted when Gibbs introduced him, and 
 Dean patronizingly said, without looking at him : 
 
 "Just in time, my good fellow." 
 
 Then he motioned imperiously to the bartender, who 
 took down another wine-glass, wiped it dexterously, 
 and set it out with an elegant flourish and filled it. 
 Mason watched the golden bubbles spring from the 
 hollow stem to the seething surface. He did not care 
 much for champagne, but he lifted his glass and looked 
 at Dean, who was saying : 
 
 **Here*s to the suckers — may they never grow less." 
 
 The others in the party laughed. Besides Gibbs, who 
 was standing outside his own bar like a visitor, there 
 were Nate Rosen, a gambler, dressed more conspicu- 
 ously than Dean; a small man in gray, with strange 
 pale eyes fastened always on Dean ; and a third man in 
 
THE TURN OF -f HE BALANCE 193 
 
 tweeds, larger than either, with broad shoulders, heavy 
 jaw and an habitual scowl. Beyond him, apart, with 
 the truckling leer of the parasite, stood a man in seedy 
 livery, evidently the driver of the carriage that was 
 waiting outside in the rain. 
 
 Dean's history was the monotonous one of most men 
 of his kind. Having a boy's natural dislike for school, 
 he had run away from home and joined a circus. At 
 first he led the sick horses, then he was hired by one of 
 the candy butchers and finally allowed to peddle on the 
 seats; there he learned the art of short change, and 
 when he had mastered this he sold tickets from a little 
 satchel outside the tents ; by the time he was twenty- 
 five he knew most of the schemes by which the foolish, 
 seeking to get something for nothing, are despoiled of 
 their money. He was an adept at cards ; he knew montc 
 and he could work the shells ; later he traveled about, 
 cheating men by all kinds of devices, aided by an in- 
 tuitive knowledge of human nature. He could go 
 through a passenger train from coach to coach and 
 pick out his victims by their backs. As he went through 
 he would suddenly lose his balance, as if by the lurch- 
 ing of the train, and steady himself by the arm of the 
 seat in which his intended victim sat. His confederate, 
 following behind, would note and remember. Later, 
 he would return and invite him to make a fourth hand 
 at whist or pedro or some other game. Dean would do 
 the rest. He went to all large gatherings — political con- 
 ventions, especially national conventions, conclaves, 
 celebrations, world's fairs, the opening of any new strip 
 of land in the West, the gold-fields of Alaska, and so 
 on. He had roamed all over the United States ; he had 
 been to Europe, and Cuba, and Jamaica, and Old Mcx- 
 
194 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ico; he had visited Hawaii; he boasted that he had 
 traveled the whole world over — ''from St. Petersburg 
 to Cape Breton" was the v/ay he put it, and it im- 
 pressed his hearers all the more because most of them 
 had none but the most confused notion of where either 
 place was. He boasted, too, that United States sen- 
 ators, cabinet officers, congressmen, governors, finan- 
 ciers and other prominent men had been among his 
 victims, and many of these boasts were justified — by 
 the facts, at least. 
 
 The atmosphere of the bar-room had been changed 
 by the arrival of Dean. It lost Its usual serenity and 
 quivered with excitement. The deference shown to 
 Dean was marked in the attitude of the men In his 
 suite; It was marked, too, by the bartender's attitude, 
 and even In that of GIbbs, though GIbbs was more 
 quiet and self-contained, bearing himself, indeed, quite 
 as Dean's equal. He did not look at Dean often, but 
 stood at his bar with his head lowered, gazing thought- 
 fully at the glass of mineral water he was drinking, 
 turning It round and round In his fingers, with a faint 
 smile on his lips. But no one could tell whether the 
 amusement came from his own thoughts or the little 
 adventures Dean was relating. 
 
 "No, I'm going out In the morning," Dean was say- 
 ing, the diamond on his white, delicate hand flashing as 
 he lifted his glass. 
 
 "Which way ?" asked Gibbs. 
 
 "I'm working eastward," said Dean. "Here!" he 
 turned to the bartender, "let's have another — and get 
 another barrel of water for Dan." 
 
 He smiled with what tolerance he could find for a 
 man who did not drink. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 195 
 
 "How much of that stuff do you lap up in a week, 
 Dan?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," Gibbs said. He was not quick 
 at repartee. 
 
 "Well, slush up, but don't make yourself sick," Dean 
 went on. 
 
 The bartender, moving briskly about, pressed the 
 cork from a bottle, poured a few drops into Dean's 
 glass, and then proceeded to fill the other glasses. 
 
 "Well, how's the graft ?" Gibbs asked presently. 
 
 "Oh, fairly good," said Dean. "A couple of bucks 
 yesterday." He switched his leg with the slender stick 
 he carried. 
 
 Gibbs's eyes lighted with humorous interest and 
 pleasure. 
 
 "They were coming out of St. Louis," Dean went 
 on, and then, as if he had perhaps given an exaggerated 
 impression of the transaction, he went on in a quick, 
 explicatory way : "Oh, it didn't amount to much — ^just 
 for the fun of the thing, you know. But say, who do 
 you think I saw in St. Louis ?" 
 
 "Don't know," said Gibbs, shaking his head. 
 
 "Why, old Tom Young." 
 
 "No!" exclaimed Gibbs, looking up in genuine in- 
 terest and surprise. 
 
 "Sure," said Dean. 
 
 'What's he doing?" 
 
 "He made the big touch, quit the business, got a 
 farm in Illinois, and settled down with Lou. The girl's 
 grown up, just out of a seminary, and the boy's in col- 
 lege. He said he'd like me to see the place, but he 
 wouldn't take me out 'cause the girl was home then. 
 Remember the old joint in the alley ?" 
 
196 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Gibbs's eyes kindled with lively memories. 
 
 "Remember that afterncxDn Bob's man came down 
 for the brace-box? I can see Tom now — ^he gets the 
 box and says, Tell Bob not to frisk him/ God ! They 
 sent that mark through the alley that afternoon to a 
 fare-you-well. And they had hell's own time keepin' 
 the box in advance of 'em — it was the only one in the 
 alley. Remember?" 
 
 Gibbs remembered, but that did not keep Dean from 
 relating the whole story. 
 
 "What became of Steve Harris ?" Dean asked. 
 
 "He's out with the rag, I guess," Gibbs replied. 
 
 "I heard Winnie sold her place." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Gibbs ; "bought a little home in the 
 swell part — quiet street and all that — and they're living 
 there happy as you please." 
 
 "Well, that's good," said Dean. "Steve and me was 
 with the John Robinson show in the old days. He was 
 holdin' a board for the monte tickets, and old Pappy 
 King was cappin' for the game. I remember one night 
 in Danville, Kentucky" — and Dean told another story. 
 The stories were all alike, having for their theme the 
 despoilment of some simpleton who had tried to beat 
 Dean or his confederates at one of their own numerous 
 games. 
 
 "I was holding the shingle for Jim Steele when he 
 was playing the broads, you understand. He was the 
 greatest spieler ever. I can see him now, taking up the 
 tickets, looking around and saying : Ts there a specu- 
 lator in the party?' " 
 
 Dean's face was alight with the excitement of dram- 
 atizing the long-past scene. He laid his stick on the bar 
 and bent over, with his white fingers held as if they 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 197 
 
 poised cards. He was a good mimic. One could easily 
 imagine the scene on the trampled grass, with the white 
 canvas tents of the circus for a background. 
 
 "Dick Nolan and Joe Hipp were capping, and Dick 
 would come up — he had the best gilly make-up in the 
 world, you understand, a paper collar, a long linen 
 duster and big green mush — ^he'd look over the cards — 
 see?" — Dean leaned over awkwardly like a country- 
 man, pointing with a crooked forefinger — ^"'and then 
 he'd say,. T think it's that one.' " 
 
 His voice had changed ; he spoke in the cracked tone 
 of the farmer, and his little audience laughed. 
 
 "Well, the guy hollers, you understand, but at the 
 come-back they're all swipes — working in the horse 
 tents ; you'd never know 'em. And then," Dean went 
 on, with the exquisite pleasure of remembering, "old 
 Ben Mellott was there working the send — ^you remem- 
 ber Ben, Dan?'* 
 
 Gibbs nodded. 
 
 "Jake Rend was running the side-show, and old Jew 
 Cohen had a dollar store — a, drop-case, you know." 
 
 Gibbs nodded again. Dean grew meditative, and a 
 silence fell on the group. 
 
 "We had a great crowd of knucks, too ; the guns to- 
 day are nothing to them. Those were the days, Dan. 
 Course, there wasn't much in it at that." 
 
 Dean meditated over the lost days a moment, and 
 then he grew cheerful again. 
 
 "I met Luke Evans last fall, Dan," he began again. 
 "In England. The major and I were running between 
 London and Liverpool, working the steamer trains, and 
 him and me — " 
 
 And he was off into another story. Having taken up 
 
198 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 his English experience, Dean now told a number of 
 vulgar stories, using the English accent, which he could 
 imitate perfectly. While in the midst of one of them, 
 he suddenly started at a footfall, and looked hastily 
 over his shoulder. A man came in, glanced about, and 
 came confidently forward. 
 
 "Good morning, Danny," he said, in a tone of tlie 
 greatest familiarity. 
 
 Gibbs answered the greeting soberly, and then, at a 
 sign from the man, stepped aside rather reluctantly and 
 whispered with him. Dean eyed them narrowly, took 
 in the fellow's attire from his straw hat to his damp 
 shoes, and, when he could catch Gibbs's eye, he crooked 
 his left arm, touched it significantly, and lifted his 
 eyebrows in sign of question. Gibbs shook his head 
 in a negative that had a touch of contempt for the im- 
 plication, and then drew the man toward the bar. With- 
 out the man's seeing him or hearing him. Dean touched 
 his arm again and said to Gibbs softly : 
 
 "Elbow?" 
 
 "No," said Gibbs, "reporter." 
 
 Then he turned and, speaking to the new-comer, he 
 presented him to Dean, saying : 
 
 "Mr. Jordon, make you acquainted with Mr. Wales, 
 of the Courier/^ 
 
 "Glad to meet you, Mr. Jordon," said the newspaper 
 man. 
 
 "Ah, chawmed, I'm suah," said Dean, keeping to the 
 English accent he had just been using. "I say, won't 
 you join us?" 
 
 The bartender, at a glance from Dean, produced 
 another bottle of champagne ; the newspaper man's 
 eyes glistened with pleasure* Dean was taking out his 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 199 
 
 cigarette case. Wales glanced at the cigarettes, and 
 Dean hastened to proffer them. In conversation with 
 the reporter Dean impersonated an English follower of 
 the turf who had brought some horses to America. As 
 he did this, actor that he was, he became more and 
 more interested in his impromptu monologue, assumed 
 the character perfectly and lived into it, and the others 
 there who knew of the deceit he was practising on the 
 reporter — he was nearly always practising some sort of 
 deceit, but seldom so innocently as now — were utterly 
 delighted ; they listened to his guying until nearly mid- 
 night, when Dean, having sustained the character of 
 the Englishman for more than two hours, grew weary 
 and said he must go. As he was leaving he said to the 
 reporter : 
 
 "You've been across, of course? No? Well, really 
 now, that's quite too bad, don't you know ! But I say, 
 whenever you come, you must look me up, if you don't 
 mind, at Tarlingham Towers. I've a bit of a place 
 down in the Surrey country ; I've a beast there that's 
 just about up to your weight. Have you ever ridden 
 to the hounds ?" 
 
 The reporter was delighted ; he felt that a distinction 
 had been conferred upon him. Wishing to show his 
 appreciation, he asked Dean, or Jordan, as he was to 
 him, if he might print an interview. Dean graciously 
 consented, and the reporter left for his office, glad of a 
 story with which to justify to his city editor, at least 
 partly, his wasted evening. 
 
 When Dean had gone, taking his three companions 
 with him, Gibbs and Mason sat for a long while in the 
 back room. 
 
 "So that's Eddie Dean!" said Mason. 
 
20O THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 "Yes," said Gibbs, "thaf s him.'' 
 
 "And what's his graft r 
 
 "Oh," said Gibbs, "the send, the bull con, the big 
 mitt, the cross lift — anything in that line." 
 
 "And those two other guys with him ?" asked Mason. 
 
 "That little one is Willie the Rat, the other is Gaff- 
 ney." 
 
 "Sure-thing men, too?" 
 
 "Yes, they're in Ed's mob." 
 
 Mason was still for a while, then he observed : 
 
 "Je's ! He did make a monkey of that cove !'* 
 
 Gibbs laughed. "Oh, he's a great cod ! Why, do you 
 know what he did once ? Well, he went to Lord Pais- 
 ley's ball in Quebec, impersonating Sir Charles Jordon 
 — that's why I introduced him as Mr. Jordon to- 
 night." Gibbs's eyes twinkled. "He went in to look for 
 a rummy, but the flatties got on and tipped him off." 
 
 "He's smart." 
 
 "Yes, the smartest in the business. He's made sev- 
 eral ten-century touches." 
 
 Gibbs thought seriously a moment and then said : 
 
 "No, he isn't smart; he's a damn fool, like all of 
 them." 
 
 "Fall?" 
 
 "Yes, settled twice ; done a two-spot at Joliet and a 
 finiff at Ionia." 
 
 Mason knit his brows and thought a long time, while 
 Gibbs smoked. Finally Mason shook his head. 
 
 "No," he said, "no, Dan, I don't get it. I can under- 
 stand knocking off a peter — ^the stuff's right there. All 
 you do is to go take it. I can understand a hold-up, 
 or a heel, or a prowl; I can see how a gun reefs a 
 britch kick and gets a poke — ^though I couldn't put my 
 
THE TURN OF the BALANCE 201 
 
 hand in a barrel myself and get it out again — without 
 breaking the barrel. I haven't any use for that kind, 
 which you know — but these sure-thing games, the big 
 mitt and the bull con — no, Dan, I can't get hip." 
 
 Gibbs laughed. 
 
 "Well, I can't explain it, Joe. You heard him string 
 that chump to-night." 
 
 Mason dropped that phase of the question and 
 promptly said : 
 
 "Dan, I suppose there's games higher up, ain't they ?" 
 
 Gibbs laughed a superior laugh. 
 
 "Higher up ? Joe, there's games that beat his just as 
 much as his beats yours. I could name you men — " 
 Then he paused. 
 
 Mason had grown very solemn. He was not listening 
 at all to Gibbs, and, after a moment or two, he looked 
 up and said earnestly : 
 
 "Dan, what you said a while back is dead right. I'm 
 a damn fool. Look at me now — I've done twenty years, 
 and in all my time I've had less than two thousand 
 bucks." 
 
 Gibbs was about to speak, but Mason was too seri- 
 ous to let himself be interrupted. 
 
 "I was thinking it all over to-night, and I decided — 
 know what I decided ?" 
 
 Gibbs shook his head. 
 
 "I decided," Mason went on, "to square it without 
 waiting for the big touch." Gibbs was not impressed ; 
 the good thieves were always considering reformation. 
 "I know I can't get anything to do— I'm too old, and 
 besides — ^well, you know." Mason let the situation 
 speak for itself. "I'm about all in, but I was thinking, 
 Dan, this here place you've got in the country, can't 
 
202 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 you — " Mason hesitated a little — "can't you let me work 
 around there? Just my board and a few clothes?" 
 Mason leaned forward eagerly. 
 
 "You know, Joe," said Gibbs, seeing that Mason 
 was serious, "that as long as I've got a place you can 
 have a home with me. I'm going to take Kate out there 
 and live. I've got the place almost paid for." 
 
 Mason leaned back, tried to speak, paused, swal- 
 lowed, and moistened his lips. 
 
 "I worried about Slim to-night," he managed to say 
 presently. It was hard for him to give utterance to 
 thoughts that he considered sentimental. "My treating 
 him so, you s^b — that I decided; I want to try it. 
 That's why I \|ouldn't go with him ; he didn't under- 
 stand, but maybe I can explain. As I was thinking to- 
 night, my head went off again — that stir simple, you 
 know." 
 
 He raised his hand to his head and Gibbs was con- 
 cerned. 
 
 "You'd better take a little drink, Joe," he said. 
 
 After Gibbs had brought the whisky, they sat there 
 and discussed the future until the early summer dawn 
 was red. 
 
Dillon, Archie, Mandell and Squeak had left the city 
 that morning. Dillon was gloomy and morose because 
 Mason had refused to join him. He had been disap- 
 pointed, too, in Curly, but not so much surprised, for 
 Curly was so strange and mysterious that nothing he 
 might do could surprise his friends. Cedarville was far 
 away, in Illinois, and long before daylight the four 
 men had started on their journey in a freight-train. 
 Dillon's plan was to rob the bank that night. He had 
 chosen Saturday night because a Sunday would prob- 
 ably intervene before discovery, and thus give them 
 time to escape. But the journey was beset by diffi- 
 culties ; the train spent long hours in switching, in cut- 
 ting out and putting in cars, and at such times the four 
 men had been compelled to get off and hide, lest the 
 trainmen detect them. Besides, the train made long in- 
 explicable stops, standing on a siding, with nothing to 
 mar the stillness but the tired exhaust of the engine and 
 the drone of the wide country-side. At noon the empty 
 box-car in which the men had been riding was cut out 
 and left stranded at a village ; after that, unable to find 
 another empty car, they rode on a car that was laden 
 with lumber, but this, too, was cut out and left behind. 
 Then they rode in most uncomfortable and dangerous 
 positions on the timber-heads over the couplings. Half- 
 way to Cedarville they met the storm. It had been 
 
 203 
 
204 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 gathering all the morning, and now it broke suddenly ; 
 the rain came down in torrents, and they were drenched 
 to the skin. Mandell, who was intensely afraid of 
 lightning, suffered agonies, and threatened to abandon 
 the mob at the first opportunity. Late in the after- 
 noon, just as the train was pulling into the village of 
 Romeo, the rear brakeman discovered them, called the 
 conductor and the front brakeman, and ordered the 
 men to leave the train. 
 
 ''Stick and slug!" cried Mandell, made irritable by 
 the storm. But Dillon repressed him. 
 
 "Unload !" he commanded. ''Don't goat 'em." 
 
 Archie, on the other side of the car, had not been 
 seen clearly by the trainmen, but the others had, and 
 though Dillon made them all get off, he could not keep 
 Squeak from stopping long enough to curse the train- 
 men with horrible oaths. Then the train went on and 
 left them. 
 
 At evening they went into the woods and built a fire. 
 There were discouragements as to the fire; the wood 
 was wet, but finally they achieved a blaze, and Dillon 
 went into the village after food. When he returned the 
 fire was going well, the men had dried their clothes, 
 and their habitual spirits had returned. In the water of 
 a creek Dillon washed the can he had found, and made 
 tea; they cooked bacon on pointed sticks, broke the 
 bread and cheese, and ate their supper. Then, in the 
 comfort that came of dry clothes and warmth and the 
 first meal they had eaten that day, they sat about, rolled 
 cigarettes, and waited for the night. Then darkness 
 fell, Dillon made them put out the fire, and they 
 tramped across the fields to the railroad. 
 
 "We'll wait here for the John O'Brien," said Dillon, 
 
THE TURN on THE BALANCE 205 
 
 when they came to the water-tank, "We must get the 
 jug to-night — that'll give us all day to-morrow for the 
 get-away." 
 
 They waited then, and waited, while the summer 
 night deepened to silence; once, the headlight of an 
 engine sent its long light streaming down the track; 
 they made ready ; the train came swaying toward them. 
 
 "Hell!" exclaimed Mandell, in the disappointment 
 that was common to all of them. "It's a rattler !" And 
 the lighted windows of a passenger-train swept by. 
 
 They waited and waited, and no freight-train came. 
 At midnight, when they were all stiff and cold, Dillon 
 ordered them into the village. They were glad enough 
 to go. In the one business street of the town they 
 found a building in which a light gleamed. They 
 glanced through a window ; it was the post-office. Then 
 Dillon changed his plan in that ease with which he 
 could change any plan, and forgot the little bank at 
 Cedarville. He placed Squeak at the rear of the build- 
 ing, Mandell in the front. 
 
 "Come on, Dutch," he said. 
 
 He took Archie with him because he was not so sure 
 of him as he was of the two other men, though Archie 
 felt that he had been honored above them. He followed 
 Dillon into the deep shadows that lay between the post- 
 office and the building next door. He kept close behind 
 Dillon, and watched with excitement while Dillon's tall 
 form bent before one of the windows. Dillon was 
 groping; presently he stood upright, his back bowed, 
 he strained and grunted and swore, then the screws 
 gave, and Dillon wrenched the little iron bars from the 
 windows. 
 
 "Come on," he said. 
 
2o6 THE TURN OF THE BALANCfi 
 
 He was crawling through the window; Archie fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Inside, Dillon stood upright, holding Archie behind 
 him, and peered about in the dim light from the oil 
 lamp that burned before a tin reflector on the wall. 
 The safe was in the light. Dillon looked back, made a 
 mental note of the window's location, and put out the 
 lamp. Then he lighted a candle and knelt before the 
 safe. 
 
 Archie stood with his revolver in his hand; Dillon 
 laid his on the floor beside him. Then from the pocket 
 of his coat he drew out some soap; a moment more 
 and Archie could see him plastering up the crevices 
 about the door of the safe, leaving but one opening, in 
 the middle of the top of the door. Then out of the soap 
 he fashioned about this opening a crude little cup. 
 Archie watched intently. Dillon worked rapidly, ex- 
 pertly, and yet, as Archie noted, not so rapidly nor so 
 expertly as Curly had worked. Curly was considered 
 one of the most skilful men in the business, but Dillon 
 was older and could tell famous tales of the old days 
 when they had blown gophers — the days when they 
 used to drill the safes and pour in powder. Dillon's 
 age was telling; his fingers were clumsy and knotted 
 with rheumatism, and now and then they trembled. 
 
 "Now the soup," Dillon was saying, quite to himself, 
 and he poured the nitroglycerin from a bottle into the 
 little cup he had made of soap. 
 
 "And the string," said Archie, anxious to display 
 his knowledge. 
 
 "Cheese it !" Dillon commanded. 
 
 He was fixing a fulminating cap to the end of a fuse, 
 and he inserted this into the cup. Then he plastered it 
 
Archie could see him plastering up th 
 
 e crevices Page 206 
 
'c e • « c « c' '^ c t ' ' ' ' . ' . c 
 
 . ; OF THE ^ 
 
tHE TURN OF THE BALANCE 207 
 
 all over with soap, picked up his revolver, lighted the 
 slow fuse from the candle, and, rising quickly, he 
 stepped back, drawing Archie with him. They stood in 
 a corner of the room watching the creeping spark; a 
 moment more and there was the thud of an explosion, 
 and Dillon was springing toward the safe; he seized 
 the handle, opened the heavy door, and was down with 
 his candle peering into its dark interior. He went 
 through it rapidly, drew out the stamps and the cur- 
 rency and the coin. Another moment and they were 
 outside. Mandell and Squeak were where Dillon had 
 left them. 
 "AU right," Dillon said. "Lam!" 
 
VI 
 
 A week later, returning by a roundabout way, Dillon 
 and his companions came back to town. That night 
 Dillon, Archie, Squeak, Mandell and Mason were ar- 
 rested. When Archie was taken up to the detectives' 
 office and found himself facing Kouka, his heart sank. 
 
 "Couldn't take a little friendly advice, could you?" 
 said Kouka, thrusting forward his black face. 
 
 Archie was dumb. 
 
 "Where'd you get that gat ?" Kouka demanded. 
 
 Still Archie was dumb. 
 
 "You might as well tell," Kouka said. "Your pals 
 have split on you." 
 
 Archie had heard of that ruse ; he did not think any 
 of them would confess, and he was certain they had 
 not done so when Kouka referred to his revolver, for 
 no one but Jackson knew where he had got the weapon. 
 After an hour Kouka gave it up, temporarily at least, 
 and sent Archie back to the prison. 
 
 The next morning all five men were taken to the of- 
 fice of the detectives. Besides Kouka, Quinn and In- 
 spector McFee, there were two others, one of whom the 
 prisoners instantly recognized as Detective Carney. Dil- 
 lon and Mason had long known Carney, and respected 
 him ; he was the only detective in the city whom they 
 did respect, for this silent, undemonstrative man, with 
 the weather-beaten face, white hair and shrewd blue 
 eyes, had a profound knowledge of all classes o£ thieves 
 
 208 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 209 
 
 and their ways. Indeed, this knowledge, which made 
 Carney the most efficient detective in the city, mihtated 
 against him with his superiors ; he knew too much for 
 their comfort. As for Kouka and the other detectives, 
 they were jealous of him, though he never interfered 
 in their work nor offered suggestion or criticism ; but 
 they all felt instinctively that he contemned them. 
 When Dillon saw Carney his heart sank ; Mason's, on 
 the contrary, rose. Carney gave no sign of recognition ; 
 it was plain that he was a mere spectator. But when 
 Dillon saw the other man he whispered to Mason out 
 of the corner of his mouth : 
 
 "It's all off." 
 
 This man was a tall, well-built fellow, with iron-gray 
 hair, a ruddy face and a small black mustache above 
 full red lips ; he was dressed in gray, and he bore him- 
 self as something above the other officers present be- 
 cause he was an United States inspector. His name 
 was Fallen. He glanced at the five men, and smiled 
 and nodded complacently. 
 
 "I thought it looked like one of your jobs," he said, 
 addressing Dillon and Mason jointly. Dillon could not 
 refrain from nudging Mason, and in the same instant 
 he caught Carney's eye. Carney winked quietly, and 
 Dillon smiled, and to hide the smile, self-consciously 
 ducked his head and spat out his tobacco. 
 
 "Well," said Fallen, "I'm much obliged to you men." 
 He included McFee officially, and Kouka and Quinn 
 personally in this acknowledgment. "I'll have the mar- 
 shal come for them after dinner. I want Mason there 
 and Dillon" — he pointed fiercely and menacingly — 
 "and Mandell and that kid." He was indicating 
 Squeak. "What's your name?" he demanded. 
 
210 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Squeak hesitated, then said : "Davis." 
 
 Fallen laughed in his superior, federal way, and said : 
 
 "That'll do as well as any." 
 
 Then he looked at Archie. 
 
 *T don't want him," he said. "He doesn^t belong to 
 this gang; he wasn't there. There were only four of 
 them. You can cut him out." 
 
 Kouka and Quinn looked at each other in surprise ; 
 they were about to protest. In Archie's heart, as he 
 watched this little drama, a wild hope flamed. Carney, 
 too, looked up, showing the first interest he had 
 evinced. Something in his look deterred Fallen, held 
 his eye. He knew Carney and his reputation; his 
 glance plainly implied a question. 
 
 "You're wrong on that fellow Mason," said Carney. 
 
 Fallen looked at him, then at Mason ; then he smiled 
 his superior smile. 
 
 "Oh, I guess not," he said lightly. He turned away 
 with his complacent, insulting smile. 
 
 "All right," said Carney. "YouVe got him wrong, 
 that's all. He's been here in town for three weeks. Of 
 course, it's nothing to me — 'tain't my business." He 
 plunged his hands in his trousers pockets and walked 
 over to the window. 
 
 The men in the chained line shuffled uneasily. 
 
 "Do I get out now ?" Archie asked. 
 
 Kouka laughed. 
 
 "Yes — when I'm through with you." 
 
 That afternoon Dillon, Mason, Mandell and Squeak 
 were taken to the county jail on warrants charging 
 them with the robbery of the post-office at Romeo. 
 
 Gibbs appeared at the jail early that evening, his 
 blue eyes filled with a distress that made them almost 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 211 
 
 as innocent as they must have been when he was a 
 little child. 
 
 "I just heard of the pinch," he said apologetically. 
 
 "Didn't they send you word last night?" asked 
 Dillon. 
 
 Gibbs shook his head impatiently, as if it were use- 
 less to waste time in discussing such improbabilities. 
 
 "Never mind," he said. "I'll send a mouthpiece," 
 
 "Yes, do, Dan," said Mason. "We want a hearing." 
 
 "Well, now, leave all that to me, Joe," said Gibbs. 
 "I'll send you some tobacco and have John fetch in 
 some chuck." 
 
 Gibbs attended to their little wants, but he had diffi- 
 culty as to the lawyer. He had, from time to time, em- 
 ployed various lawyers in the city, being guided in his 
 selections, not by the reputed abilities of the lawyers, 
 but by his notions of their pull with the authorities. 
 Formerly he had employed Frisby on the recommenda- 
 tion of Cleary, the chief of police, with whom Frisby 
 divided such fees, but Frisby's charges were extortion- 
 ate, and lately, Gibbs understood, his influence was 
 waning. In thinking over the other lawyers, he recalled 
 Shelley Thomas, but Thomas, he found, was on a 
 drunk. At last he decided on Marriott. 
 
 "There's nothing to it," he said to Marriott, "espe- 
 cially so far as Mason's concerned; he's a friend of 
 mine. He's in wrong, but these United States inspec- 
 tors will job him if they get a chance." 
 
 Marriott wished that Gibbs had retained some other 
 lawyer. The plight of the men seemed desperate 
 enough. He thought them guilty, and, besides, he 
 wished to go away on his vacation. But his interest 
 deepened ; he found that he was dealing with a greater 
 
212 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 power than he encountered in the ordinary state case ; 
 the power, indeed, of the United States. The officials 
 in the government building were unobliging; Fallen 
 was positively insulting; from none of them could he 
 receive any satisfaction. The hearing was not set, and 
 then one evening Fallen mysteriously disappeared. 
 Marriott was enraged, Gibbs was desperate, and Mar- 
 riott found himself sharing Gibbs's concern. 
 
 Dillon and Mandell and Squeak spoke only of prov- 
 ing an alibi ; they said that Gibbs would arrange this 
 for them. This disheartened Marriott, confirmed his 
 belief in their guilt, and he shrank from placing on the 
 stand the witnesses Gibbs would supply. And then, 
 one afternoon at the jail, a strange experience befell 
 him. Mason was looking at him, his face pressed 
 against the bars ; he fixed his eyes on him, and, speak- 
 ing slowly, with his peculiar habit of moistening his 
 lips and swallowing between his words, he said : 
 
 "You think I'm guilty of this, Mr. Marriott." 
 
 Marriott tried to smile, and tried to protest, but his 
 looks must have belied him. 
 
 "I know you do," Mason went on, *'but Fm not, Mr. 
 Marriott. I've done time — lots of it, but they've got me 
 wrong now. These inspectors will lie, of course, but I 
 can prove an alibi. What night was the job done ?" 
 
 "The twelfth," said Marriott. 
 
 "That was Saturday, wasn't it ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, that night I was in Gibbs's. There was a mob 
 of sure-thing men in there that night — Ed Dean and 
 the Rat and some others — Gibbs will tell you. I can't 
 subpoena them — they couldn't help ; nobody would be- 
 lieve them, and they dassen't show, anyway." 
 
THE TURN of: THE BALANCE 213 
 
 "Are they — " Marriott felt a delicacy in saying the 
 word. 
 
 "Thieves ?'* said Mason. "Yes — you see how it is.'* 
 
 "Of course," said Marriott. 
 
 "But," Mason went on, "there was a fellow in there 
 — I don't know his name — a reporter ; he put a piece in 
 his paper the next day about Dean. Dean was kidding 
 him — Gibbs can tell you. I wish you'd see him — he'll 
 remember me, and he can fix the time by that piece he 
 wrote." 
 
 Mason paused. i 
 
 "I've done nearly twenty years, Mr. Marriott," he 
 said presently. "That was all right ; they done that on 
 the square; this is the first time they ever had me in 
 wrong. Dillon was with me every time — we worked 
 together — that'll go against me. And them inspectors 
 don't care — they'd just as soon job a fellow as not. All 
 I ask now is a fair show. But those United States 
 courts are a fierce game to put a man up against." 
 
 While Mason was talking a great wave of sympathy 
 swept over Marriott; a conviction came to him that 
 Mason was telling the truth. 
 
 "But," he said as the thought came to him, "can't 
 Dillon and the others help you ?" 
 
 "Well," Mason hesitated. "They've got themselves 
 to look after. I'd rather fall myself than to throw 
 them down. You see Gibbs about that reporter." 
 
 Marriott was convinced that Mason was not deceiv- 
 ing him ; he felt a reproach at his own original lack of 
 faith in the man. As he waited for the turnkey to un- 
 lock the door and let him out, a sickness came over him. 
 The jail was new ; there were many boasts about its 
 modern construction, its sanitary conditions, and all 
 
214 "THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 that, but when he went out, he was glad of the 
 cool air of the evening — it was wholly different from 
 the atmosphere inside, however scientifically pure 
 that may have been. He stopped a moment and looked 
 back at the jail. It lifted its stone walls high above 
 him; it was all clean, orderly, and architecturally not 
 bad to look on. The handsome residence of the sheriff 
 was brilliantly lighted ; there were lace curtains at the 
 windows, and within, doubtless, all the comforts, and 
 yet — the building depressed Marriott. It struck him, 
 though he could not then tell why, as a hideous anach- 
 ronism. He thought of the men mewed within its 
 stone walls ; he could see Dillon's long eager face, ugly 
 with its stubble of beard ; he could see the reproach 
 in Mason's eyes ; he could see the shadowy forms of 
 the other prisoners, walking rapidly up and down 
 the corridors in their cramped exercises — how many 
 were guilty? how many innocent? He could not tell; 
 none could tell ; they perhaps could not tell themselves. 
 A great pity for them all filled his breast ; he longed to 
 set them all free. He wished this burden were lifted 
 from him ; he wished Gibbs had never come to him ; he 
 wished he could forget Mason — but he could not, and a 
 great determination seized him to liberate this man, to 
 prevent this great injustice which was gathering om- 
 inously in the world, drawing within its coils not only 
 Mason, but all those who, like Fallen and the other offi- 
 cials, were concerned in the business, even though they 
 remained free in the outer world. And Marriott had 
 one more thought : if he could not prevent the injustice, 
 would it taint him, too, as it must taint all who came 
 in contact with it ? He shuddered with a vague, super- 
 stitious fear. 
 
THE tURN OF THE BALANCE 215 
 
 Marriott found Wales, who recalled the evening at 
 Gibbs's, consulted the files of his newspaper, made sure 
 of the date, and then went with Marriott to the jail 
 and looked through the bars into Mason's expectant 
 eyes. He prolonged his inspection, plainly for the 
 effect. Presently he said : 
 
 "Yes, he was there." 
 
 ''You'll swear to it ?" asked Marriott. 
 
 "Sure," said Wales, "with pleasure." 
 
 There was relief in Mason's eyes and in his manner, 
 as there was relief in Marriott's mind. 
 
 "That makes it all right, Joe," he said, and Mason 
 smiled gratefully. Marriott left the jail happy. His 
 faith was restored. The universe resumed its order and 
 its reason. After all, he said to himself, justice will 
 triumph. He felt now that he could await the prelim- 
 inary hearing with calmness. Wales's identification of 
 Mason made it certain that he could establish an alibi 
 for him ; he must depend on Gibbs for the others, but 
 somehow he did not care so much for them ; they had 
 not appealed to him as Mason had, whether because of 
 his conviction that they were guilty or not, he could not 
 say. The hearing was set for Thursday at two o'clock, 
 but Marriott looked forward to it with the assurance 
 that as to Mason, at least, there was no doubt of the 
 outcome. 
 
VII 
 
 Although Fallen had told the police they could set 
 Archie free, the police did not set him free. 
 
 "It's that fellow Kouka," Archie explained to Mar- 
 riott. "He's got it in for me ; he wants to see me get 
 the gaff." 
 
 That afternoon Archie was legally charged with be- 
 ing a "suspicious person." The penalty for being thus 
 suspected by the police was a fine of fifty dollars and 
 imprisonment in the workhouse for sixty days. Mar- 
 riott was angry ; the business was growing complicated. 
 He began to fear that he would never get away on his 
 vacation; he was filled with hatred for Fallen, for 
 Kouka, because just now they personified a system 
 against which he felt himself powerless ; finally, he was 
 angry with Archie, with Dillon, even with Mason, for 
 their stupidity in getting into such desperate scrapes. 
 
 "They're fools — that's what they are," he said to 
 himself ; "they're crazy men." But at this thought he 
 softened. When he recalled Mason in his cell at the 
 jail, and Archie in the old prison at the Central Sta- 
 tion, his anger gave way to pity. He resolved to give 
 up his vacation, if necessary, and fight for their release. 
 He determined to demand a jury to try Archie on this 
 charge of suspicion ; he knew how Bostwick and all the 
 attaches of the police court disliked to have a jury de- 
 manded, because it made them trouble. As he walked 
 up the street he began to arrange the speech he would 
 
 216 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 217 
 
 make in Archie's defense; presently, he noticed that 
 persons turned and looked at him ; he knew he had been 
 talking to himself, and he felt silly ; these people would 
 think him crazy. This dampened his ardor, crushed his 
 imagination and ruined his speech. He began to think 
 of Mason again ; he would have to let Archie's case go 
 until after Mason had had a hearing ; he must do one 
 thing at a time. 
 
 Archie had been able to endure the confinement as 
 long as Mason and Dillon and Mandell and Squeak 
 were there ; the five men had formed a class by them- 
 selves ; they had a certain superiority in the eyes of the 
 other prisoners, who were confined for drunkenness, 
 for disturbance, for fighting, for petty thefts and other 
 insignificant offenses. But when his companions were 
 taken away, when his own hope of liberty failed, he 
 grew morose. The city prison was an incredibly filthy 
 place. The walls dripped always with dampness. High 
 up, a single gas-jet burned economically in its mantle, 
 giving the place the only light it ever knew. A bench 
 ran along the wall below it, and on this bench the 
 prisoners sat all day and talked, or stretched themselves 
 and slept ; now and then, for exercise, they tried chin- 
 ning themselves from the little iron gallery that ran 
 around the cells of the upper tier. Twice a day they 
 were fed on bologna and coffee and bread. At night 
 they were locked in cells, the lights were put out, and 
 the place became a hideous bedlam. Men snored from 
 gross dissipations, vermin crawled, rats raced about, 
 and the drunken men, whose bodies from time to time 
 were thrown into the place, went mad with terror 
 when they awoke from their stupors, and cursed and 
 blasphemed. The crawling vermin and the scuttling 
 
2i8 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 rats, the noises that suggested monsters, made their 
 delirium real. The atmosphere of the prison was foul, 
 compounded of the fumes of alcohol exhaled by all 
 those gaping mouths, of the feculence of all those 
 filthy bodies, of the foul odors of the slop-pails, of the 
 germs of all the diseases that had been brought to the 
 place in forty years. Archie could not sleep; no one 
 could sleep except those who were overcome by liquor, 
 and they had awful nightmares. 
 
 His few moments of relief came when the turnkey, 
 a man who had been embruted by long years of locking 
 other men in the prison, opened the door, called him 
 with a curse and turned him over to Kouka. Then the 
 respite ended. He was subjected to new terrors, to 
 fresh horrors, surpassing those physical terrors of the 
 night by infinity. For Kouka and Quinn took him into 
 a little room off the detectives' office, closed and locked 
 the door, and then for two hours questioned him about 
 the robbery of the post-office at Romeo, about countless 
 other robberies in the city and out of it ; they accused 
 him of a hundred crimes, pressed him to tell where he 
 had stolen the revolver. They bent their wills against 
 his, they shook their fingers under his nose, their fists 
 in his face ; they told him they knew where he had got 
 the revolver; they told him that his companions had 
 confessed. He was borne down and beaten; he felt 
 himself grow weak and faint ; at times a nausea over- 
 came him — he was wringing with perspiration. 
 
 The first day of this ordeal he sat in utter silence, sus- 
 tained by dogged Teutonic stubbornness. That after- 
 noon they renewed the torture ; still he did not reply. 
 
 The morning of the second day, though weakened in 
 body and mind, he still maintained his stubbornness; 
 that afternoon they had brought McFee with a fresh 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 219 
 
 will to bear on him. By evening he told them he had 
 stolen the revolver in Chicago. He did this in the hope 
 of peace. It did gain him a respite, but not for long. 
 The next morning they told him he had lied and he 
 admitted it ; then he gave them a dozen explanations of 
 his possession of the revolver, all different and all false. 
 Then, toward evening, Kouka suddenly fell upon him, 
 knocked him from his chair with a blow, and then, as 
 he lay on the floor, beat him with his enormous hairy 
 fists. Quinn, the only other person in the room, stood 
 by and looked on. Finally, Quinn grew alarmed and 
 said: 
 
 "Cheese it, Ike ! Cheese it V* 
 
 Kouka stopped and got up. 
 
 Archie was weeping, his whole body trembling, his 
 nerves gone. That night he lay moaning in his ham- 
 mock, and the man in the cell under him and the man in 
 the cell next him, cursed him. In the morning they 
 took him again up to the detective's office ; this was the 
 morning of the third day. Archie was in a daze, his 
 mind was no longer clear, and he wondered vaguely, 
 but with scarcely any interest, why it was that Kouka 
 looked so smiling and pleasant. 
 
 "Set down. Arch, old boy," Kouka said, "and let me 
 tell you all about it." 
 
 And then Kouka told him just where he had stolen 
 the revolver, and when, and how — told him, indeed, 
 more about the hardware store and the owners of it 
 than Archie had ever known. jVnd yet Archie did not 
 seem surprised at this. He felt numbly that it was no 
 longer worth while to deny it — he wondered why he 
 ever had denied it in the first place. It did not matter ; 
 nothing mattered; there was no difference betweea 
 things — ^they were all the same. But presently his mind 
 
220 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 became suddenly clear; he was conscious that there 
 was one unanswered question in the world. 
 
 *'Say, Kouka," he said, '1iow did you tumble?" 
 
 Kouka laughed. He was in fine humor that morning. 
 
 *'Oh, it's no use, my boy," he said ; "it's no use ; you 
 can't fool your Uncle Isaac. You'd better 'ave taken 
 his advice long ago — and been a good boy." 
 
 "That's all right," said Archie, a strange calm having 
 come to him because of the change in the world, *'but 
 who put you wise ?" 
 
 Kouka looked at Quinn and smiled, and then he 
 said to Archie : 
 
 *'0h, what you don't know won't hurt you." 
 
 Then he had Archie taken back to the prison, but 
 before they locked him up Kouka gave him a box of 
 cigarettes he had taken from a prostitute whom he had 
 arrested the night before, and he left Archie leaning 
 against the door of the prison smoking one of the 
 cigarettes. 
 
 "What have they been doing to you ?" asked a pris- 
 oner. 
 
 "The third degree," said Archie laconically. 
 
 The knowledge which Kouka preferred to shroud in 
 mystery had been obtained in a simple way. Glancing 
 over the records in the detective's office, he had by 
 chance come across an old report of the robbery of a 
 hardware store. Kouka had taken the revolver found 
 on Archie to the merchant, and the merchant had iden- 
 tified it. That evening Harriott read in the newspapers 
 conspicuous accounts of the brilliant work of Detective 
 Kouka in solving the mystery that had surrounded a 
 desperate burglary. The articles gave Kouka the great- 
 est praise. 
 
VIII 
 
 The United States court-room had been closed ever 
 since court adjourned in May, but when it was thrown 
 open for the hearing of the case against Dillon and 
 Mason and the rest, it was immediately imbued with 
 the atmosphere of federal authority. This atmosphere, 
 cold, austere and formal, smote Marriott like a blast 
 the moment he pushed through the green baize doors. 
 
 The great court-room was furnished in black wal- 
 nut ; the dark walls immediately absorbed the light that 
 came through the tall windows. On the wall behind the 
 bench was an oil portrait of a former judge ; Marriott 
 could see it now in the slanting light — the grave and 
 solemn face, smooth-shaven, with the fine white hair 
 above it, expressing somehow the older ideals of the re- 
 public. On the wall, laureled Roman fasces were paint- 
 ed in gilt. The whole room was somber and gloomy, 
 suggesting the power of a mighty government poised 
 menacingly above its people; there were hints of au- 
 thority and old precedents in that atmosphere. 
 
 The reason the room held this atmosphere was that 
 the judge who ordinarily sat on the bench had been ap- 
 pointed to his position for life, and there were no real 
 checks on his power. For twenty years before he had 
 been appointed this man had been the attorney for great 
 corporations, had amassed a fortune in their promotion 
 and defense, and, as a result, his sympathies and preju- 
 dices were with the rich and powerful. He knew noth- 
 
 221 
 
222 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ing of the common currents and impulses of humanity, 
 having never been brought in contact with the people ; 
 the almost unlimited power he wielded, and was to 
 wield until he died, made him, quite naturally, auto- 
 cratic, and he had impressed his character on the room 
 and on all who held official positions there. The clerks, 
 commissioners and assistant prosecutors whom he ap- 
 pointed imitated him and acquired his habits of 
 thought, for they received his opinions just as they re- 
 ceived his orders. 
 
 Marriott sat at the table and waited, and while he 
 waited looked about. He looked at Wilkison, the com- 
 missioner; the judge had appointed him to his place; 
 the amount of fees he received depended entirely on the 
 number of cases the district attorney and his assistants 
 brought before him; consequently, there being two 
 commissioners, he wished to have the good will of the 
 district attorney, and always reached decisions that 
 would please him. 
 
 Dalrymple, the assistant district attorney, was a 
 good-looking young man with a smooth-shaven, regular 
 face that might have been pleasant, but, because of his 
 new importance, it now wore a stern and forbidding 
 aspect. He was dressed in new spring clothes; the 
 trousers were rolled up at the bottoms, showing the low 
 tan shoes which just then had come again into vogue. 
 He wore a pink flannel shirt of exquisite texture; on 
 this flannel shirt was a white linen collar. This com- 
 bination produced an effect which was thought to give 
 him the final touch of aristocracy and refinement. When 
 he was not talking to Wilkison or to Fallen, he was 
 striding about the court-room with his hands in his 
 trousers pockets, Once he stopped, drew a silver case 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 223 
 
 from his pocket and lighted a cigarette made with his 
 monogram on the paper. 
 
 Marriott turned from Dalrymple with disgust; he 
 looked beyond the railing, and there, on the walnut 
 benches, sat Gibbs, with a retinue that made Marriott 
 smile. They must have come in when Marriott was pre- 
 occupied, for he was surprised to see them. Gibbs sat 
 on the end of one bench, as uncomfortable and ill at 
 ease as he would have been in a pew at church. He was 
 shaved to a pinkness, his hair was combed smooth, and 
 he was very solemn. Marriott could easily see that the 
 atmosphere of the court-room oppressed and cowed 
 him; he had lost his native bearing, and had suddenly 
 grown meek, humble and afraid. Marriott knew none 
 of the others; there were half a dozen men, none of 
 them dressed as well as Gibbs, with strange visages, 
 marked by crime and suffering, all the more touching 
 because they were so evidently unconscious of these 
 effects. The heads ranged along the bench were of 
 strange shapes, startlingly individual in one sense, very 
 much alike in another. They were all solemn, afraid to 
 speak, bearing themselves self-consciously, like children 
 suddenly set out before the public. On one bench sat 
 a young girl, and something unmistakable in her eyes, 
 in her mouth, in the clothes she wore — she had piled on 
 herself all the finery she had — told what she was. Her 
 toilet, on which she had spent such enormous pains, 
 produced the very effect the womanhood left in her 
 had striven to avoid. 
 
 Marriott smiled, until he detected the deep concern 
 which Gibbs w^as trying to hide; then his heart was 
 touched, as the toilet of the girl had touched it. Mar- 
 riott knew that these people were the witnesses hy^ 
 
224 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 whom Gibbs expected to establish an alibi for Dillon 
 and Squeak and Mandell ; the sight of them did not re- 
 assure him; he had again that disheartening convic- 
 tion of the utter lack of weight their appearance would 
 carry with any court ; he did not credit them himself, 
 and he began to feel a shame for offering such wit- 
 nesses. He was half decided, indeed, not to put them 
 forward. But his greater concern came with the thought 
 of Mason, whom he believed to be innocent; where, he 
 suddenly wondered, was the reporter Wales? 
 
 But just at this moment the green baize doors of the 
 court-room swung inward and suddenly all the people 
 in the court-room — Dalrymple, Fallen, Wilkison, Mar- 
 riott, Gibbs, the clerks and the reporters, the bailiff and 
 the group Gibbs had brought up with him from the 
 under world — forgot the distinctions and prejudices 
 and hatreds that separated them, yielded to the claims 
 of their common humanity and became as one in the 
 eager curiosity which concentrated all their interest on 
 the entering prisoners. 
 
 They came in a row, chained together by handcuffs, 
 in charge of deputy marshals. They were marched 
 within the bar, still wearing the hats they could not re- 
 move. The United States marshal himself and another 
 deputy came forward and joined the deputies in charge 
 of the prisoners. The officers took off their hats for 
 them, and when they took chairs at the table, stood 
 close beside them, as if to give the impression that the 
 prisoners were most dangerous and desperate char- 
 acters, and that they themselves were officials with the 
 highest regard for their duty. 
 
 Wilkison, with great deliberation, was seating him- 
 self at the clerk's desk. Ordinarily he held hearings in 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 2^5 
 
 an anteroom, but as this Hearing would be reported in 
 the newspapers he felt justified in using the court- 
 room; besides, he could then test some of the sensa- 
 tions of a judge. 
 
 "Aren't you going to unhandcuff these men?" said 
 Marriott to the marshal. 
 
 The marshal merely smiled in a superior official way, 
 and the smile completed the rage that had seized on 
 Marriott when the deputies stationed themselves behind 
 the prisoners. Marriott felt in himself all the evil and 
 all the hatred that were in the hearts of these officers ; 
 he felt all the hatred that was gathering about these 
 prisoners; it seemed that every one there wished to 
 revenge himself personally on them. Fallen, sitting 
 beside Dalrymple, had an air of directing the whole 
 proceeding, as if his duties did not end with the appre- 
 hension of his prisoners, but required him to see that 
 the assistant district attorney, the commissioner and 
 the rest did their whole duty. He sat there with the two 
 rosy spots on his plump cheeks glowing a deeper red, 
 his blue eyes gloating. Marriott restrained himself by 
 an effort ; he needed all his faculties now. 
 
 "The case of the United States versus Dillon and 
 others." Wilkison was officially fingering the papers on 
 his desk. "Are the defendants ready for hearing?" 
 
 "We're ready, yes," said Marriott, plainly excluding 
 from his words and manner any of the respect for the 
 court ordinarily simulated by lawyers. Mason, sitting 
 beside him, and Dillon and the rest followed with eager 
 glances every movement, listened to every word. They 
 forgot the handcuffs, and fastened their eyes on Fallen 
 standing up to be sworn. When the oath had been ad- 
 ministered, Dalrymple put the stereotyped preliminary 
 
22G THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 questions and then asked him who the defendants were. 
 Fallen pointed to them one after another and pro- 
 nounced their names as he did so. When he had done 
 this Dalrymple turned, looked at Marriott with his 
 chin in the air, and said pertly : 
 
 "Take the witness." 
 
 Marriott was surprised and puzzled; the suspicions 
 that he had all along held were increased. 
 
 "How many witnesses will you have ?" he asked. 
 
 "This is all," said Dalrymple with an impertinent 
 movement of the lip, "except this." He held up a legal 
 document. "This certified copy of an indictment — " 
 
 At the word "indictment" the truth flashed on Mar- 
 riott. He understood now ; this explained the delay, the 
 stealth, the subterfuge of which he had been dimly con- 
 scious for days ; this explained the conduct of the offi- 
 cials ; this explained Fallen's absence — he had gone to 
 Illinois, secured the indictment of the four men, and 
 returned. And this was not a preliminary hearing at 
 all ; it was a mere formality for the purpose of remov- 
 ing the prisoners to the jurisdiction in which the crime 
 had been committed. He saw now that he would not 
 be allowed to offer any testimony; nothing could be 
 done. The men would be tried in Illinois, where they 
 could have no witnesses, for the law, as he remembered, 
 provided that process for witnesses to testify on behalf 
 of defendant could not be issued beyond a radius of 
 one hundred miles of the court where they were tried ; 
 they were poor, they could not pay to transport wit- 
 nesses, and now the alibis for Dillon and Squeak and 
 Mandell could not be established, and Mason could not 
 have the benefit of Wales's testimony, unless deposi- 
 tions were used, and he knew what a farce depositions 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 22J 
 
 are. He had been tricked. It was all legal, of course, 
 but he had been tricked, that was all, and he was filled 
 with mortification and shame and rage. 
 
 "Mr. Marriott," Wilkison was saying in his most im- 
 partial tone, "do you wish to examine this witness ?" 
 
 Marriott was recalled. He looked at Fallen, waiting 
 there in the witness-chair, pulling at his little mustache, 
 the pink spots in his cheeks glowing, and his eyes striv- 
 ing for an expression of official unconcern. Marriott 
 questioned Fallen, but without heart. He tried to break 
 the force of his identification, but Fallen was positive. 
 They were Joseph Mason, James Dillon, Louis Skin- 
 ner, alias Squeak, and Stephen Mandell. When Mar- 
 riott had finished, Dalrymple rose and said : 
 
 "Your Honor, we offer as evidence a certified copy of 
 an indictment returned by the grand jury at this pres- 
 ent term, and the government rests." 
 
 He looked in triumph at Marriott. 
 
 The prisoners were leaning eagerly over the table 
 under which they hid their shackled hands, not under- 
 standing in the least the forces that were playing with 
 them. Dillon's long, unshaven face was suspended 
 above the green felt, his eyes, bright with excitement 
 and deepest interest, shifting quickly from Dalrymple 
 to Marriott and then back again to Dalrymple. Mason's 
 eyes went from one to the other of the lawyers, but his 
 gaze was easier, not so swift, hardly so interested. A 
 slight smile lurked beneath the mask he wore, and the 
 commissioner decided with pleasure that this smile 
 proved Mason's guilt, a conclusion which he found it 
 helpful to communicate to Dalrymple after the hearing. 
 Mandell and Squeak wore heavy expressions ; the real- 
 ization of their fate had not yet struggled to conscious- 
 
228' THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ness. In fact, they did not know what had happened, 
 and they were trying to learn from a study of the ex- 
 pressions of Dalrymple and Marriott. 
 
 Dalrymple continued to look at Marriott in the pride 
 he felt at having beaten him. Because he had really 
 been unfair and had practised a sharp trick on Mar- 
 riott, he disliked him. This dislike showed now in Dal- 
 rymple's glance, as it had been expressed in the sharp, 
 important voice in which he had put his questions dur- 
 ing the hearing. He had spoken with an affected ac- 
 cent, and had objected to every question that Marriott 
 asked on cross-examination. He had learned to speak 
 in this affected accent at college, where he had spent 
 four years, after which he had spent three other years 
 at a law school ; consequently, he knew little of that life 
 from which he had been withdrawn for those seven 
 years, knew nothing of its significance, or meaning, or 
 purpose, and, of course, nothing of human nature. The 
 stern and forbidding aspect in which he tried to mask 
 a countenance that might have been good-looking and 
 pleasing, had it worn a natural and simple expression, 
 was amusing to those who, like Dillon and Mason, were 
 older and wiser men. Dalrymple had no views or opin- 
 ions or principles of his own; those he had, like his 
 clothes and his accent, had been given him by his par- 
 ents or the teachers his parents had hired ; he had ac- 
 cepted all the ideas and prejudices of his own class as 
 if they were axioms. He felt it a fine thing to be there 
 in the United States court in an official capacity that 
 made every one look at him, and, as he supposed, envy 
 him ; that gave an authority to anything he said. He 
 thought it an especially fine thing to represent the gov- 
 ernment. He used this word frequently, saying "the 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 229 
 
 government feels," or "the government wishes," or 
 "the government understands," speaking, indeed, as if 
 he were the government himself. The power behind 
 him was tremendous ; an army stood ready at the last to 
 back up his sayings, his opinions, and his mistakes. 
 Against such a power, of course, Dillon and Mason, 
 who were poor, shabby men, had no chance. Dalrym- 
 ple, to be sure, had no notion of what he was doing to 
 these men ; no notion of how he was affecting their 
 lives, their futures, perhaps their souls. He was totally 
 devoid of imagination and incapable of putting him- 
 self in the place of them or of any other men, except 
 possibly those who were dressed as he was dressed and 
 spoke with similar affectation. He did not consider Dil- 
 lon and Mason men, or human beings at all, but another 
 kind of organism or animate life, expressed to him by 
 the word "criminal." He did not consider what hap- 
 pened to them as important ; the only things that were 
 important to him were, first, to be dressed in a correct 
 fashion, and modestly, that is, to be dressed like a gen- 
 tleman ; secondly, to see to it that his sympathies and 
 influence were always on the side of the rich, the well- 
 dressed, the respectable and the strong, and to maintain 
 a wide distinction between himself and the poor, disrep- 
 utable and ill-clad, and, thirdly, to bear always, espe- 
 cially when in court or about the government building, 
 an important and wise demeanor. He felt, indeed, that 
 in becoming an assistant United States district attorney, 
 he had become something more than a mere man ; that 
 because a paper had been given him with an eagle 
 printed on it and a gilt seal, a paper on which his name 
 and the words by which he was designated had been 
 written, he had become something more than a mere 
 
230 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 human being. The effect of all this was revealed in the 
 look with which he now regarded Marriott. 
 
 Marriott, however, did not look at Dalrymple; he 
 wished Dalrymple to feel the contempt he had for him, 
 and after a moment he rose and addressed the com- 
 missioner. 
 
 The commissioner straightened himself in his chair ; 
 his face was very long and very solemn. He did not 
 listen to what Marriott was saying; having conferred 
 with Dalrymple before the hearing and read a decision 
 which Dalrymple had pointed out to him in a calf-bound 
 report, he was now arranging in his mind the decision 
 he intended to give presently. 
 
 Marriott, of course, realized the hopelessness of his 
 case, but he did not think it becoming to give in so 
 easily, or, at least, without making a speech. He began 
 to argue, but Wilkison interrupted him and said : 
 
 "This whole question is fully discussed in the Yar- 
 borough case, where the court held that in a removal 
 proceeding no testimony can be presented in behalf of 
 the defense." 
 
 Then Wilkison announced his decision, saying that 
 Marriott's witnesses could be heard at the proper time 
 and place, that is, on the trial, where he said the rights 
 of the defendants would be fully conserved. Feeling 
 that his use of this word "conserved" was happy and 
 appropriate and had a legal sound, he repeated it sev- 
 eral times, and concluded by saying: 
 
 "The defendants will be remanded to the custody of 
 the marshal for removal." 
 
 The marshal and his deputies tapped the prisoners 
 on the shoulders. Just then there was a slight commo- 
 tion ; Gibbs had pushed by the bailiff and was coming 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 231 
 
 forward. He came straight up to the men. The mar- 
 shal put out a hand to press him back, but Marriott 
 said: 
 
 "Oh, let him talk to them a minute. Good God — !'* 
 
 The marshal glared at Marriott, and then gave way. 
 
 "But he wants to be quick about it," he threatened. 
 
 Gibbs leaned over Mason's shoulder. 
 
 "Well, Joe," he said. 
 
 "I'm kangarooed, Dan," said Mason. 
 
 "It looks that way," said Gibbs. 
 
 "Dan, I want you to do something for me — I want 
 you to send me some tobacco. You know you can get 
 those clippings in pound packages; they only cost a 
 quarter." 
 
 Gibbs looked hurt. 
 
 "Joe," he said, "I've known you for forty years, and 
 that's the only mean thing you ever said to me." 
 
 "Well, don't get sore, Dan," Mason said. "I knew 
 you would — only — " 
 
 The marshal cut them short and marched the pris- 
 oners out of the court-room. Outside in the street the 
 prison-van was waiting, the van that had been ordered 
 before the hearing, to take the prisoners to the station. 
 
IX 
 
 It was several days before Marriott saw Gibbs again, 
 and then he appeared at Marriott's office with a com- 
 panion and leaned for an instant unsteadily against the 
 door he had carefully closed. Marriott saw that he was 
 changed, and that it was the change drink makes in a 
 man. Gibbs sank helplessly into a chair, and stared at 
 Marriott blankly. He was not the clean, well-dressed 
 man Marriott had beheld in him before. He was un- 
 shaven, and the stubble of his beard betrayed his age 
 by its whiteness; the pupils of his eyes were dilated, 
 his lips stained with tobacco. His shoes were muddy, 
 one leg of his trousers was turned up ; and his lack of 
 a collar seemed the final proof of that moral disintegra- 
 tion he could not now conceal. When he had been 
 there a moment the atmosphere was saturated with the 
 odor of alcohol. 
 
 "My friend, Mr. McDougall," said Gibbs, toppling 
 unsteadily in his chair, as he waved one fat hand at 
 his companion, a heavy blond fellow, six feet tall, well 
 dressed and dignified. 
 
 "I've gone to the bad,'* said Gibbs. Marriott looked 
 at him in silence. The fact needed no comment. 
 
 "The way those coppers jobbed Mason was too much 
 for me," Gibbs went on. "Worst I ever seen. I couldn't 
 stand for it, it put me to the bad." 
 
 "Well, you won't do him any good, at that — " Mc- 
 Dougall began. 
 
 "Aw, to hell with you!" said Gibbs, waving Mc- 
 
 232 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 233 
 
 Dougall aside with a sweep of his arm. The movement 
 unsettled him in his chair, and he steadied himself by 
 digging his heels into the rug. Then he drew a broken 
 cigar from his coat pocket, struck a match, and held it 
 close to his nose ; it took him a long time to light his 
 cigar ; he puffed hurriedly, but could not keep the cigar 
 in the flame; before he finished he had burned his 
 fingers, and Marriott felt a pain as Gibbs shook the 
 match to the floor. 
 
 "He hasn't touched a drop for five years," said Mc- 
 Dougall indulgently. "But when they kangarooed 
 Mason — " 
 
 McDougall looked at Gibbs, not in regret or pity, 
 nor with disapproval, but as one might look at a woman 
 stricken with some recent grief. To him, getting drunk 
 seemed to be as natural a way of expressing emotion 
 as weeping or wringing the hands. Marriott gazed on 
 the squalid little tragedy of a long friendship, gazed a 
 moment, then turned away, and looked out of his 
 window. Above the hideous roofs he could see the 
 topmasts of schooners, and presently a great white 
 propeller going down the river. It was going north, to 
 Mackinac, to the Soo, to Duluth, and the sight of it 
 filled Marriott with a longing for the cold blue waters 
 and the sparkling air of the north. 
 
 Gibbs evidently had come to talk about Mason's 
 case, but when he began to speak his voice was lost 
 somewhere in his throat ; his head sank, he appeared to 
 sink into sleep. McDougall glanced at him and laughed. 
 Then he turned seriously to Marriott. 
 
 "It was an outrage," he said. "Mason has been right 
 here in town — I saw him that day. He ought to be 
 alibied." 
 
234 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ''Couldn't you testify ?" asked Marriott. 
 
 McDougall looked at Marriott with suspicion, and 
 hesitated. But suddenly Gibbs, whom they had sup- 
 posed to be asleep, said impatiently, without opening 
 his eyes : 
 
 "Oh, hell ! — go on and tell him. He's a right guy, I 
 tell you. He's wise to the gun." And Gibbs slumbered 
 again. 
 
 "Well," said McDougall with a queer expression, 
 "my business is unfortunately of such a nature that it 
 can't stand much investigation, and I don't make the 
 best witness in the world." 
 
 Gibbs suddenly sat up, opened his eyes, and drew an 
 enormous roll of money from his pocket. 
 
 "How much do I owe you ?" he asked, unrolling the 
 bills. "It comes out of me," he said. Marriott was 
 disappointed in this haggling appeal, not for his own 
 sake, but for Gibbs's; it detracted from the romantic 
 figure he had idealized for the man, just as Gibbs's in- 
 toxication had done. Marriott hesitated in the usual 
 difficulty of appraising professional services, but when, 
 presently, he rather uncertainly fixed his fee, Gibbs 
 counted out the amount and gave it to him. Marriott 
 took the money, with a wonder as to where it had come 
 from, what its history was; he imagined in a flash a 
 long train of such transactions as McDougall must be 
 too familiar with, of such deeds as had been involved in 
 the hearing before the commissioner, of other transac- 
 tions, intricate, remote, involved, confused in morals — 
 and he thrust the bills into his pocket. 
 
 "It comes out of me," Gibbs explained again. 
 "They hadn't any fall money." 
 
 "Have you heard from them?" asked Marriott, who 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 235 
 
 did not know what fall money was, and wished to 
 change the subject. 
 
 "No," said Gibbs, shaking his head. "I'm going out 
 to the trial. I'll take along that newspaper guy and 
 some witnesses for the others. I'll get 'em a mouth- 
 piece. Maybe we can spring 'em." 
 
 But, as Marriott learned several days later, Gibbs 
 could not spring them. He went to the trial with an 
 entourage of miserable witnesses, but he did not take 
 Wales, for Wales's newspaper would not give him 
 leave of absence, and there was no process to compel 
 his attendance. But Kouka and Quinn went, and they 
 gave Gibbs such a reputation that his testimony was 
 impeached. He could not, of course, take Dean. Dean's 
 business, like McDougall's, was unfortunately of such 
 a nature that it did not stand investigation, and he did 
 not make the best witness in the world. Mason and 
 Dillon and Mandell and Squeak were sentenced to 
 the penitentiary at Fort Leavenworth for five years. 
 At about the same time Archie Koerner pleaded guilty 
 to stealing the revolver and was sentenced to prison for 
 a year. 
 
 Marriott left at last for his vacation, but he could 
 not forget Mason taking his unjust fate so calmly and 
 philosophically. He had great pity for him, just as he 
 had for Archie, though one was innocent and the other 
 guilty. He had pity for Dillon, too, and, yes, for Man- 
 dell and Squeak. He thought of it all, trying to find 
 some solution, but there was no solution. It was but 
 one more knot in the tangle of injustice man has made 
 of his attempts to do justice; a tangle that Marriott 
 could not unravel, nor any one, then or ever. 
 
Like most of the great houses along Claybourne 
 Avenue, the dwelling of the Wards wore an air of 
 loneliness and desolation all that summer. With Mrs. 
 Ward and Elizabeth in Europe, the reason for main- 
 taining the establishment ceased to be; and the serv- 
 ants were given holidays. Barker was about for a 
 while each day looking after things, and Gusta came 
 to set the house in order. But these transient pres- 
 ences could not give the place its wonted life; the 
 curtains were down, the furniture stood about in linen 
 covers, the pictures were draped in white cloth. At 
 evening a light showed in the library, where Ward sat 
 alone, smoking, trying to read, and, as midnight drew 
 on, starting now and then at the strange, unaccount- 
 able sounds that are a part of the phenomena of the 
 stillness of an empty house. He would look up from 
 his book, listen, wait, sigh, listen again, finally give up, 
 go to bed, worry a while, fall asleep, be glad when 
 morning came and he could lose himself for another 
 day in work. Dick never came in till long after mid- 
 night, and Ward seldom saw him, save on those few 
 mornings when the boy was up early enough to take 
 breakfast with him at the club. Such mornings made 
 the whole day happy for Ward. 
 
 But the few hours she spent each day In the empty 
 house were happy hours for Gusta Koerner. She was 
 not, of course, a girl in whom feeling could become 
 
 236 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 237 
 
 thought, or sensation find the relief of expression ; she 
 belonged to the class that because it is dumb seems not 
 to suffer, but she had a sense of change in the atmos- 
 phere. She missed Elizabeth, she missed the others, 
 she missed the familiar figures that once had made the 
 place all it had been to her. But she loved it, never- 
 theless, and if it seemed to hold no new experiences for 
 her, there were old experiences to be lived over again. 
 
 At first the loneliness and the emptiness frightened 
 her, but she grew accustomed; she no longer started 
 at the mysterious creakings and tappings in the unten- 
 anted rooms, and each morning, after her work was 
 done, she lingered, and wandered idly about, looked at 
 herself in the mirrors, gazed out of the windows into 
 Claybourne Avenue, sometimes peeped into the books 
 she could so little understand. 
 
 Occasionally she would have chats with Barker, but 
 she did not often see him ; he was always busy in the 
 stables. Ward and Dick were gone before she got 
 there. But the peace and quiet of the deserted man- 
 sion were grateful, and Gusta found there a sense of 
 rest and escape that for a long time she had not known. 
 She found this sense of escape all the more grateful 
 after Archie's trouble. He had not been at home in a 
 long time, and they had heard nothing of him ; then, 
 one evening she learned of his latest trouble in those 
 avid chroniclers of trouble, the newspapers. Her fa- 
 ther, who would not permit the mention of his son's 
 name, nevertheless plainly had him on his mind, for he 
 grew more than ever gloomy, morose and irritable. 
 And then, to make matters worse, one Saturday even- 
 ing Charlie Peltzer threw it up to Gusta, and they 
 parted in anger. On Sunday afternoon she went to 
 
538 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 see Archie at the jail, and stayed so late that it was 
 twilight before she got to the Wards'. She had never 
 had the blues so badly before ; her quarrel with Peltzer, 
 her father's scolding, her mother's sighs and furtive 
 tears, her own visit to the prison, all combined to de- 
 press her, and now, in the late and lonesome Sunday 
 afternoon she did her work hurriedly, and was just 
 about to let herself out of the door when it opened sud- 
 denly, and Dick Ward, bolting in, ran directly against 
 her. 
 
 "Hello! Beg pardon — is that you,'Gusta?'* he said. 
 "Oh !" she exclaimed, leaning against the wall, "you 
 scared me !'* 
 Dick laughed. 
 
 "Well, that's too bad ; I had no idea," he said. 
 She had raised her clasped hands to her chin, and 
 still kept the shrinking attitude of her fright. Dick 
 looked at her, prettier than ever in her sudden alarm, 
 and on an impulse he seized her hands. 
 
 "Don't be scared," he said. "I wouldn't frighten 
 you for the world." 
 
 She was overwhelmed with weakness and confusion. 
 She shrank against the wall and turned her head aside ; 
 her heart was beating rapidly. 
 
 "I — I'm late to-day," she said. "I ought to have 
 been here this morning." 
 
 "I'm glad you weren't," said Dick, looking at her 
 with glowing eyes. 
 
 "I must hurry" — she tried to slip away. "I — must 
 be going home, it's getting late ; you — you must let me 
 go." 
 
 She scarcely knew what she was saying; she spoke 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 230 
 
 with averted face, her cheeks hot and flaming. He 
 gazed at her steadily a moment ; then he said : 
 
 "Never mind. Til take you home in my machine. 
 May I?" 
 
 She looked at him in wonderment. What did he 
 mean ? Was he in earnest ? 
 
 "May I?" he pressed her hands for emphasis, and 
 gazed into her eyes irresistibly. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "if you'll — let me — go now." 
 
 Suddenly he kissed her on the lips; there was a 
 rustle, a struggle, he kissed her again, then released 
 her, left her trembling there in the hall, and bounded 
 up the stairs. 
 
 "Wait a minute!" he called. "I came home to get 
 something. You'll wait?" 
 
 Gusta was dazed, her mind was in a whirl, she felt 
 utterly powerless ; but instinctively she slipped through 
 the door and out on to the veranda. The air reassured 
 and restored her. She felt that she should run away, 
 and yet, there was Dick's automobile in the driveway ; 
 she had never been in an automobile, and — She 
 thought of Charlie Peltzer — well, it would serve him 
 right. And then, before she could decide, Dick was 
 beside her. 
 
 "Jump in," he said, glancing up and down the ave- 
 nue, now dusky in the twilight. They went swiftly 
 away in the automobile, but they did not go straight 
 to Bolt Street — they took a long, roundabout course 
 that ended, after all, too suddenly. The night was 
 warm and Gusta was lifted above all her cares; she 
 had a sensation as of flying through the soft air. Dick 
 stopped the machine half a block from the house, and 
 
240 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Gusta got out, excited from her swift, reckless ride. 
 But, troubled as she was, she felt that she ought to 
 thank Dick. He only laughed and said : 
 
 "We'll go again for a longer ride. What do you 
 say to to-morrow night?" 
 
 She hesitated, tried to decide against him, and be- 
 fore she could decide, consented. 
 
 "Don't forget," he said, "to-morrow evening." He 
 leaned over and whispered to her. He was shoving a 
 lever forward and the automobile was starting. 
 
 "Don't forget," he said, and then he was gone and 
 Gusta stood looking at the vanishing lights of the ma- 
 chine. Just then Charlie Peltzer stepped out of the 
 shadows. 
 
 "So!" he said, looking angrily into her face. "So 
 that's it, is it ? Oh — I saw you !" 
 
 "Go away !" she said. 
 
 He snatched at her, caught her by the wrist. 
 
 "Go away, is it ?" he exclaimed fiercely. "I've caught 
 you this time !" 
 
 "Let me alone !" 
 
 "Yes, I will ! Oh, yes, I'll let you alone ! And him, 
 too; I'll fix him!" 
 
 "Let me go, I tell you !" she cried, trying to escape. 
 "Let me go !" She succeeded presently in wrenching 
 her wrist out of his grasp. "You hurt me!" She 
 clasped the wrist he had almost crushed. "I hate you ! 
 I don't want anything more to do with you !" 
 
 She left him standing there in the gloom. She hur- 
 ried on ; it was but a few steps to the door. 
 
 "Gusta!" he called. "Gusta! Wait!" 
 
 But she hurried on. 
 
 "Gusta ! Wait a minute I" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 241 
 
 SHe Hesitated. There was something appealing in 
 his voice. 
 
 "Oh, Gusta !" Ke repeated. "Won't you wait?" 
 
 She felt that he was coming after her. Then some- 
 thing, she knew not what, got into her, she felt ugly 
 and hateful, and hardened her heart. She cast a glance 
 back over her shoulder and had a glimpse of Peltzer's 
 face, a pale, troubled blur in the darkness. She ran 
 into the house, utterly miserable and sick at heart. 
 
 Gusta could not thereafter escape this misery ; it was 
 with her all the time, and her only respite was found 
 In the joy that came to her at evening, when regularly, 
 at the same hour, under the same tree, at the same dark 
 spot in Congress Street, she met Dick Ward. And so 
 it began between them. 
 
XI 
 
 The way from the station to the penitentiary was 
 long, but Sheriff Bentley, being a man of small econo- 
 mies, had decided to walk, and after the long journey 
 in the smoking-car, Archie had been glad to stretch his 
 legs. The sun lay hot on the capital city ; it was nearly 
 noon, and workmen, tired from their morning's toil, 
 were thinking now of dinner-buckets and pipes in the 
 shade. They glanced at Archie and the sheriff as they 
 passed, but with small interest. They saw such sights 
 every day and had long ago grown used to them, as 
 the world had; besides, they had no way of telling 
 which was the criminal and which the custodian. 
 
 Archie walked rapidly along, his head down, and a 
 little careless smile on his face, chatting with the 
 sheriff. On the way to the capital, Bentley had given 
 him cigars, let him read the newspapers, and told him 
 a number of vulgar stories. He was laughing then at 
 one; the sheriff had leaned over to tell him the point 
 of it, though he had difficulty in doing so, because he 
 could not repress his own mirth. They were passing 
 under a viaduct on which a railroad ran over the street. 
 A switch-engine was going slowly along, and the fire- 
 man leaned out of the cab window. He wore, oddly 
 enough, a battered old silk hat ; he wore it in some hu- 
 morous conceit that caricatured the grandeur and dig- 
 nity the hat in its day had given some other man, whose 
 face was not begrimed as was the comical face of this 
 
 242 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 243 
 
 fireman, whose hands were not calloused as was the 
 hand that slowly, almost automatically, pulled the bell- 
 cord. That old plug hat gave the fireman unlimited 
 amusement and consolation, as he thrust it from his 
 cab window while he rode up and down the railroad 
 yards. Archie looked up and caught the fireman's eye ; 
 the fireman winked drolly, confidentially, and waved 
 his free arm with a graceful, abandoned gesture that 
 conveyed a salutation of brotherliness and comrade- 
 ship ; Archie smiled and waved his free arm in recogni- 
 tion. 
 
 And then they stepped out of the shade of the via- 
 duct into the sun again, and Archie's smile went sud- 
 denly from his face. They were at the penitentiary. 
 The long wall stretched away, lifting its gray old 
 stones twelve feet above their heads. Along its coping 
 of broad overhanging flags was an iron railing, com- 
 ing to the middle of a man, and at every corner, and 
 here and there along the wall, were the sentry-boxes, 
 black and weather-beaten, and sinister because no sen- 
 try was anywhere in sight. Archie looked, and he did 
 not hear the denouement of the sheriff's story, which, 
 after all, was just as well. 
 
 Midway of the block the wall jutted in abruptly and 
 joined itself to a long building of gray stone, with 
 three tiers of barred windows, but an ivy vine had 
 climbed over the stones and hidden the bars as much 
 as it could. A second building lifted its Gothic towers 
 above the center of the grim facade, and beyond was 
 another building like the first, wherein the motive of 
 iron bars was repeated; then the climbing ivy and the 
 gray wall again, stretching away until it narrowed in 
 the perspective. Before the central building were 
 
'544 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 green lawns and flower-beds, delightful to the eyes of 
 the warden's family, whose quarters looked on the free 
 world outside ; delightful, too, to the eyes of the legis- 
 lative committees and distinguished visitors who came 
 to preach and give advice to the men within the walls, 
 who never saw the flowers. 
 
 Archie and the sheriff turned into the portico. In 
 the shade, several men were lounging about. They 
 wore the gray prison garb, but their clothes had some- 
 how the effect of uniforms; they were clean, neatly 
 brushed, and well fitted. They glanced up as Archie 
 and the sheriff entered, and one of them sprang to his 
 feet. On his cap Archie saw the words, "Warden's 
 Runner." He was young, with a bright though pale 
 face, and he stepped forward expectantly, thinking of 
 a tip. He was about to speak, but suddenly his face 
 fell, and he did not say what had been on his lips. He 
 uttered, instead, a short, mistaken, 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 The sheriff laughed, and then with the knowledge 
 and familiarity men love so much to display, he went 
 on: 
 
 "Thought we wanted to see the prison, eh? Well, 
 IVe seen it, and the boy here'll see more'n he wants." 
 
 The warden's runner smiled perfunctorily and was 
 about to turn away, when Bentley spoke again : 
 
 "How long you in for ?" he asked. 
 
 "Life," said the youth, and then went back to his 
 bench. He did not look up again, though Archie 
 glanced back at him over his shoulder. 
 
 "Trusties," Bentley explained. "They've got a 
 snap." 
 
 In the office, where many clerks were busy, they 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 245 
 
 waited ; presently a sallow young man came out from 
 behind a railing. The sheriff unlocked his handcuffs 
 and blew on the red bracelet the steel had left about 
 his wrist. 
 
 "Hot day," said the sheriff, wiping his brow. The 
 sallow clerk, on whom the official air sat heavily, ig- 
 nored this and said : 
 
 "Let's have your papers." 
 
 He looked over the commitments with a critical 
 legal scowl that seemed to pass finally on all that the 
 courts had done, and signaled to a receiving guard. 
 
 "Good-by, Archie." Bentley held out his hand. 
 
 "Good-by," said Archie. 
 
 "Come on," said the receiving guard, tossing his 
 long club to his shoulder in a military way. The great 
 steel door in the guard-room swung open; the guard 
 sitting lazily in a worn chair at the double inner gates 
 threw back the lever, and the receiving guard and 
 Archie entered the yard. 
 
 It was a large quadrangle, surrounded by the ugly 
 prison houses, with the chapel and the administration 
 building in the center. Archie glanced about, and pres- 
 ently he discerned in the openings between the buildings 
 companies of men, standing at ease. A whistle blew 
 heavily, the companies came to attention, and then be- 
 gan to march across the yard. They marched in sets of 
 twos, with a military scrape and shuffle, halted now and 
 then to dress their intervals, marked time, then went 
 on, massed together in the lock-step. As they passed, 
 the men looked at Archie, some of them with strange 
 smiles. But Archie knew none of them ; not Delaney, 
 with the white hair; not the Pole, who had been con- 
 victed of arson ; not the Kid, nor old Deacon Sammy, 
 
246 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE . 
 
 who still wore his gold-rimmed glasses, nor Harry 
 Graves. Their identity was submerged, like that of all 
 the convicts in that prison, like that of all the forgotten 
 prisoners in the world. The men marched by, com- 
 pany after company, until enough to make a regiment, 
 two regiments, had passed them. A guard led Archie 
 across the yard to the administration building. As 
 they entered, a long, lean man, whose lank legs 
 stretched from his easy chair half-way across the 
 room, it seemed, to cock their heels on a desk, turned 
 and looked at them. He was smoking a cigar very 
 slowly, and he lifted his eyeUds heavily. His eyes 
 were pale blue — for some reason Archie shuddered. 
 
 "Here's a fresh fish, Deputy," said the guard. 
 
 The deputy warden of the prison. Ball, flecked the 
 ashes from his cigar. 
 
 "Back again, eh ?" he said. 
 
 Archie stared, and then he said : 
 
 "I've never stirred before." 
 
 "The hell you haven't," said the deputy. "The bull 
 con don't go in this dump ! I know you all !" The re- 
 ceiving guard looked Archie over, trying to recall him. 
 
 The deputy warden let his heavy feet fall to the 
 floor, leaned forward, took a cane from his desk, got 
 up, hooked the cane into the awkward angle of his left 
 elbow, and shambled into the rear office, his long legs 
 unhinging with a strange suggestion of the lock-step 
 he was so proud of being able to retain in the prison 
 by an evasion of the law. A convict clerk heaved an 
 enormous record on to his high desk, then in a mechan- 
 ical way he dipped a pen into the ink, and stood wait- 
 ing. 
 
 "What's your name ?" asked the deputy. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 24; 
 
 Archie told him. 
 
 "Age?" 
 
 "Twenty-three.'' 
 
 "Father and mother living ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who shall we notify if you die while you're with 
 us?" 
 
 Archie started ; and the deputy laughed. 
 
 "Notify them." 
 
 "Ever convicted before? No? Why, Koerner, you 
 really must not lie to me like that !" 
 
 When the statistical questions were finished the 
 deputy said : 
 
 "Now, Koerner, you got a stretch in the sentence; 
 you'll gain a month's good time if you behave your- 
 self ; don't talk ; be respectful to your superiors ; mind 
 the rules ; you can write one letter a month, have vis- 
 itors once a month, receive all letters of proper char- 
 acter addressed to you. Your number is 48963. Take 
 him and frisk him, Jimmy." 
 
 The deputy warden hooked his cane over his arm 
 and shambled out. Archie watched him, strangely 
 fascinated. Then the guard touched him on the shoul- 
 der, tossed a bundle of old clothing over his arm, and 
 said: 
 
 "This way." 
 
 They made him bathe, then the barber shaved him, 
 and he donned his prison clothes, which were of gray 
 like those worn by the trusties he had seen at the gate 
 of the prison. But the clothes did not fit him; the 
 trousers were too tight at the waist and far too long, 
 and they took a strange and unaccountable shape on 
 him, the shape, indeed, of the wasted figure of an old 
 
248 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 convict who had died of consumption in the hospital 
 two days before. 
 
 The guard took Arcliie to the dining-room, deserted 
 now, and he sat down at one of the long tables and ate 
 his watery soup and drank the coffee made of toasted 
 bread — his first taste of the ''boot-leg" he had heard 
 his late companions talk about. 
 
 And then the idle house, stark and gloomy, with si- 
 lent convicts ranged around the wall. On an elevated 
 chair at one end, where he might have the scant light 
 that fell through the one high window, an old convict, 
 who once had been a preacher, read aloud. He read 
 as if he enjoyed the sound of his own voice, but few of 
 the prisoners listened. They sat there stolidly, with 
 heavy, hardened faces. Some dozed, others whispered, 
 others, whom the prison had almost bereft of reason, 
 simply stared. The idle house was still, save for the 
 voice of the reader and the constant coughing of a con- 
 vict in a corner. Archie, incapable, like most of them, 
 of concentrated attention, sat and looked about. He 
 was dazed, the prison stupor was already falling heav- 
 ily on his mind, and he was passing into that state of 
 mental numbness that made the blank in his life when 
 he was in the workhouse with Mason. He thought of 
 Mason for a while, and wondered what his fate and 
 that of Dillon had been ; he thought of Gusta, and of 
 his mother and father, of Gibbs and Curly, wonder- 
 ing about them all ; wondered about that strange life, 
 already dim and incredible, he had so lately left in 
 what to convicts is represented by the word "outside." 
 He wished that he had been taken with Mason and Dil- 
 lon. Then he thought of Kouka — thought of every- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 249 
 
 thing but the theft of the revolver, which bore so small 
 a relation to his real life. 
 
 The entrance of a contractor brought diversion. 
 The contractor, McBride, a man with a red face and 
 closely-cropped white hair, smoking a cigar the aroma 
 of which was eagerly sniffed in by the convicts, came 
 with the receiving guard. At the guard's command, 
 Archie stood up, and the contractor, narrowing his 
 eyes, inspected him through the smoke of his cigar. 
 After a while he nodded and said : 
 
 *'He'll do — looks to me like he could make bolts. 
 Ever work at a machine ?" he suddenly asked. 
 
 Archie shook his head. 
 
 "Put him on Bolt B," said the contractor ; "he can 
 learn." 
 
 The day ended, somehow; the evening came, with 
 supper in the low-ceiled, dim dining-hall, then the cells. 
 
 "You'll lock in G 6," said the guard. 
 
 Archie marched to the cell-house, where, inside the 
 brick shell, the cells rose, four tiers of them. The door 
 locked on Archie, and he looked about the bare cell 
 where he was to spend a year. For an hour, certain 
 small privileges were allowed; favored convicts, in 
 league with officials, peddled pies and small fruits at 
 enormous commissions ; somewhere a prisoner scraped 
 a doleful fiddle. Near by, a guard haggled with a con- 
 vict who worked in the cigar shop and stole cigars for 
 the guard to sell on the outside. The guard, it seemed, 
 had recently raised his commission from fifty to sixty 
 per cent., and the convict complained. But when the 
 guard threatened to report him for his theft, the con- 
 vict gave in. 
 
250 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 At seven o'clock the music ceased, and hall permits 
 expired. Then there was another hour of the lights, 
 when some of the convicts read. Then, at eight, it 
 grew suddenly dark and still. Presently Archie heard 
 the snores of tired men. He could not sleep himself; 
 his pallet of straw was alive with vermin ; the stillness 
 in the great cell-house was awful and oppressive ; once 
 in a while he heard some one, somewhere, from a near- 
 by cell, sigh heavily. Now, he thought, he was doing 
 his bit at last; "buried,'^ the gims called it. Finally, 
 when the hope had all gone from his heart, he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 The summer night fell, and the prison's gray wall 
 merged itself in the blackness ; but it still shut off the 
 great world outside from the little world inside. The 
 guards came out and paced the walls with their rifles, 
 halting now and then with their backs to the black 
 forms of the cell-houses, and looked out over the city, 
 where the electric lights blazed. 
 
XII 
 
 Elizabeth had gone abroad feeling that she might 
 escape the dissatisfaction that possessed her. This dis- 
 satisfaction was so very indefinite that she could not 
 dignify it as a positive trouble, but she took it with her 
 over Europe wherever she went, and she finally de- 
 cided that it would give her no peace until she took it 
 home again. She could not discuss it with her mother, 
 for Mrs. Ward was impatient of discussion. She could 
 do no more than feel Elizabeth's dissatisfaction, and 
 she complained of it both abroad and at home. She 
 told her husband and her son that Elizabeth had prac- 
 tically ruined their trip, that Elizabeth hadn't enjoyed 
 it herself, nor allowed her to enjoy it. Elizabeth, how- 
 ever, if unable to realize the sensations she had an- 
 ticipated in their travels, gave her mother unexpected 
 compensation by recalling and vivifying for her after 
 they had returned in the fall, all their foreign experi- 
 ences, so that they enjoyed them in retrospect. Ward, 
 indeed, said that Elizabeth had seen everything there 
 was to see in Europe. He only laughed when Elizabeth 
 declared that, now she was at home again, she intended 
 to do something; just what, she could not determine. 
 
 "Perhaps I'll become a stenographer or a trained 
 nurse." 
 
 "The idea!" exclaimed Mrs. Ward. "To talk like 
 that! You should pay more attention to your social 
 duties." 
 
 251 
 
2S2 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Why ?" demanded Elizabeth, looking at her mother 
 with clear, sober eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Ward, in her habitual avoidance of reasons, 
 could not think of one instantly. 
 
 "You owe it to your station," she declared presently, 
 and then, as if this were, after all, a reason, she added, 
 "that^s why." 
 
 Dick showed all the manly indignation of an elder 
 brother. 
 
 "You don't know what you're talking about, Bess," 
 he said in the husky voice he had acquired. He had 
 not changed; he bore himself importantly, wore a 
 scowl, dressed extravagantly, and always in the ex- 
 treme of the prevailing fashion ; he seemed to have an 
 intuition in such matt^ers; he wore a new collar or a 
 new kind of cravat two weeks in advance of the other 
 young men in town, and they did not seem to follow 
 him so much as he seemed to anticipate them. He 
 lunched at the club, and Elizabeth divined that he spent 
 large sums of money, and yet he was constant in his 
 work; he was always at the Trust Company's office 
 early ; he did not miss a single day. No, Dick had not 
 changed ; nothing had changed, and this thought only 
 increased Elizabeth's discontent, or vague uneasiness, 
 or vague dissatisfaction, or whatever it was. 
 
 "I don't know what it is," she confided to Marriott 
 the first time she saw him. "I ought to be of some use 
 in the world, but I'm not — Oh, don't say I am," she 
 insisted when she caught his expression; "don't make 
 the conventional protest. It's just as I told you before 
 I went away, I'm useless." She glanced over the 
 drawing-room in an inclusive condemnation of the lux- 
 ury represented by the heavy furniture, the costly brie- 
 
THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 253 
 
 a-brac, and all that. Her face wore an expression of 
 weariness. She knew that she had not expressed her- 
 self. What she was thinking, or, rather, what she was 
 feeling was, perhaps, the disappointment that comes 
 to a spirited, imaginative, capable girl, who by edu- 
 cation and training has developed ambitions and 
 aspirations toward a real, full, useful life, yet who can 
 do nothing in the world because the very conditions of 
 that existence which give her those advantages forbid 
 it. Prepared for life, she is not permitted to live; an 
 artificial routine called a "sphere'* is all that is allowed 
 her ; she may not realize her own personality, and, in 
 time, is reduced to utter nothingness. 
 
 "By what right — " she resumed, but Marriott inter- 
 rupted her. 
 
 "Don't take that road; it will only make you un- 
 happy." 
 
 "Before I went abroad," she went on, ignoring the 
 warning, "I told you that I would do something when 
 I came back — something to justify myself. That's sel- 
 fish, isn't it ?" She ended in a laugh. "Well, anyway," 
 she resumed, "I can look up the Koerners. You see 
 the Koerners?" 
 
 "I haven't tried that case yet," Marriott said with a 
 guilty expression. 
 
 "How dreadful of you !" 
 
 "Reproach me all you can," he said. "I must pay 
 some penance. But, you know — I — well, I didn't try 
 it at the spring term because Ford wanted to go to 
 Europe, and then — well — I'm going to try it right 
 away — soon." 
 
 The next morning, as Marriott walked down town, 
 he determined to take up the Koemer case immedi- 
 
254 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ately. It was one of those mild and sunny days of 
 grace that Nature allows in the mellow autumn, deal- 
 ing them out one by one with a smile that withholds 
 promise for another, so that each comes to winter- 
 dreading mortals as a rare surprise. The long walk 
 in the sun filled Marriott with a fine delight of Hfe; 
 he was pleased with himself because at last he was to 
 do a duty he had long neglected. He sent for Koerner, 
 and the old man came on a pair of new yellow crutches, 
 bringing his wife and his enormous pipe. 
 
 ''Well, Mr. Koerner," said Marriott, "Fm glad 
 you're about again. How are you getting along?" 
 
 "Veil, ve get along ; I bin some goodt yet, you bet. I 
 can vash — I sit up to dose tubs dere undt help der oldt 
 voman." 
 
 Marriott's brows knotted in a perplexity that took 
 on the aspect of a mild horror. It required some effort 
 for him to realize this old man sitting with a wash-tub 
 between his knees ; the thought degraded the leonine 
 figure. He wished that Koerner had not told him, and 
 he hastened to change the subject. 
 
 "Your case will come on for trial now," he said ; "we 
 must talk it over and get our evidence in shape." 
 
 "Dot bin a long time alreadty, dot trial." 
 
 "Yes, it has," said Marriott, "but we'll get to it now 
 in two weeks.'* 
 
 "Yah, dot's vat you say." 
 
 He puffed at his pipe a moment, sending out the thin 
 wreaths of smoke in sharp little puffs. The strong face 
 lifted its noble mask, the white hair — whiter than Mar- 
 riott remembered it the last time — glistening like frost. 
 
 "You vait anoder year and I grow out anoder leg, 
 maybe," Koerner smoked on in silence. But presently 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 255 
 
 the thin lips that pinched the amber pipe-stem began 
 to twitch, the blue eyes twinkled under their shaggy 
 white brows; his own joke about his leg put him in 
 good humor, and he forgot his displeasure. Marriott 
 felt a supreme pity for the old man. He marveled at 
 his patience, the patience everywhere exhibited by the 
 voiceless poor. There was something stately in the old 
 man, something dignified in the way in which he ac- 
 cepted calamity and joked it to its face. 
 
 Marriott found relief in turning to the case. As he 
 was looking for the pleadings, he said carelessly : 
 
 ''How's Gusta?" 
 
 And instantly, by a change in the atmosphere, he felt 
 that he had made a mistake. Koerner made no reply. 
 Marriott heard him exchange two or three urgent sen- 
 tences with his wife, in his harsh, guttural German. 
 When Marriott turned about, Koerner was smoking in 
 stolid silence, his face was stone. Mrs. Koerner cast 
 a timid glance at her husband, and, turning in embar- 
 rassment from Marriott, fluttered her shawl about her 
 arms and gazed out the windows. What did it mean? 
 Marriott wondered. 
 
 "Well, let's get down to business," he said. He 
 would ask no more questions, at any rate. But as he 
 was going over the allegations of the petition with 
 Koerner, finding the usual trouble in initiating the 
 client into the mysteries of evidence, which are as often 
 mysteries to the lawyers and the courts themselves, he 
 w^as thinking more of Gusta than of the case. Poor 
 Gusta, he thought, does the family doom lie on her, 
 too? 
 
XIII 
 
 Elizabeth kept to her purpose of dohig something 
 to justify her continuing in existence, as she put it to 
 her mother, and there was a period of two or three 
 weeks following a lecture by a humanitarian from Chi- 
 cago, when she tortured the family by considering a 
 residence in a social settlement. But Mrs. Ward was 
 relieved when this purpose realized itself in a way so 
 respectable as joining the Organized Charities. The 
 Organized Charities was more than respectable, it was 
 eminently respectable, and when Mrs. Russell consent- 
 ed to become its president, it took on a social rank of 
 the highest authority. The work of this organization 
 was but dimly understood ; it was incorporated, and so 
 might quite legally be said to lack a soul, which gave 
 it the advantage of having the personal equation ex- 
 cluded from its dealings with the poor. Business men, 
 by subscribing a small sum might turn all beggars over 
 to the Organized Charities, and by giving to the hun- 
 gry, who asked for bread, the stone of a blue ticket, 
 secure immediate relief from the disturbing sense of 
 personal responsibility. The poor who were thus re- 
 ferred might go to the bureau, file their applications, be 
 enrolled and indexed by the secretary, and have their 
 characters and careers investigated by an agent. All 
 this was referred to as organized relief work, and it 
 had been so far successful as to afford relief to those 
 who were from time to time annoyed by the spectacles 
 
 256 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 257 
 
 of poverty and disease that haunted their homes and 
 places of business. 
 
 When the Organized Charities resumed in the fall 
 the monthly meetings that had been discontinued dur- 
 ing the heated term, Elizabeth was on hand. Mrs. 
 Russell was in the president's chair, and promptly at 
 three o'clock, consulting the tiny jeweled watch that 
 hung in the laces at her bosom, she called the meeting 
 to order. After the recording secretary had read the 
 minutes of the last meeting, held in the spring, and 
 these had been approved, the corresponding secretary 
 read a report, and a list of the new members. 
 Then a young clergyman, with a pale, ascetic face, and 
 a high, clerical waistcoat against which a large cross of 
 gold was suspended by a cord, read his report as treas- 
 urer, giving the names of the new members already re- 
 ported by the corresponding secretary, but adding the 
 amount subscribed by each, the amount of money in 
 the treasury, the amount expended in paying the sal- 
 aries of the clerks, the rent of the telephone, printing, 
 postage, and so on. Then the agents of the organiza- 
 tion reported the number of cases they had investi- 
 gated, arranging them alphabetically, and in the form 
 of statistics. Then the clerk reported the number of 
 meal tickets that had been distributed and the smaller 
 number that had been gastronomically redeemed. After 
 that there were reports from standing committees, 
 then from special committees, and when all these had 
 been read, received and approved, they were ordered 
 to be placed on file. These preliminaries occupied 
 an hour, and Elizabeth felt the effect to be some- 
 what deadening. During the reading of the reports, / 
 the members, of whom there were about forty, mostly 
 
258 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 women, had sat in respectful silence, decorously cough- 
 ing now and then. When all the reports had been read 
 a woman rose, and addressing Mrs. Russell as "Ma- 
 dame President," said that she wished again to move 
 that the meetings of the society be opened with prayer. 
 At this the faces of the other members clouded with an 
 expression of weariness. The woman who made the 
 motion spoke to it at length, and with the only zeal 
 that Elizabeth had thus far observed in the proceed- 
 ings. Elizabeth was not long in discerning that this 
 same woman had made this proposal at former meet- 
 ings ; she knew this by the bored and sometimes angry 
 expressions of the other members. The young curate 
 seemed to feel a kind of vicarious shame for the wom- 
 an. When the woman had finished, the matter was put 
 to a vote, and all voted no, save the woman who had 
 made the proposal, and she voted "aye" loudly, going 
 down to defeat in the defiance of the unconvinced. 
 
 Then another woman rose and said that she had a 
 matter to bring before the meeting ; this matter related 
 to a blind woman who had called on her and com- 
 plained that the Organized Charities had refused to 
 give her assistance. Now that the winter was coming 
 on, the blind woman was filled with fear of want. 
 Elizabeth had a dim vision of the blind woman, even 
 from the crude and inadequate description; she felt a 
 pity and a desire to help her, and, at the same time, 
 with that condemnation which needs no more than ac- 
 cusation, a kind of indignation with the Organized 
 Charities. For the first time she was interested in the 
 proceedings, and leaned forward to hear what v/as to 
 be done with the blind woman. But while the descrip- 
 tion had been inadequate to Elizabeth, so that her own 
 imagination had filled out the portrait, it was, never- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 259 
 
 theless, sufficient for the other members; a smile went 
 round, glances were exchanged, and the secretary, 
 with a calm, assured and superior expression, began to 
 turn over the cards in her elaborate system of indexed 
 names. There was instantly a general desire to speak, 
 several persons were on their feet at once, saying 
 "Madame President!" and Mrs. Russell recognized 
 one of them with a smile that propitiated and promised 
 the others in their turn. From the experiences that 
 were then related, it was apparent that this blind wom- 
 an was known to nearly all of the charity workers in 
 the city ; all of them spoke of her in terms of dispar- 
 agement, which soon became terms of impatience. 
 One of the ladies raised a laugh by declaring the blind 
 woman to be a "chronic case," and then one of the men 
 present, a gray-haired man, with a white mustache 
 stained yellow by tobacco, rose and said that he had in- 
 vestigated the "case" and that it was not worthy. This 
 man was the representative of a society which cared 
 for animals, such as stray dogs, and mistreated horses, 
 and employed this agent to investigate such cases, but 
 it seemed that occasionally he concerned himself with 
 human beings. He spoke now in a professional and 
 authoritative manner, and when he declared that the 
 case was not worthy, the blind woman, or the blind 
 case, as it was considered, was disposed of. Some one 
 said that she should be sent to the poorhouse. 
 
 When the blind woman had been consigned, so far 
 as the bureau was concerned, to the poorhouse, Mrs. 
 Russell said in her soft voice : 
 
 "Is there any unfinished business?" 
 
 Elizabeth, who was tired and bored, felt a sudden 
 hope that this was the end, and she started up hope- 
 fully; but she found in Mrs, Russeirs beautiful face a 
 
26o THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 quick smile of sympathy and patience. And Elizabeth 
 was ashamed ; she was sorry she had let Mrs. Russell 
 see that she was weary of all this, and she felt a new 
 dissatisfaction with herself. She told herself that she 
 was utterly fickle and hopeless ; she had entered upon 
 this charity work with such enthusiasm, and here she 
 was already tiring of it at the first meeting ! Elizabeth 
 looked at Mrs. Russell, and for a moment envied her 
 her dignity and her tact and her patience, all of which 
 must have come from her innate gentleness and kind- 
 ness. The face of this woman, who presided so grace- 
 fully over this long, wearying session, was marked 
 with lines of character, her brow was serene and calm 
 under the perfectly white hair massed above it. The 
 eyes were large, and they were sad, just as the mouth 
 was sad, but there dwelt in the eyes always that same 
 kindness and gentleness, that patience and considera- 
 tion that gave Mrs. Russell her real distinction, her 
 real indisputable claim to superiority. Elizabeth forgot 
 her impatience and her weariness in a sudden specula- 
 tion as to the cause of the sadness that lay somewhere 
 in Mrs. Russell's life. She had known ease and luxury 
 always; she had been spared all contact with that 
 world which Elizabeth was just beginning to dis- 
 cover beyond the confines of her own narrow and self- 
 ish world. Mrs. Russell surely never had known the 
 physical hunger which now and then was at least offi- 
 cially recognized in this room where the bureau met ; 
 could there be a hunger of the soul which gave this 
 look to the human face? Elizabeth Ward had not yet 
 realized this hunger, she had not yet come into the full 
 consciousness of life, and so it was that just at a mo- 
 ment, when she seemed very near to its recognition, 
 she lost herself in the luxury of romanticizing some 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 261 
 
 sorrow in Mrs. Russell's life, some sorrow kept hid- 
 den from the world. Elizabeth thought she saw this 
 sorrow in the faint smile that touched Mrs. Russell's 
 lips just then, as she gave a parliamentary recognition 
 to another woman — a heavy, obtrusive woman who 
 was rising to say : 
 
 "Madame President." 
 
 Elizabeth had hoped that there would be no unfin- 
 ished business for the society to transact, but she had 
 not learned that there was one piece of business which 
 was always unfinished, and that was the question of 
 raising funds. And this subject had no interest for 
 Elizabeth; the question of money was one she could 
 not grasp. It afifected her as statistics did ; it had ab- 
 solutely no meaning for her; and now, when she was 
 forced to pay attention to the heavy, obtrusive woman, 
 because her voice was so strong and her tone so com- 
 manding, she was conscious only of the fact that she 
 did not like this woman; somehow the woman over- 
 powered Elizabeth by mere physical proportions. But 
 gradually it dawned on Elizabeth that the discussion 
 was turning on a charity ball, and she grew interested 
 at once, for she felt herself on the brink of solving the 
 old mystery of where charity balls originate. She 
 had attended many of them, but it had never occurred 
 to her that some one must have organized and pro- 
 moted them; she had found them in her world as an 
 institution, like calls, like receptions, like the church. 
 But now a debate was on ; the little woman, who had 
 urged the society to open its sessions with prayer, was 
 opposing the ball, and Elizabeth forgot Mrs. Russell's 
 secret romance in her interest in the warmth with 
 3^^hich the project of a charity ball was being discussed. 
 
XIV 
 
 The debate over the charity ball raged until twilight, 
 and it served for unfinished business at two special 
 sessions. The spare little woman who had proposed 
 that the meetings be opened with prayer led the oppo- 
 sition to the charity ball, and, summoning all her mili- 
 tant religion to her aid, succeeded in arraying most of 
 the evangelical churches against it. In two weeks the 
 controversy was in the newspapers, and when it had 
 waged for a month, and both parties were exhausted, 
 they compromised on a charity bazaar. 
 
 The dispute had been distressing to Mrs. Russell, 
 whose nature was too sensitive to take the relish most 
 of the others seemed to find in the controversy, and 
 it was through her tact that peace was finally estab- 
 lished. Even after the bazaar was decided on, the 
 peace was threatened by dissension as to where the 
 bazaar should be held. The more sophisticated and 
 worldly-minded favored the Majestic Theater, and this 
 brought the spare little woman to her feet again, trem- 
 bling with moral indignation. To her the idea of a 
 bazaar in a theater was even more sacrilegious than a 
 ball. But Mrs. Russell saved the day by a final sacri- 
 fice — she oflPered her residence for the bazaar. 
 
 "It was beautiful in you !" Elizabeth exclaimed as 
 they drove homeward together in the graying after- 
 noon of the November day. "To think of throwing 
 
 262 
 
! THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 263 
 
 your house open for a week — ^and having the whole 
 town tramp over the rugs !" 
 
 "Oh, I'll lay the floors in canvas," said Mrs. Russell, 
 with a little laugh she could not keep from ending in a 
 sigh. 
 
 "You'll find it no light matter," said Elizabeth ; "this 
 turning your house inside out. Of course, the fact that 
 it is your house will draw all the curious and vulgar 
 in town." 
 
 This was not exactly reassuring and Elizabeth felt 
 as much the moment she had said it. 
 
 "You must help me, dear!" Mrs. Russell said, 
 squeezing Elizabeth's hand in a kind of desperation. 
 Elizabeth had never known her to be in any wise 
 demonstrative, and her own sympathetic nature re- 
 sponded immediately. 
 
 "Indeed I shall !" she said. 
 
 The bazaar was to be held the week before Christ- 
 mas, and the ladies forgot their differences to unite in 
 one of those tremendous and exhausting labors they 
 seem ever ready to undertake, though the end is al- 
 ways so disproportionate to the sacrifice and toil that 
 somehow bring it to pass. Elizabeth was almost con- 
 stantly with Mrs. Russell; they were working early 
 and late. Mrs. Russell appointed her on the commit- 
 tee on arrangements, and the committee held almost 
 daily meetings at the Charities. And here Elizabeth at 
 last found an opportunity of seeing some of the poor 
 for whom she was working. 
 
 The fall had prolonged itself into November; the 
 weather was so perfect that Dick could daily speed his 
 automobile, and the men who, like Marriott, still clung 
 to golf, could play on Saturdays and Sundays at the 
 
264 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Country Club. But December came, and with it a 
 heavy rain that in three days became a sleet ; then the 
 snow and a cold wave. The wretched winter weather, 
 which seems to have a spite almost personal for the 
 lake regions, produced its results in the lives of men — 
 there were suicides and crimes for the police, and for 
 the Organized Charities, the poor, now forced to 
 emerge from the retreats where in milder weather they 
 could hide their wretchedness. They came forth, and 
 when Elizabeth and Mrs. Russell entered the Charities 
 one morning, there they were, ranged along the wall. 
 They sat bundled in their rags, waiting in dumb 
 patience for the last humiliation of an official 
 investigation, making no sound save as their ailments 
 compelled them to sneeze or to cough now and then ; 
 and as Elizabeth and Mrs. Russell passed into the 
 room, they were followed by eyes that held no reproach 
 or envy, but merely a mild curiosity. The poor sat 
 there, perhaps glad of the warmth and the rest ; willing 
 to spend the day, if necessary; with hopes no higher 
 than some mere temporary relief that would help them 
 to eke out their lives a few hours longer and until an- 
 other day, which should be like this day, repeating all 
 its wants and hardships. The atmosphere of the room 
 was stifling, with an odor that sickened Elizabeth, the 
 fetor of all the dirt and disease that poverty had accu- 
 mulated and heaped upon them. 
 
 At the desk Mrs. Rider, the clerk, and the two agents 
 of the society were interrogating a woman. The wom- 
 an was tall and slender, and her pale face had some 
 trace of prettiness left; her clothing was better than 
 that of the others, though it had remained over from 
 some easier circumstance of the summer. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 265 
 
 The woman was hungry, and she was sick. She had 
 reported her condition to the agent of the Society for 
 the Prevention of Cruelty, but as this man could think 
 of nothing better than to arrest somebody and have 
 somebody punished, he had had the woman's husband 
 sent to the workhouse for six months, thus removing 
 the only hope she had. 
 
 To Elizabeth it seemed that the three inquisitors 
 were trying^ not so much to discover some means of 
 helping this woman, as to discover some excuse for 
 not helping her ; they took turns in putting to her, with 
 a professional frankness, the most personal questions, 
 — questions that made Elizabeth blush and burn with 
 shame, even as they made the woman blush. But just 
 then a middle-aged woman appeared, and Elizabeth 
 instantly identified her when Mrs. Rider pleasantly ad- 
 dressed her by a name that appeared frequently in the 
 newspapers in connection with deeds that took on the 
 aspect of nobility and sacrifice. 
 
 "I'm so glad you dropped in, Mrs. Norton," said 
 Mrs. Rider. "We have a most perplexing case." 
 
 The clerk lifted her eyebrows expressively, and 
 somehow indicated to Mrs. Norton the woman she 
 had just had under investigation. Mrs. Norton 
 glanced at the hunted face and smiled. 
 
 "You mean the Ordway woman ? Exactly. I know 
 her case thoroughly. Mr. Gleason 'phoned me from 
 the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty and I looked 
 her up. You should have seen her room — the filthiest 
 place I ever saw — and those children !" She raised her 
 hands, covered with gloves, and her official-looking 
 reticule slid up her forearm as if to express an impos- 
 sibility. "The woman was tired of farm life — deter- 
 
2(£ THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 mined to come to town — fascinated by city life — she 
 complained of her husband, and yet — what do you 
 think? — she wanted me to get him out of the work- 
 house !" 
 
 Mrs. Norton stopped as if she had made an unan- 
 swerable argument and proved that the woman should 
 not be helped; and Mrs. Rider and the two agents 
 seemed to be relieved. Presently Mrs. Rider called 
 the woman, and told her that her case was not one 
 that came within the purview of the society's objects, 
 and when the hope was dying out of the woman's 
 face Mrs. Norton began to lecture her on the care of 
 children, and to assure her the city was filled with 
 pitfalls for such as she. The woman, beaten into hu- 
 mility, listened a while, and then she turned and 
 dragged herself toward the door. The eyes of the 
 waiting paupers followed her with the same impersonal 
 curiosity they had shown in the entrance of Mrs. Rus- 
 sell and Elizabeth and Mrs. Norton. 
 
 The limp retreating figure of the woman filled Eliz- 
 abeth with distress. When, at the door, she saw the 
 woman press to her eyes the sodden handkerchief she 
 had been rolling in her palm during the interview, she 
 ran after her; in the hall outside, away from others, 
 she called; the woman turned and gazed at her suspi- 
 ciously. 
 
 "Here !" said Elizabeth fearfully. 
 
 She opened her purse and emptied from it into the 
 woman's hand all the silver it held. 
 
 "Where do you live ?" she asked, and as the woman 
 gave her the number of the house where she rented 
 a room, Elizabeth realized how inappropriate the word 
 "live" was. Elizabeth returned to the office with a glow 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 267 
 
 in her breast, though she dreaded Mrs. Norton, whom 
 she feared she had affronted by her deed. But Mrs. 
 Norton received her with a smile. 
 
 "It seemed hard to you, no doubt," Mrs. Norton 
 said, and Mrs. Rider and the two agents looked up with 
 smiles of their own, as if they were about to shine in 
 Mrs. Norton's justification, "but you'll learn after a 
 while. We must discriminate, you know ; we must not 
 pauperize them. When you've been in the work as 
 long as I have," — she paused with a superior lift of 
 her eyebrows at the use of this word "work," — "you'll 
 understand better." 
 
 Elizabeth felt a sudden indignation which she con- 
 cealed, because she had her own doubts, after all. The 
 ladies were gathering for the committee meeting and 
 just then Mrs. Russell beckoned her into an inner 
 room. 
 
 "The air is better in here," she said. 
 
XV 
 
 Every day Elizabeth went to the Organized Chari- 
 ties. The committee on arrangements divided itself 
 into subcommittees, and these, with other committees 
 that were raised, must have meetings, make reports, 
 receive instructions, and consider ways and means. 
 The labor entailed was enormous. The women were 
 exhausted before the first week had ended ; the rustling 
 of their skirts as they ran to and fro, their incessant 
 chatter— they all spoke at once — their squealing at 
 each other as their nerves snapped under the strain, 
 filled the rooms with clamor. But all this endless con- 
 fusion and complication were considered necessary in 
 order to effect an organization. If any one doubted or 
 complained, it was only necessary to speak the word 
 "organization,'* and criticism was immediately silenced. 
 
 It had been discovered very early in the work of 
 this organization that Mrs. Russell's great house 
 would be too small for the bazaar, and it had been a 
 relief to her when a certain Mrs. Spayd offered to 
 place at the disposal of the committee the new mansion 
 her husband had just built on Claybourne Avenue and 
 named with the foreign-sounding name of "Belle- 
 mere." Mrs. Spayd privately conveyed the informa- 
 tion that the young people might have the ball-room 
 at the top of the house, where the most exclusive, if 
 they desired, could dance, and she commissioned a 
 firm of decorators to transform Bellemere into a ba- 
 
 268 
 
THE TURN of: the BALANCE 269 
 
 zaar. Mrs. Spayd was to bear the entire expense, and 
 her charity was lauded everywhere, especially in the 
 society columns of the newspapers. The booths were 
 to represent different nations, and it was suddenly 
 found to be desirable to dress as peasants. The women 
 who were to serve in these booths flew to costumers to 
 have typical clothing made. And this occasioned still 
 greater conflict and confusion, for each woman wished 
 to represent that country whose inhabitants were sup- 
 posed to wear the most picturesque costumes. 
 
 Meanwhile the cold weather held and the poor be- 
 sieged the Charities. No matter how early Elizabeth 
 might arrive, no matter how late she might leave, they 
 were always there, a stolid, patient row along the wall, 
 or crowding up to the railing, or huddling in the hall 
 outside. For a while Elizabeth, regarding them in the 
 mass, thought that the same persons came each day, 
 but she discovered that this was not the case. As she 
 looked she noted a curious circumstance: the faces 
 gradually took on individuality, slight at first, but 
 soon decided, until each stood out among the others 
 and developed the sharpest, most salient characteris- 
 tics. She saw in each face the story of a single life, 
 and always a life of neglect and failure, as if the misery 
 of the world had been distributed in a kind of ironical 
 variation. These people all were victims of a common 
 doom, presenting itself each time in a different aspect ; 
 they were all alike — and yet they were all different, 
 like leaves of a tree. 
 
 One afternoon Elizabeth suddenly noted a face that 
 stood out in such relief that it became the only face 
 there for her. It was the face of a young man, and it 
 wore a strange pallor, and as Elizabeth hurried by she 
 
276 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 was somehow cpnscious that the young man's eyes 
 were following her with a peculiar searching glance. 
 When she sat down to await the women of the com- 
 mittee with which she was to meet, the young man 
 still gazed at her steadily ; she grew uncomfortable, al- 
 most resentful. She felt this continued stare to be a 
 rudeness, and then suddenly she wondered why any 
 rudeness of these people should be capable of affecting 
 her; surely they were not of her class, to be judged by 
 her standards. But she turned away, and determined 
 not to look that way again, for fear that the young man 
 might accost her. 
 
 And yet, though she persistently looked away, the 
 face had so impressed her that she still could see it. 
 In her first glimpse it had been photographed on her 
 mind ; its pallor was remarkable, the skin had a damp, 
 dead whiteness, as if it had bleached in a cave, curls 
 of thin brown hair clung to the brows; on the boy's 
 neck was a streak of black where the collar of his coat 
 had rubbed its color. In his thin hands he held a 
 plush cap. And out of his pale face his wan eyes 
 looked and followed her; she could not escape them, 
 and for relief she finally fled to the inner room. 
 
 "We have made arrangements," said one of the 
 women, "to hold our committee meetings hereafter at 
 Mrs. Spayd's. She has kindly put her library at our 
 disposal. This place is unbearable !" 
 
 She flung up a window and let the fresh air pour in. 
 
 "Yes," sighed another woman, "the air is sickening. 
 It gives me a headache. If the poor could only be 
 taught that cleanliness is akin to godliness!" 
 
 Elizabeth's head ached, too; it would be a relief to 
 be delivered out of this atmosphere. But still the face 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 271 
 
 of the young man pursued her. She could not follow 
 the deliberations of the committee ; she could think of 
 nothing but that face. Where, she continually asked 
 herself, had she seen it before? She sat by a window, 
 and looked down into the street, preoccupied by the 
 effort to identify it. She gave herself up to the pain 
 of the process, as one does when trying to remember 
 a name. Now and then she caught phrases of the 
 sentences the women began, but seemed never able to 
 finish :— "Oh, I hardly think that—" "As a class, of 
 course — " "Oriental hangings would be best — " 
 "Cheese-cloth looks cheap — " "Of course, flags — '' 
 "We could solicit the merchants — " "My husband was 
 saying last night — " 
 
 But where had she seen that face before? Why 
 should it pursue and worry her? What had she ever 
 done? Finally, after two hours of the mighty effort 
 and patience that are necessary to bring a number of 
 minds to grasp a subject and agree even on the most 
 insignificant detail, two hours in which thoughts hov- 
 ered and flitted here and there, and could not find ex- 
 pression, when minds held back, and continually 
 balked at the specific, the certain, the definite, and 
 sought refuge from decision in the general and the 
 abstract, the committee exhausted itself, and decided 
 to adjourn. Then, although it had reached no conclu- 
 sions whatever, the matron who presided smiled and 
 said: 
 
 "Well, I feel that weVe making progress." 
 
 "I don't feel as if we'd done much," some one else 
 said. "And I can not come on Friday." 
 
 "Do you know, I really haven't got a single one of 
 my Christmas presents yet." 
 
272 THE TURN OB] THE BALANCE 
 
 "I have to give sixty-seven! Just think! What a 
 burden it all is !" 
 
 Elizabeth dreaded the sight of that boy^s face again, 
 but it was growing late, the early winter twilight was 
 expanding its gloom in the room. She made haste, 
 and walked swiftly through the outer office. The 
 young man was no longer there. But though this v/as 
 a relief, his face still followed her. Who could he be ? 
 
 The air out of doors was grateful. It soothed her 
 hot cheeks, and, though her head throbbed more vio- 
 lently for an instant from the exertion of coming down 
 the steps, she drew in great drafts of the winter air 
 with a comforting sense that it was cleansing her 
 lungs of all that foul atmosphere of poverty she had 
 been breathing for two days. She walked hurriedly to 
 the corner, to wait for a car ; beside her, St. I ake's, as 
 with an effort, lifted its Gothic arches of gra} stone into 
 the dark sky; across the street the City Hnll loomed, 
 its windows bright with lights. The aften .x)n crowds 
 were streaming by on the sidewalk, wagOM^ and heavy 
 trucks jolted and rumbled along the streel ; she saw the 
 drivers of coal-wagons, the whites of their eyes flash- 
 ing under the electric lights against faces black as 
 negroes with the grime. Politicians were coming from 
 the City Hall ; here and there, in and out of the crowd, 
 newsboys darted, shouting "All 'bout the murder !'' The 
 shops were ablaze, their windows tricked out for the 
 holidays ; throngs of people hurried by, intent, preoc- 
 cupied, selfish. As Elizabeth stood there, the constant 
 stream of faces oppressed her with an intolerable 
 gloom; the blazing electric lights, signs of theaters 
 and restaurants, were mere mockeries of pleasure and 
 comfort. And always the ro^r of the city. It was the 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 273 
 
 hour when the roar became low and dull, a deep, ugly 
 note of weariness and discontent was in it, the grumble 
 of a city that was exhausted from its long day of con- 
 fusion and wearing, complicated effort. On the City 
 Hall corner, a man with the red-banded cap of the Sal- 
 vation Army stood beside an iron kettle suspended be- 
 neath a tripod, swaying from side to side, stamping 
 his huge feet in the cold, jangling a little hand-bell, 
 and constantly crying in a bass voice : 
 
 "Remember the poor ! Remember the poor !" 
 She recalled, suddenly, that the outcasts at the Char- 
 ities invariably sneered whenever the Salvation Army 
 was suggested, and she was impatient with this man in 
 the cap with the red band, his enormous sandy mus- 
 tache frozen into repulsive little icicles. Why must he 
 add his din to this tired roar of the worn-out city ? 
 
 Her car came presently, jerking along, stopping and 
 starting again in the crowded street. The crowd 
 sweeping by brushed her now and then, but suddenly 
 she felt a more personal contact — some one had 
 touched her. She shrank; she shuddered with fear, 
 then she ran out to her car. Inside she began again 
 that study of faces. She tried not to do so, but she 
 seemed unable to shake off the habit — that face seemed 
 always to be looking out at her from all other faces, 
 white and sensitive, with the black mark on the neck 
 where the coat collar had rubbed its color. And the 
 eyes more and more reproached her, as if she had been 
 responsible for the sadness that lay in them. The car 
 whirred on, the conductor opened the door with monot- 
 onous regularity, and called out the interminable 
 streets. The air in the car, overheated by the little coal- 
 stove, took on the foul smell of the air at the Charities. 
 
274 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Elizabeth's head ached more and more, a sickness came 
 over her. At last she reached the street which led 
 across to Claybourne Avenue, and got off. She crossed 
 the little triangular park. The air had suddenly taken 
 on a new life, it was colder and clearer. The dampness 
 it had held in suspense for days was leaving it. Looking 
 between the black trunks of the trees in the park she 
 saw the western sky, yellow and red where the sun had 
 gone down; and she thought of her home, with its 
 comfort and warmth and light, and the logs in the 
 great fireplace in the library. She hastened on, soothed 
 and reassured. In the sense of certain comfort she 
 now confidently anticipated, she could get the poor out 
 of her mind, and feel as she used to feel before they 
 came to annoy her. The clouds were clearing, the sky 
 took on the deep blue it shows at evening; one star 
 began to sparkle frostily, and, just as peace was 
 returning, that young man's face came back, and she 
 remembered instantly, in a flash, that it was the face of 
 Harry Graves. 
 
XVI 
 
 Elizabeth was right; it was Harry Graves. Four 
 weeks before he had been released from the peniten- 
 tiary. On the day that he was permitted to go forth 
 into the world again as a free man, the warden gave 
 him a railroad ticket back to the city, a suit of prison- 
 made clothes, a pair of prison-made brogans, and a 
 shirt. These clothes were a disappointment and a cha- 
 grin to Graves. When he went into the prison, the 
 fall before, he had an excellent suit of clothes and a 
 new overcoat, and during the whole year he had looked 
 forward to the pleasure he would experience in don- 
 ning these again. He had felt a security in returning 
 to the world well-habited and presentable. But one of 
 the guards had noticed Graves's clothes when he en- 
 tered the penitentiary and had stolen them, so that 
 when he was released. Graves was forced to go back 
 wearing a suit of the shoddy clothes one of the con- 
 tractors manufactured in the prison, and sold to the 
 state at a profit sufficient to repay him and to provide 
 certain officials of the penitentiary with a good income 
 as well. These clothes were of dull black. A detective 
 could recognize them anywhere. Before Graves had 
 reached the city, the collar had rubbed black against 
 his neck. 
 
 Things, of course, had changed while he was in 
 prison. His mother had died and he had no home to 
 
 ^7^0 
 
%6 THE TURN OF, THE BALANCE , 
 
 go to. Besides this, he had contracted tuberculosis in 
 the penitentiary, as did many of the convicts unless 
 they were men of exceptionally strong constitutions. 
 Nevertheless Graves was glad to be free on any terms, 
 and glad to be back in the city in which he had been 
 born and reared. And yet, no sooner was he back than 
 the fear of the city lay on him. He dreaded to meet 
 men; he felt their eyes following him curiously. He 
 knew that he presented an uncouth figure in those 
 miserable clothes and the clumsy prison brogans. Be- 
 sides, he had so long walked in the lock-step that his 
 gait was now constrained, awkward and unnatural; 
 having been forbidden to speak for more than a year, 
 and having spoken at all but surreptitiously, he found 
 it impossible to approach men with his old frank- 
 ness; having been compelled to keep his gaze on 
 the ground, he could not look men in the eyes, and so 
 he seemed to be a surly, taciturn creature with a hang- 
 dog air. 
 
 During the three weeks Graves had been confined in 
 jail, prior to his plea and sentence, he had thought 
 over his misdeeds, recognized his mistakes and formed 
 the most strenuous resolutions of betterment. He was 
 determined, then, to live a better life ; but as he could 
 not hve while in prison, but merely "do time," he was 
 compelled, of course, to wait a year before he could 
 begin Hfe anew. During the eleven months he spent 
 in the penitentiary he had tried to keep these resolu- 
 tions fresh, strong and ever clear before him. This 
 was a difficult thing to do, for his mind was weakened 
 by the confinement, and his moral sense was constantly 
 clouded by the examples that were placed before him. 
 On Sundays, in the chapel, he heard the chaplain 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 2^^ 
 
 preach, but during the week the guards stole the com- 
 forts his mother sent to him before she died, the con- 
 tractors and the prison officials were grafting and 
 stealing from the state provisions, household furni- 
 ture, liquors, wines, and every other sort of thing ; one 
 of the prison officials supplied his brother's drug store 
 with medicines and surgical appliances from the prison 
 hospital. Besides all this, the punishments he was com- 
 pelled at times to witness — the water-cure, the paddle, 
 the electric battery, the stringing up by the wrists, not 
 to mention the loathsome practices of the convicts 
 themselves — ^benumbed and appalled him, until he 
 shuddered with terror lest his mind give way. But all 
 these things, he felt, would be at an end if he could 
 keep his reason and his health, and live to the end of 
 his term. Then he could leave them all behind and go 
 out into the world and begin life anew. 
 
 Graves came back to town during those last glorious 
 days of the autumn, and the fact that he had no place 
 to go was not so much a hardship. He did not care 
 to show himself to his old friends until he had had 
 opportunity to procure new clothes, and he felt that 
 he was started on the way to this rehabilitation when 
 almost immediately he found a place trucking mer- 
 chandise for a wholesale house in Front Street. He 
 felt encouraged; his luck, he told himself, was good, 
 and for three days he was happy in his work. Then, 
 one morning, he noticed a policeman; the policeman 
 stood on the sidewalk, watching Graves roll barrels 
 down the skids from a truck. The policeman stood 
 there a good while, and then he spoke to the driver, 
 admired the magnificent horses that were hitched to 
 the truck, patted their glossy necks, picked up some 
 
278 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 sugar that had been spilled from a burst barrel and let 
 the horses lick the sugar from the palm of his hand. 
 The horses tossed their heads playfully as they did 
 this, and, meanwhile, the policeman glanced every few- 
 minutes at Graves. Presently, he went into the whole- 
 sale house, and through the window Graves saw him 
 talking to the manager. That evening the manager 
 paid Graves for his three days' work and discharged 
 him. 
 
 On this money, four dollars and a half. Graves lived 
 for a week, meanwhile hunting another job. He could 
 do nothing except manual labor, for he was not prop- 
 erly clothed for any clerical employment. He walked 
 along the entire river front, seeking work on the 
 wharves as a stevedore, but no one could work there 
 who was not a member of the Longshoremen's Union, 
 and no one could be a member of the Longshoremen's 
 Union who did not work there ; so this plan failed. He 
 visited employment bureaus, but these demanded fees 
 and deposits. Graves read the want advertisements in 
 the newspapers, but none of these availed him ; each 
 prospective employer demanded references which 
 Graves could not give. 
 
 The snow-storm brought him a prosperity as fleeting 
 as the snow itself; he went into the residence district 
 — where as yet he had not had the heart to go be- 
 cause of memories that haunted it — and cleaned the 
 sidewalks of the well-to-do. After a day or so, the 
 sidewalks of the well-to-do were all cleaned, — ^that is, 
 the sidewalks of those who respected the laws suffi- 
 ciently to have their sidewalks cleaned. Then the rain 
 came, and Graves tramped the slushy streets. His 
 prison-made shoes were as pervious to water as paper, 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 279 
 
 of which substance, indeed, they were made; he con- 
 tracted a cold, and his cough grew rapidly worse. He 
 had no place to sleep. He spent a night in each of the 
 two lodging-houses in the city, then he "flopped" on 
 the floor of a police station. In this place he became 
 infested with vermin, though this was no new experi- 
 ence to him after eleven months in the cells of the peni- 
 tentiary. Meanwhile, he had little to eat. Once or 
 twice, he visited hotel kitchens and the chefs gave him 
 scraps from the table; then he did what for days he 
 had been dreading — he tried to beg. After allowing 
 twenty people to go by, he found the courage to hold 
 out his hand to the twenty-first ; the man passed with- 
 out noticing him ; a dozen others did likewise. Then 
 a policeman saw him and arrested him on a charge of 
 vagrancy. At the police station the officers, recogniz- 
 ing his prison clothes, held him for three days as a 
 suspicious character. Then he was arraigned before 
 Bostwick, who scowled and told him he would give 
 him twenty-four hours in which to leave the city. 
 
 It was now cold. The wind cut through Graves's 
 clothing like a saw ; he skulked and hid for two days ; 
 then, intolerably hungry, he went to the Organized 
 Charities. He sat there for two hours that afternoon, 
 glad of the delay because the room was warm. He 
 thought much during those two hours, though his 
 thoughts were no longer clear. He was able, however, 
 to recall a belief he had held before coming out of the 
 penitentiary, — a belief that he had paid the penalty for 
 his crime, that, having served the sentence society had 
 imposed on him, his punishment was at an end. This 
 view had seemed to be confirmed by the certificate that 
 had been issued to him, under the Great Seal of State 
 
28o iTHE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 and signed by the governor, restoring him to citizen- 
 ship. But now he realized that this belief had been er- 
 roneous, that he had not at all paid the penalty, that 
 he had not served his sentence, that his punishment 
 was not at an end, and that he had not been restored 
 to citizenship. The Great Seal of State had attested 
 an hypocrisy and a lie, and the governor had signed 
 his name to this lie with a conceited flourish at the end 
 of his pen. Graves formulated this conclusion with an 
 effort, but he grasped it finally, and his mind clung to 
 it and revolved about it, finding something it could 
 hold to. 
 
 And then, suddenly, Elizabeth Ward entered tHe 
 room. He knew her instantly, and his heart leaped 
 with a wild desperate hope. He watched her ; she was 
 beautiful in the seal-skin jacket that fitted her' slender 
 figure so well ; her hat with its touch of green became 
 her dark hair. He noted the flush of her cheek, the 
 sparkle of her eyes behind the veil. He remembered 
 her as he had seen her that last day she came into her 
 father's office; he remembered how heavy his own 
 heart had been under its load of guilty fears. He re- 
 called the affection her father had shown, how his tired 
 face had smiled when he saw her. Graves remem- 
 bered that the smile had filled him with a pity for 
 Ward ; he seemed once more to see Ward fondly take 
 her little gloved hand and hold it while he looked 
 up at her, and how he had laughed and evidently joked 
 her as he swung about to his desk and wrote out a 
 check. And then, as she went out, she had smiled at 
 the clerks and spoken to them ; she had smiled on him 
 and spoken to him; would she smile now, this day? 
 The hope leaped wild in his heart. If she did ! She 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 281 
 
 was the apple of her father's eye — ^he would do any- 
 thing for her ; if she would but see and recognize him 
 now, give him the least hint of encouragement or per- 
 mission, he would tell her, she would speak to her fa- 
 ther and he would help him. His whole being seemed 
 to melt within him — he half started from his chair — his 
 eyes were wide with the excitement of this hope. He 
 never once took them from her; he must not permit 
 an instant to escape him, lest she look his way. He 
 watched her as she sat by the window ; she made a pic- 
 ture he never could forget. Once she turned. Ah ! it 
 was coming now ! — ^but no — yes, she was moving ! She 
 had gone into the other room. He hoped now that his 
 case would be one of the last. He must see her. After 
 a while the agent beckoned him, looked at him suspi- 
 ciously, and said : 
 
 "How long have you been out ?" 
 
 "A month," said Graves. 
 
 "Well, I haven't got no use for convicts,'* said the 
 agent. 
 
 Graves waited in the hall. He waited until it was 
 dark, but not so dark that the agent could not recog- 
 nize him. 
 
 "You needn't hang around," he said ; "there's noth- 
 ing to steal here." 
 
 Graves waited, then, outside. He feared He would 
 miss Elizabeth in the dark, or confuse her among the 
 other women. The thought made him almost frantic. 
 The women came out, and finally — yes, it was Eliza- 
 beth! He could nowhere mistake that figure. He 
 pressed up, he spoke, he put forth a hand to touch her 
 —she turned with a start of fright. He saw a police- 
 man looking at him narrowly. And then he gave up, 
 slunk ofif, and was lost in the crowd. 
 
XVII 
 
 Seated in the library at the Wards', Eades gave 
 himself up to the influences of the moment. The open 
 fire gave off the faint delicious odor of burning wood, 
 the lamp filled the room with a soft light that gleamed 
 on the gilt lettering of the books about the walls, the 
 pictures above the low shelves — a portrait of Browning 
 among them — lent to the room the dignity of the great 
 souls they portrayed. Eades, who had just tried his 
 second murder case, was glad to find this refuge from 
 the thoughts that had harassed him for a week. Eliza- 
 beth noticed the weariness in his eyes, and she had a 
 notion that his hair glistened a little more grayly at 
 his temples. 
 
 "You've been going through an ordeal this week, 
 haven't you ?" She had expressed the thought that lay 
 on their minds. He felt a thrill. She sympathized, 
 and this was comfort ; this was what he wanted ! 
 
 "It must have been exciting," Elizabeth continued. 
 "Murder trials usually are, I believe. I never saw one ; 
 I never was in a court-room in my life. Women do go, 
 I suppose ?" 
 
 "Yes — women of a certain kind." His tone depre- 
 cated the practice. "We've had big audiences all the 
 week ; it would have disgusted you to see them strug- 
 gling and scrambling for admission. Now I suppose 
 they'll be sending flowers to the wretch, and all that." 
 
 Eades chose to forget how entirely the crowd had 
 282 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 2^3 
 
 sympathized with him, and how the atmosphere of the 
 trial had been wholly against the wretch. 
 
 "Well, I'll promise not to send him any flowers," 
 Elizabeth said quickly. "He'll have to hang?" 
 
 "No, not hang; we don't hang people in this state 
 any more ; we electrocute them. But I forgot ; Gordon 
 Marriott told me I mustn't say 'electrocute'; he says 
 there is no such word." 
 
 "Gordon is particular," Elizabeth observed with a 
 laugh. 
 
 Eades thought she laughed sympathetically; and he 
 wanted all her sympathy for himself just then. 
 
 "He calls it killing." Eades grasped the word boldly, 
 like a nettle. 
 
 "Gordon doesn't believe in capital punishment." 
 
 "So I understand." 
 
 "I don't either." 
 
 Her tone startled him. He glanced up. She was 
 looking at him steadily. 
 
 "Did you read of this man's crime ?" he asked. 
 
 "No, I don't read about crimes." 
 
 "Then I'll spare you. Only, he shot a man down in 
 cold blood ; there were eye-witnesses ; there is no doubt 
 of his guilt. He made no defense." 
 
 "Then it couldn't have been hard to convict him." 
 
 "No," Eades admitted, though he did not like this 
 detraction from his triumph. "But the responsibility 
 is great." 
 
 "I should imagine so." 
 
 He did not know exactly what she meant; he won- 
 dered if this were sarcasm. 
 
 "It is indeed," he insisted. 
 
 "Yes," she went on, "I know it must be. I couldn't 
 
284 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 bear it myself. I'm glad women are not called to such 
 responsibilities. I believe it is said — isn't it? — that 
 their sentimental natures unfit them." She was smil- 
 ing. 
 
 "You're guying now," he said, leaning back in his 
 chair. 
 
 "Oh, indeed, no ! Of course, I know nothing about 
 such things — save that you men are superior to your 
 emotional natures, and rise above them and control 
 them." 
 
 "Well, not always. We become emotional, but our 
 emotions are usually excited on the side of justice." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "Justice? Why— well— " 
 
 "You mean 'an eye for an eye,' I suppose, and 'a life 
 for a life.' " Elizabeth looked at him steadily, and he 
 feared she was making him ridiculous. 
 
 "I'm not sure that I believe in capital punishment 
 myself," he said, seeing that she would not, after all, 
 sympathize with him, "but luckily I have no choice; I 
 have only my duty to do, and that is to enforce the 
 laws as I find them." He settled back as if he had 
 found a sure foundation and placed his fingers tip to 
 tip, his polished nails gleaming in the firelight as if 
 they were wet. "I can only do my duty ; the jury, the 
 judge, the executioner, may do theirs or not. My per- 
 sonal feelings can not enter into the matter in the 
 least. That's the beauty of our system. Of course, it's 
 hard and unpleasant, but we can't allow our sentiments 
 to stand in the way." Plainly he enjoyed the nobility 
 of this attTtude. "As a man, I might not believe in 
 capital punishment — but as an official — " 
 
 "You divide yourself into two personalities ?" ' 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE ^285 
 
 'Well, in that sense—" 
 
 "How disagreeable !" Elizabeth gave a little shrug. 
 "It's a kind of vivisection, isn't it ?" 
 
 "But something has to be done. What would you 
 have me do ?" He sat up and met her, and she shrank 
 from the conflict. 
 
 "Oh, don't ask me ! I don't know anything about it, 
 I'm sure ! I know but one criminal, and I don't wish 
 to dream about him to-night." 
 
 "It is strange to be discussing such topics," said 
 Eades. "You must pardon me for being so disagreea- 
 ble and depressing." 
 
 "Oh, I'll forgive you," she laughed. "I'd really like 
 to know about such things. As I say, I have known 
 but one criminal." 
 
 "The one you dream of ?'* 
 
 "Yes. Do you ever dream of your criminals ?" 
 
 "Oh, never! It's bad enough to be brought into 
 contact with them by day ; I put them out of my mind 
 when night comes. Except this Burns — ^he insists on 
 pursuing me more or less. But now that he has his 
 just deserts, perhaps he'll let me alone. But tell me 
 about this criminal of yours, this lucky one you dream 
 of. I'd become a criminal myself — " 
 
 "You know him already," Elizabeth said hastily, her 
 cheeks coloring. 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes. Do you remember Harry Graves ?" 
 
 Eades bent his head and placed his knuckles to his 
 
 chin. 
 
 "Graves, Graves ?" he said. "It seems to me — " 
 "The boy who stole from my father; you had hini 
 
 sent to the penitentiary for a ^ear — and papa— r" 
 
286 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ''Oh, I remember ; that boy ! To be sure. His term 
 must be over now." 
 
 "Yes, it's over. I've seen him." 
 
 "You !" he said in surprise. "Where?" 
 
 "At the Charity Bureau, before Christmas." 
 
 "Ah, begging, of course." Eades shook his head. 
 "I vi^as in hopes our leniency would do him good ; but 
 it seems that it's never appreciated. I sometimes re- 
 proach myself with being too easy with them ; but they 
 do disappoint us — almost invariably. Begging! Well, 
 they don't want to work, that's all. What became of 
 him?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Elizabeth. "I saw him there, 
 but didn't recognize him. After I had come away, I 
 recalled him. I've reproached myself again and again. 
 I wonder what has become of him !" 
 
 "It's sad, in a way," said Eades, "but I shouldn't 
 worry. I used to worry, at first, but I soon learned to 
 know them. They're no good, they won't work, they 
 have no respect for law, they have no desire but to 
 gratify their idle, vicious natures. The best thing is 
 just to shut them up where they can't harm any one. 
 This may seem heartless, but I don't think I'm heart- 
 less." He smiled tolerantly for himself. "I have no 
 personal feeling in the matter, but I've learned from 
 experience. As for this Graves — I had my doubts at 
 the time. I thought then I was making a mistake in 
 recommending leniency. But, really, your father was 
 so cut up, and I'd rather err on the side of mercy." He 
 paused a moment, and then said : "He'll turn up in 
 court again some day. You'll see. I shouldn't lose any 
 more sleep over him." 
 
 Elizabeth smiled faintly, but did not reply. She sat 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 2^7 
 
 with her elbow on the arm of her chair, her delicate 
 chin resting on her hand, and Eades was content to 
 let the subject drop, if it would. He wished the silence 
 would prolong itself. His heart beat rapidly; he felt 
 a new energy, a new joy pulsing within him. He sat 
 and looked at her calmly, her gaze bent on the fire, her 
 profile revealed to him, her lashes sweeping her cheek, 
 the lace in her sleeve falling away from her slender 
 arm. Should he tell her then? He longed to — but 
 this was not, after all, the moment. The moment 
 would come, and he must be patient. He must wait 
 and prove himself to her; she must understand him; 
 she should see him in time as the modern ideal of man- 
 hood, doing his duty courageously and without fear or 
 favor. Some day he would tell her. 
 
 "Your charity bazaar was a success, I hope?" he 
 said presently, coming back to the lighter side of their 
 last topic. 
 
 "I don't know/' Elizabeth said. "I never inquired." 
 
 *'You never inquired ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "How strange ! Why not ?" 
 
 "I lost interest." 
 
 "Oh !" he laughed. "Well, we all do that." 
 
 "The whole thing palled on me — struck me as ridic- 
 ulous." 
 
 Eades was perplexed. He could not in the least un- 
 derstand this latest attitude. Surely, she was a girl of 
 many surprises. 
 
 "I shouldn't think you would find charity ridiculous. 
 A hard-hearted and cruel being like me might — ^but 
 you — oh. Miss Ward ! To think that helping the poor 
 was ridiculous !" 
 
288 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 **But it isn't to help the poor at all." 
 
 He was still more perplexed. 
 
 "It's to help the rich. Can't you see that?" 
 
 She turned and faced him with clear, sober gray 
 eyes. 
 
 "Can't you see that?" she asked again. "If you 
 can't, I wish I knew how to make you. 
 
 "'The organized charity, scrimped and iced, 
 In the name of a cautious, statistical Christ*— 
 
 "Do you know Boyle O'Reilly's poetry ?" 
 Eades showed the embarrassment of one who has 
 not the habit of reading, and she saw that the words 
 had no meaning for him. 
 
 "Don't take it all so seriously," he said, leaning over 
 as if he might plead with her. " The poor,' you know, 
 *we have always with us.' " He settled back then as 
 one who has said the thing proper to the occasion. 
 
XVIII 
 
 Although Marriott had promised Koerner early in 
 the fall that his action against the railroad would be 
 tried at once, he was unable to bring the event to pass. 
 In the first place, Bradford Ford, the attorney for the 
 railroad, had to go east in his private car, then in the 
 winter he had to go to Florida to rest and play golf, 
 and because of these and other postponements it was 
 March before the case was finally assigned for trial. 
 
 "So that's your client back there, is it?" said Ford, 
 the morning of the trial, turning from the window and 
 the lingering winter outdoors to look at Koerner. 
 
 Koerner was sitting by the trial table, his old wife 
 by his side. He was pale and thin from his long winter 
 indoors; his yellow, wrinkled skin stretched over his 
 jaw-bones, hung flabby at his throat. As Ford and 
 Marriott looked at him, a troubled expression appeared 
 in Koerner's face; he did not like to see Marriott so 
 companionable with Ford ; he had ugly suspicions ; he 
 felt that Marriott should treat his opponent coldly and 
 with the enmity such a contest deserved. But just at 
 that minute Judge Shadow came in and court was 
 opened. 
 
 The trial lasted three days. The benches behind the 
 bar were empty, the bailiff slept with his gray chin on 
 his breast, the clerk copied pleadings in the record, 
 pausing now and then to look out at the flurries of 
 snow. Sharlow sat on the bench, trying to write an 
 
 289 
 
^o THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 opinion he had been working on for weeks. The jury 
 sat in the jury-box, their eyes heavy with drowsiness, 
 breathing grossly. Long ago Hfe had paused in these 
 men ; they had certain fixed opinions, one of which was 
 that any man who sued a corporation was entitled to 
 damages; and after they had seen Koerner, with the 
 stump of his leg sticking out from his chair, they were 
 ready to render a verdict. 
 
 Marriott knew this, and Ford knew it, and conse- 
 quently they gave attention, not to the jury, but to the 
 stenographer bending over the tablet on which he 
 transcribed the testimony with his fountain pen. Mar- 
 riott and Ford were concerned about the record ; they 
 saw not so much this trial, as a hearing months or pos- 
 sibly years hence in the Appellate Court, and still an- 
 other hearing months or years hence in the Supreme 
 Court. They knew that just as the jurymen w^ere in 
 sympathy with Koerner, and by any possible means 
 would give a verdict in his favor, so the judges in the 
 higher courts would be in sympathy with the railroad 
 company, and by any possible means give judgment in 
 its favor ; and, therefore, while Marriott's efforts were 
 directed toward trying the case in such a way that the 
 record should be free from error. Ford's efforts were 
 directed toward trying the case in such a way that the 
 record should be full of error. Ford was continually 
 objecting to the questions Marriott asked his witnesses, 
 and compelling Shadow to drop his work and pass on 
 these objections. One of Marriott's witnesses, a stal- 
 wart young mechanic, unmarried and with no respon- 
 sibilities, testified positively that the frog in which 
 Koerner had caught his foot had no block in it ; he had 
 examined it carefully at the time. Another, a man of 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 291 
 
 middle age with a large family, an employe of the rail- 
 road company, had the most unreliable memory — he 
 could remember nothing at all about the frog ; he could 
 not say whether it had been blocked or not ; he had not 
 examined it ; he had not considered it any of his busi- 
 ness. While giving his testimony, he cast fearful and 
 appealing glances at Ford, who smiled complacently, 
 and for a while made no objections. Another witness 
 was Gergen, the surgeon, a young man with eye- 
 glasses, a tiny gold chain, and a scant black beard 
 trimmed closely to his pale skin and pointed after the 
 French fashion. He retained his overcoat and kept 
 on his glasses while he testified, as if he must get 
 through with this business and return to his practice 
 as quickly as possible. With the greatest care he 
 couched all his testimony in scientific phrases. 
 
 "I was summoned to the hospital," he said, "at seven- 
 sixteen on that evening and found the patient pros- 
 trated by hemorrhage and shock. I supplemented the 
 superficial examination of the internes and found that 
 there were contusions on the left hip, and severe bruises 
 on the entire left side. The most severe injury, how- 
 ever, developed in the right foot. The tibiotarsal ar- 
 ticulation was destroyed, the calcaneum and astragalus 
 were crushed and inoperable, the metatarsus and pha- 
 langes, and the internal and external malleolus were 
 also crushed, and the fibula and tibia were splintered to 
 the knee." 
 
 "Well, what then?" 
 
 "I gave orders to have the patient prepared, and 
 proceeded to operate. My assistant. Doctor Remack, 
 administered the anesthetic, and I amputated at the 
 lower third." 
 
292 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Doctor Gergen then explained that what he had said 
 meant that he had found Koerner's foot, ankle and 
 knee crushed, and that he had cut off his leg above the 
 knee. After this he told what fee he had charged ; he 
 did this in plain terms, calling dollars dollars, and cents 
 cents. 
 
 But Koerner himself was a sufficient witness in his 
 own behalf. Sitting on the stand, his crutches in the 
 hollow of his arm, the stump of his leg thrust straight 
 out before him and twitching now and then, he told of 
 his long service with the railroad, pictured the blinding 
 snow-storm, described how he had slipped and caught 
 his foot in the unblocked frog — then the switch-engine 
 noiselessly stealing down upon him. The jurymen 
 roused from their lethargy as he turned his white and 
 bony face toward them ; the atmosphere was suddenly 
 charged with the sympathy these aged men felt for 
 him. Sharlow paused in his writing, the clerk ceased 
 from his monotonous work, and Mrs. Koerner, whose 
 expression had not changed, wiped her eyes with the 
 handkerchief which, fresh from the iron, she had held 
 all day without unfolding. 
 
 When Ford began his cross-examination, Koerner 
 twisted about with difficulty in his chair, threw back 
 his head, and his face became hard and obdurate. He 
 ran his stiff and calloused hand through his white hair, 
 which seemed to bristle with leonine defiance. Ford 
 conducted his cross-examination in soft, pleasant tones, 
 spoke to Koerner kindly and with consideration, scru- 
 pulously addressed him as "Mr. Koerner," and had him 
 repeat all he had said about his injury. 
 
 "As I understand it, then, Mr. Koerner," said Ford, 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 293 
 
 "you were walking Homeward at the end of the day- 
 through the railroad yards." 
 
 "Yes, sir, dot's right." 
 
 "You'd always gone home that way ?" 
 
 "Sure ; I go dot vay for twenty year, right through 
 dose yards dere." 
 
 "Yes. Was that a public highway, Mr. Koerner ?" 
 
 "Veil, everybody go dot vay home all right; dot's 
 so." 
 
 "But it wasn't a street?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Nor a sidewalk?" 
 
 "You know dot alreadty yourself," said Koerner, 
 leaning forward, contracting his bushy white eyebrows 
 and glaring at Ford. "Vot you vant to boder me mit 
 such a damn- fool question for?" 
 
 The jurymen laughed and Ford smiled. 
 
 "I know, of course, Mr. Koerner; you will pardon 
 me — ^but what I wish to know is whether or not you 
 know. You had passed through those yards fre- 
 quently ?" 
 
 "Yah, undt I knows a damn-sight more about dose 
 yards dan you, you bet." 
 
 Again the jurymen laughed in vicarious pleasure at 
 another's profanity. 
 
 "I yield to you there, Mr. Koerner," said Ford in 
 his suave manner. "But let us go on. You say your 
 foot slipped ?" 
 
 "Yah, dot's right." 
 
 "Slipped on the frozen snow?" 
 
 "Yah. I bedt you shlip on such a place as dot." 
 
 *'No doubt," said Ford, who suddenly ceased to 
 
294 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 smile. He now leaned forward ; the faces of the two 
 protagonists seemed to be close together. 
 
 "And, as a result, your foot slid into the frog, and 
 was wedged there so that you could not get it out ?" 
 
 "Yah." 
 
 "And the engine came along just then and ran over 
 it?" 
 
 "Yah." 
 
 Ford suddenly sat upright, turned away, seemed to 
 have lost interest, and said : 
 
 "That's all, Mr. Koerner." 
 
 And the old man w^as left sitting there, suspended as 
 it were, his neck out-thrust, his white brows gathered 
 in a scowl, his small eyes blinking. 
 
 Sharlow looked at Marriott, then said, as if to hurry 
 Koerner off the stand : 
 
 "That's all, Mr. Koerner. Call your next." 
 
 When all the testimony for the plaintiff had been pre- 
 sented Ford moved to arrest the case from the jury; 
 that is, he wished Sharlow to give judgment in favor 
 of the railroad company without proceeding further. 
 In making this motion, Ford stood beside his table, one 
 hand resting on a pile of law-books he had had borne 
 into the court-room that afternoon by a young attorney 
 just admitted to the bar, who acted partly as clerk and 
 partly as porter for Ford, carrying his law-books for 
 him, finding his place in them, and, in general, reliev- 
 ing Ford from all that manual effort which is thought 
 incompatible with professional dignity. As he spoke. 
 Ford held in his hand the gold eye-glasses which 
 seemed to betray him into an age which he did not look 
 and did not like to admit. Marriott had expected this 
 motion and listened attentively to what Ford said. The 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 295 
 
 Koerners, who did not at all understand, waited pa- 
 tiently. Meanwhile, Sharlow excused the jury, sank 
 deeper in his chair and laid his forefinger learnedly 
 along his cheek. 
 
 Ford's motion was based on the contention that the 
 failure to block the frog — he spoke of this failure, per- 
 fectly patent to every one, as an alleged failure, and 
 was careful to say that the defendant did not admit that 
 the frog had not been blocked — ^that the alleged failure 
 was not the proximate cause of Koerner's injury, but 
 that the real cause was the ice about the frog on which 
 Koerner, according to his own admission, had slipped. 
 The unblocked frog, he said — ^admitting merely for the 
 sake of argument that the frog was unblocked — was 
 the remote cause, the ice was the proximate cause ; the 
 question then was, which of these had caused Koerner's 
 injury? It was necessary that the injury be the effect 
 of a cause which in law-books was referred to as a 
 proximate cause ; if it was not referred to as a proxi- 
 mate cause, but as a remote cause, then Koerner could 
 not recover his damages. After elaborating this view 
 and many times repeating the word "proximate," which 
 seemed to take on a more formidable and insuperable 
 sound each time he uttered it. Ford proceeded to eluci- 
 date his thought further, and in doing this, he used a 
 term even more impressive than the word proximate ; 
 he used the phrase, "act of God." The ice, he said, 
 was an "act of God," and as the railroad company was 
 responsible, under the law, for its own acts only, it fol- 
 lowed that, as "an act of God" was not an act of the 
 railroad company, but an act of another, that is, of 
 God, the railroad company could not be held account- 
 able for the ice. 
 
296 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Having, as he said, indicated the outline of his argu- 
 ment, Ford said that he would pass to a second propo- 
 sition; namely, that the motion must be granted for 
 another reason. In stating this reason, Ford used the 
 phrases, "trespass" and "contributory negligence," and 
 these phrases had a sound even more ominous than the 
 phrases "proximate" and "act of God." Ford declared 
 that the railroad yards were the property of the rail- 
 road company, and therefore not a thoroughfare, and 
 that Koerner, in walking through them, was a tres- 
 passer. The fact that Koerner was in the employ of the 
 railroad, he said, did not give him the right to enter in 
 and upon the yards — ^he had the lawyer's reckless ex- 
 travagance in the use of prepositions, and whenever it 
 was possible used the word "said" in place of "the" — 
 for the reason that his employment did not necessarily 
 lead him to said yard and, more than all, when Koerner 
 completed his labors for the day, his right to remain in 
 and about said premises instantly ceased. Therefore, 
 he contended, Koerner was a trespasser, and a tres- 
 passer must suffer all the consequences of his trespass. 
 Then Ford began to use the phrase "contributory neg- 
 ligence." He said that Koerner had been negligent in 
 continuing in and upon said premises, and besides, had 
 not used due care in avoiding the ice and snow on and 
 about said frog ; that he had the same means of know- 
 ing that the ice was there that the railroad company 
 had, and hence had assumed whatever risk there was 
 in passing on and over said ice, and that then and there- 
 by he had been guilty of contributory negligence ; that 
 is, had contributed, by his own negligence, to his own 
 injury. In fact, it seemed from Ford's argument that 
 
THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 297 
 
 Koerner had really invited his injury and purposely 
 had the switch-engine cut off his leg. 
 
 "These, in brief, if the Court please," said Ford, who 
 had spoken for an hour, "are the propositions I wish to 
 place before your Honor." Ford paused, drew from 
 his pocket a handkerchief, pressed it to his lips, passed 
 it lightly over his forehead, and laid it on the table. 
 Then he selected a law-book from the pile and opened 
 it at the page his clerk had marked with a slip of paper. 
 Sharlow, knowing what he had to expect, stirred un- 
 easily and glanced at the clock. 
 
 During Ford's argument Sharlow had been thinking 
 the matter over. He knew, of course, that the same 
 combination of circumstances is never repeated, that 
 there could be no other case in the world just like this, 
 but that there were hundreds which resembled it, and 
 that Ford and Marriott would ransack the law libraries 
 to find these cases, explain them to him, differentiate 
 them, and show how they resembled or did not resemble 
 the case at bar. And, further, he knew that before he 
 could decide the question Ford had raised he would 
 have to stop and think what the common law of Eng- 
 land had been on the subject, then whether that law 
 had been changed by statute, then whether the statute 
 had been changed, and, if it was still on the statute 
 books, whether it could be said to be contrary to the 
 Constitution of the United States or of the State. Then 
 he would have to see what the courts had said about 
 the subject, and, if more than one court had spoken, 
 whether their opinions were in accord or at variance 
 with each other. Besides this he would have to find 
 out what the courts of other states had said on similar 
 subjects and whether they had reversed themselves; 
 
298 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 that is, said at one time something contrary to what 
 they had said at another. If he could not reconcile 
 these decisions he would have to render a decision him- 
 self, which he did not like to do, for there was always 
 the danger that some case among the thousands report- 
 ed had been overlooked by him, or by Ford or Marriott, 
 and that the courts which would review his decision, 
 in the years that would be devoted to the search, might 
 discover that other case and declare that he had not 
 decided the question properly. And even if the courts 
 had decided this question, it might be discovered that 
 the question was not, after all, the exact question in- 
 volved in this case, or was not the exact question the 
 courts had meant to decide. It would not do for Shar- 
 low to decide this case according to the simple rule of 
 right and wrong, which he could have found by look- 
 ing into his own heart ; that would not be lawful ; he 
 must decide it according to what had been said by 
 other judges, most of whom were dead. Though if 
 Shadow did decide, his decision would become law for 
 other judges to be guided by, until some judge in the 
 future gave a different opinion. 
 
 Considering all this. Shadow determined to postpone 
 his decision as long as possible, and told Ford that he 
 would not then listen to his authorities, but would hear 
 what Marriott had to say. 
 
 And then Marriott spoke at length, opposing all that 
 Ford had said, saying that the unblocked frog must be 
 the proximate cause, for if it had been blocked, Koerner 
 could not have caught his foot in it and could have 
 got out of the way of the switch-engine. Furthermore, 
 he declared that the yards had been used by the em- 
 ployes as a thoroughfare so long that a custom had 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 299 
 
 been established ; that the unblocked frog, according to 
 the statute, was prima facie negligence on the part of 
 the defendant. And he said that if Ford was to sub- 
 mit authorities, he would like an opportunity to submit 
 other authorities equally authoritative. At this Shar- 
 low bowed, said he would adjourn court until two 
 o'clock in order to consider the question, recalled the 
 jury and cautioned them not to talk about the case. 
 This caution was entirely worthless, because they 
 talked of nothing else, either among themselves or with 
 others; being idle men, they had nothing else to talk 
 about. 
 
 Koerner had listened with amazement to Ford and 
 Marriott, wondering how long they could talk about 
 such incomprehensible subjects. He had tried to follow 
 Ford's remarks and then had tried to follow Marriott's, 
 but he derived nothing from it all except further 
 suspicions of Marriott, who seemed to talk exactly 
 as Ford talked and to use the same words and phrases. 
 He felt, too, that Marriott should have spoken in louder 
 tones and more vehemently, and shown more antipathy 
 to Ford. And when they went out of the court-house, 
 he asked Marriott what it all meant. But Marriott, 
 who could not himself tell as yet what it meant, assured 
 Koerner that an important legal question had arisen 
 and that they must wait until it had been fully argued, 
 considered and decided by the court. Koerner swung 
 away on his crutches, saying to himself that it was all 
 very strange ; the switch-engine had cut off his leg, 
 against his will, no one could gainsay that, and the 
 only important question Koerner could see was how 
 much the law would make the railroad company pay 
 him for cutting off his leg. It seemed silly to him that 
 
300 "THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE ' 
 
 so much time should be wasted over such matters. Bu£ 
 then, as Marriott had said, it was impossible for Koer- 
 ner to understand legal questions. 
 
 By the time he opened court in the afternoon, SKar- 
 low had decided on a course of action, one that would 
 give him time to think over the question further. He 
 announced that he would overrule the motion, but that 
 counsel for defense might raise the question again at 
 the close of the evidence, and, should a verdict result 
 unfavorably to him, on the motion for a new trial. 
 
 Ford took exceptions, and began his defense, intro- 
 ducing several employes of the railroad to give testi- 
 mony about the ice at the frog. When his evidence was 
 in. Ford moved again to take the case from the jury, 
 but Sharlow, having thought the matter over and 
 found it necessary for his peace of mind to reach some 
 conclusion, overruled the motion. 
 
 Then came the arguments, extending themselves into 
 the following day ; then Sharlow must speak ; he must 
 charge the jury. The purpose of the charge was to 
 lay the law of the case before the jury, and for an 
 hour he went on, talking of "proximate cause," of "con- 
 tributory negligence," of "measure of damages," and 
 at last, the jury having been confused sufficiently to 
 meet all the requirements of the law, he told them they 
 might retire. 
 
 It was now noon, and the court was deserted by all 
 but Koerner and his wife, who sat there, side by side, 
 and waited. It was too far for them to go home, and 
 they had no money with which to lunch down town. 
 The bright sun streamed through the windows with 
 the first promise of returning warmth. Now and then 
 from the jury room the Koerners could hear voices 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 301 
 
 raised in argument ; then the noise would die, and for 
 a long time it would be very still. Occasionally they 
 would hear other sounds, the scraping of a chair on the 
 floor, once a noise as of some one pounding a table; 
 voices were raised again, then it grew still. And 
 Koerner and his wife waited. 
 
 At half-past one the bailiff returned. 
 
 "Any sign ?" he asked Koerner. 
 
 **Dey was some fightin'." 
 
 "They'll take their time," said the bailiff. 
 
 "Vot you t'ink?" Koerner ventured to ask. 
 
 "Oh, you'll win," said the bailiff. But Koerner was 
 not so sure about that. 
 
 At two o'clock Sharlow returned and court began 
 again. Another jury was called, another case opened, 
 Koerner gave place to another man who was to ex- 
 change his present troubles for the more annoying ones 
 the law would give him ; to experience Koerner's per- 
 plexity, doubt, confusion, and hope changing constant- 
 ly to fear. Other lawyers began other wrangles over 
 other questions of law. 
 
 At three o'clock there was a loud pounding on the 
 door of the jury room. Every one in the court-room 
 turned with sudden expectation. The bailiff drew out 
 his keys, unlocked the door, spoke to the men inside, 
 and then went to telephone to Marriott and Ford. 
 After a while Marriott appeared, but Ford had not ar- 
 rived. Marriott went out himself and telephoned; 
 Ford had not returned from luncheon. He telephoned 
 to Ford's home, then to his club. Finally, at four 
 o'clock. Ford came. 
 
 After the verdict Marriott went to the Koerners and 
 jvhispered : 
 
302 THE TURN OP THE BALANCE 
 
 "We can go now." 
 
 The old man got up, his wife helped him into liis 
 overcoat, and he swung out of the court-room on his 
 crutches. He had tried to understand what the clerk 
 had read, but could not. He thought he had lost liis 
 case. 
 
 "Well, I congratulate you, Mr. Koerner," said Mar- 
 riott when they were in the corridor. 
 
 "How's dot ?" asked the old man harshly. 
 
 "Why, you won." 
 
 "Me?" 
 
 "Yes; didn't you know?" 
 
 "Ivin?" 
 
 "Certainly, you won. You get eight thousand dol- 
 lars." 
 
 The old man stopped and looked at Marriott. 
 
 "Eight t'ousandt?" 
 
 "Yes, eight thousand." 
 
 "I get eight t'ousandt, huh?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 A smile transfigured the heavy, bony face. 
 
 "Py Gott !" he said. "Dot's goodt, hain't it ?" 
 
XIX 
 
 Late in April they argued the motion for a new trial, 
 and on the last day of the term Sharlow announced his 
 decision, overruling the motion, and entered judgment 
 in Koerner's favor. Though Marriott knew that Ford 
 would carry the case up on error, he had, nevertheless, 
 won a victory, and he felt so confident and happy that 
 he decided to go to Koerner and tell him the good 
 news. The sky had lost the pale shimmer of the early 
 spring and taken on a deeper tone. The sun was warm, 
 and in the narrow plots between the wooden sidewalks 
 and the curb, the grass was green. The trees wore a 
 gauze of yellowish green, the first glow qf living color 
 they soon must show. A robin sprang swiftly across a 
 lawn, stopping to swell his ruddy breast. Marriott 
 made a short cut across a commons, beyond which the 
 spire of a Polish Catholic church rose into the sky. 
 The bare spots of the commons, warmed by the sun, 
 exhaled the strong odor of the earth, recalling memo- 
 ries of other springs. Some shaggy boys, truants, 
 doubtless, too wise to go to school on such a day, were 
 playing a game of base-ball, writhing and contorting 
 their little bodies, raging and screaming and swearing 
 at one another in innocent imitation of the profanity of 
 their fathers and elder brothers. 
 
 Koerner, supported by one crutch, was leaning over 
 his front gate. He was recklessly bareheaded; his 
 white, disordered hair maintained its aspect of fierce- 
 
 303 
 
304 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ness, and, as Marriott drew near, he turned on him his 
 great, bony face, without a change of expression. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Koerner, this is a fine day, isn't it?" said 
 Marriott as he took the old man's hand. "I guess the 
 spring's here at last." 
 
 Koerner took his constant pipe from his lips, raised 
 his eyes and made an observation of the heavens. 
 
 "Veil, dot veat'er's all right." As he returned the 
 amber stem to his yellow teeth, Marriott saw that the 
 blackened bowl of the pipe was empty. The old man 
 let Marriott in at his gate, then swinging about, went 
 to the stoop, lowered himself from his crutches and sat 
 down, with a grunt at the effort. 
 
 "Aren't you afraid for your rheumatism?" asked 
 Marriott, sitting down beside him. 
 
 "Vot's up now again, huh?" demanded Koerner, ig- 
 noring this solicitude for his health. 
 
 "Nothing but good news this time," Marriott was 
 glad to say. 
 
 "Goodt news, huh?" 
 
 "Yes, good news. The judge has refused the motion 
 for a new trial." 
 
 "Den I vin for sure dis time, ain't it ?" 
 
 "Yes, this time," said Marriott. 
 
 "I get my money now right avay ?" 
 
 "Well, pretty soon." 
 
 The old man turned to Marriott with his blue eyes 
 narrowed beneath the white brush of his eyebrows. 
 
 "Vot you mean by dot pretty soon ?" 
 
 "Well, you see, Mr. Koerner, as I explained to you," 
 — Marriott set himself to the task of explaining the 
 latest development in the case ; he tried to present the 
 proceedings in the Appellate Court in their most en- 
 
THE JURN. OR THE BALANCE 305 
 
 couraging HgHt, but He was conscious that Koerner 
 understood nothing save that there were to be more 
 delays. 
 
 "But we must be patient, Mr. Koerner," he said. "It 
 will come out all right." 
 
 Koerner made no reply. To Marriott his figure was 
 infinitely pathetic. He looked at the great face, lined 
 and seamed; the eyes that saw nothing — not the little 
 yard before them where the turf was growing green, 
 not the blackened limbs of a little maple tree struggling 
 to put forth its leaves, not the warm mud glistening in 
 the sun, not the dirty street piled with ashes, not the 
 broken fence and sidewalk, the ugly little houses across 
 the street, nor the purple sky above them — they were 
 gazing beyond all this. Marriott looked at the old 
 man's lips; they trembled, then they puckered them- 
 selves about the stem of his pipe and puffed automati- 
 cally. Marriott, hanging his head, lighted a cigarette. 
 
 "Mis'er Marriott," Koerner began presently, "I been 
 an oldt man. I been an hones' man ; py Gott ! I vork 
 hardt efery day. I haf blenty troubles. I t'ink ven I 
 lose dot damned oldt leg, I t'ink, veil, maybe I get 
 some rest now bretty soon. I say to dot oldt leg : *You 
 bin achin' mit der rheumatiz all dose year, now you haf 
 to kvit, py Gott !' I t'ink I get some rest, I get some 
 dose damages, den maybe I take der oldt voman undt 
 dose childer undt I go out to der oldt gountry; I go 
 back to Chairmany, undt I haf some peace dere. Veil 
 —dot's been a long time, Mis'er Marriott ; dot law, he's 
 a damn humpug ; he's bin fer der railroadt gompany ; 
 he's not been fer der boor man. Der boor man, he's 
 got no show. Dot's been a long time. Maybe, by undt 
 by I die — dot case, he's still go on, huh ?" 
 
3o6 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 The old man looked at Marriott quizzically. 
 
 "Veil, I gan't go out to der oldt gountry now any 
 more. I haf more drouble — dot poy Archie — veil, he 
 bin in drouble too, and now my girl, dot Gusta — " 
 
 The old man's lips trembled. 
 
 "Veil, she's gone, too." 
 
 A tear was rolling down Koerner's cheek. Marriott 
 could not answer him just then; he did not dare to 
 look ; he could scarcely bear to think of this old man, 
 with his dream of going home to the Fatherland — and 
 all his disappointments. Suddenly, the spring had re- 
 ceded again ; the air was chill, the sun lost its warmth, 
 the sky took, on the pale, cold glitter of the days he 
 thought were gone. He could hear Koerner's lips puf- 
 fing at his pipe. Suddenly, a suspicion came to him. 
 
 "Mr. Koerner," he asked, "why aren't you smok- 
 ing?" 
 
 The old man seemed ashamed. 
 
 "Tell me," Marriott demanded. 
 
 "Veil — dot's all right. I hain't — chust got der to- 
 bacco." 
 
 The truth flashed on Marriott; this was deprivation 
 — ^when a man could not get tobacco ! He thought an 
 instant; then he drew out his case of cigarettes, took 
 them, broke their papers and seizing Koerner's hand 
 said: 
 
 "Here, here's a pipeful, anyway ; this'll do till I can 
 send you some." 
 
 And he poured the tobacco into Koerner's bare palm. 
 The old man took the tobacco, pressed it into the bowl 
 of his pipe, Marriott struck a match, Koerner lighted 
 his pipe, and sat a few moments in the comfort of 
 smoking again. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 307 
 
 "Dot's bretty goodt," he said presently. He smoked 
 on. After a while he turned to Marriott with his old 
 shrewd, humorous glance, his blue eyes twinkled, his 
 white brows twitched. 
 
 "Veil, Mis'er Marriott, you nefer t'ought you see der 
 oldt man shmokin' cigarettes, huh ?" 
 
 Marriott laughed, glad of the relief, and glad of the 
 new sense of comradeship the tobacco brought. 
 
 "Now tell me, Mr. Koerner," he said, "are you in 
 want — do you need anything ?" 
 
 Koerner did not reply at once. 
 
 "Come on now," Marriott urged, "tell me — ^have you 
 anything to eat in the house ?" 
 
 "Veil," Koerner admitted, "not much." 
 
 "Have you anything at all to eat?" . ;-;•> 
 
 Koerner hung his head then, in the strange, unac- 
 countable shame people feel in poverty. 
 
 "Veil, I — undt der oldt voman — ve hafn't had any- 
 t'ing to eat to-day." 
 
 "And the children?" 
 
 " Ve gif dem der last dis morning alreadty." 
 
 Marriott closed his eyes in the pain of it. He re- 
 proached himself that he who argued so glibly that peo- 
 ple in general lack the cultured imagination that would 
 enable them to realize the plight of the submerged 
 poor, should have had this condition so long under his 
 very eyes and not have seen it. He was humbled, and 
 then he was angry with himself — an anger he was in- 
 stantly able to change into an anger with Koerner. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Koerner," he said. "I don't know that I 
 ought to sympathize with you, after all. You might 
 have told me ; you might have known I should be glad 
 to help you ; y<m might have saved me — " 
 
3o8 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 He was about to add "the pain," but he recognized 
 the selfishness of this view, and paused. 
 
 "I'll help you, of course," he went on. "My God, 
 man, you mustn't go hungry ! Won't the grocer trust 
 you?" 
 
 The old man was humbled now, and this humility, 
 this final acquiescense and submission, this rare spirit 
 beaten down and broken at last, this was hardest of all 
 tb bear, unless it were his own self-consciousness in this 
 presence of humiliated age — ^these white hairs and he 
 himself so young! He felt like turning from the in- 
 dignity of this poverty, as if he had been intruding on 
 another's unmerited shame. 
 
 "I'll go and attend to it," said Marriott, rising at 
 once. 
 
 "No, you vait," said Koerner, "chust a minute. You 
 know my boy, Mis'er Marriott, Archie ? Veil, I write 
 him aboudt der case, but I don't get a answer. He used 
 to write eff'ry two veeks, undt now — he don't write no 
 more. Vot you t'ink, huh?" The old man looked up 
 at him in the hunger of soul that is even more dreadful 
 than the hunger of body. 
 
 "I'll attend to that, too, Mr. Koerner ; I'll write down 
 and find out, and I'll let you know." 
 
 "Undt Gusta," the old man began as if, having 
 opened his heart at last, he would unburden it of all 
 its woes — but he paused and shook his head slowly. 
 "Dot's no use, I guess. De veat'er's getting bedder 
 now, undt maybe I get out some ; maybe I look her up 
 undt find her." 
 
 "You don't know where she is ?" 
 
 The white head shook again. 
 
 "She's go avay — she's got in trouble, too." 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 309 
 
 In trouble! It was all the same to him — ^poverty, 
 hunger, misfortune, guilt, frailty, false steps, crime, sin 
 — to these wise poor, thought Marriott, it was all just 
 ''trouble/' 
 
 "But it will be all right," he said, "and I'll advance 
 you what money you need. I'll write to the warden 
 about Archie, we'll find Gusta, and we'll win the case." 
 He thought again — the old man might as well have his 
 dream, too. "You'll go back to Germany yet, you'll 
 see." 
 
 Koerner looked up, clutching at hope again. 
 
 "You t'ink dot ? You t'ink I vin, huh ?" 
 
 "Sure," said Marriott heartily, determined to drag 
 joy back into the world. 
 
 "Py Gott, dot's goodt ! I guess I beat dot gompany. 
 I vork for it dose t'irty-sefen year; den dey turn me 
 off. Veil, I beat him, yet. Chust let dot lawyer Ford 
 talk ; let him talk his damned headt off. I beat him — 
 some day." 
 
 "I'll go now, Mr. Koerner. I'll speak to the grocer, 
 and I'll send you something so you can have a little 
 supper. No, don't get up." 
 
 Koerner stretched forth his hand. 
 
 "You bin a goodt friendt, Mis'er Marriott." 
 
 Marriott went to the grocery on the corner. The 
 grocer, a little man, very fat, ran about filling his or- 
 ders, sickening Marriott with his petty sycophancy. 
 
 "Some bacon? Yes, sir. Sugar, butter, bread ? Yes, 
 sir. Coffee? Here you are, sir. Potatoes — about a 
 peck, sir?" 
 
 Marriott, with no notion of what he should buy, 
 bought everything, and added some tobacco for Koer- 
 ner and some candy for the children. And when he 
 
310 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 had arranged with the grocer for an extension of credit 
 to Koerner on his own promise to pay — a promise the 
 canny grocer had Marriott indorse on the card he gave 
 him — Marriott went away with some of the satisfaction 
 of his good deed ; but the grace of spring had gone out 
 of the day and would not now return. 
 
XX 
 
 The reason why Archie had not answered his father's 
 letter was a simple one. On that spring afternoon 
 while Koerner and Marriott were sitting on the stoop, 
 Archie, stripped to the waist, was hanging by his wrists 
 from the ceiling of a dungeon, called a bull cell, in the 
 cellar under the chapel, his bare feet just touching the 
 floor. He had been hanging there for three days. At 
 night he was let down and given a piece of bread and 
 a cup of water, and allowed to lie on the floor, still 
 handcuffed. At morning guards came, raised Archie, 
 lifted him up, and chained his wrists to the bull rings. 
 Later, Deputy Warden Ball sauntered by with his cane 
 hooked over his arm, peered in through the bars, 
 smiled, and said, in his peculiar soft voice : 
 
 "Well, Archie, my boy, had enough ?" 
 
 McBride, the contractor, who had picked Archie out 
 of the group of new convicts in the idle house the day 
 after he arrived at the prison, had set him to work in a 
 shop known as "Bolt B." His work was to make iron 
 bolts, and all day long, from seven in the morning until 
 five in the afternoon, he stood with one foot on the 
 treadle, sticking little bits of iron into the maw of the 
 machine and snatching them out again. At dinner- 
 time the convicts marched out of the shop, stood in 
 close-locked ranks until the whistle blew, and then 
 marched across the yard to the dining-room for their 
 
 311 
 
312 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 sky-blue, their bread, their molasses and their boot-leg. 
 Archie had watched the seasons change in this yard, 
 he had seen its grass-plot fade and the leaves of its 
 stunted trees turn yellow, he had seen it piled with 
 snow and ice; now it was turning green with spring, 
 just like the world outside. Sometimes, as they passed, 
 he caught a glimpse of the death-squad — the men who 
 were being kept until they could be killed in the electric 
 chair — taking their daily exercise, curiously enough, 
 for the benefit of their health. This squad varied in 
 numbers. Sometimes there were a dozen, then there 
 would come a night of horror when the floor of the 
 cell-house was deadened with saw-dust. The next day 
 one would be missing ; only eleven would be exercising 
 for their health. Then would come other nights of hor- 
 ror, and the squad would decrease until there were but 
 six. But soon it would begin to increase again, and 
 the number would run up to the normal. Sometimes, 
 in summer, the Sunday-school excursionists had an op- 
 portunity to see the death-squad. Archie had seen the 
 children, held by a sick, morbid interest, shrink when 
 the men marched by, as if they were something other 
 than mere people. 
 
 Each evening Archie and the other convicts marched 
 again to the dining-room, and ate bread and molasses ; 
 then they sat in their cells for an hour while the cell- 
 house echoed with the twanging of guitars and banjos, 
 mouth-organs, jews'-harps, accord eons, and the rau- 
 cous voices of the peddlers — a hideous bedlam. Those 
 who had hall-permits talked with one another, or with 
 friendly guards. Sometimes, if the guard were 
 "right," he gave Archie a candle and permitted him to 
 read after the lights were out. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 313 
 
 All week-days were alike. On Sunday they went to 
 chapel and listened to the chaplain talk about Christ, 
 who, it was said, came to preach deliverance to the cap- 
 tives. The chaplain told the convicts they could save 
 their souls in the world to which they would go when 
 they died, if they believed on Christ. Archie did not 
 understand what it was that he was expected to believe, 
 any more than he had when the sky-pilot at the works 
 had said very much the same thing. It could not be that 
 they expected him to believe that Christ came to preach 
 deliverance to captives such as he. So he paid no atten- 
 tion to the sky-pilot. He found it more interesting to 
 watch the death-squad, who, as likely to go to that 
 world before any of the others, were given seats in the 
 front pews. Near the death-squad were several con- 
 victs in chains. They were considered to be extremely 
 bad and greatly in need of religion. The authorities, 
 it seemed, were determined to give them this religion, 
 even if they had to hold them in chains while they did 
 so. In the corners of the chapel, behind protecting iron 
 bars, were guards armed with rifles, who vigilantly 
 watched the convicts while the chaplain preached to 
 them the religion of the gentle Nazarene. The chap- 
 Iain said it was the religion of the gentle Nazarene, but 
 in reality it was the religion of Moses, or sometimes 
 that of Paul, and even of later men that he preached to 
 the convicts rather than the religion of Jesus. The con- 
 victs did not know this, however. Neither did the 
 chaplain. 
 
 Yes, the days were exactly alike, especially as to 
 the work, for Archie was required to turn out hundreds 
 of bolts a day ; a minimum number was fixed, and this 
 was called a "task." If he did not do this task, he was 
 
314 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 punished. It was difficult to perform this task ; only by 
 toiling incessantly every minute could he succeed. And 
 even then it was hard, for in addition to keeping his 
 eye on his machine, he had to keep his eye on the pile 
 of bolts beside him, for the other convicts would rat; 
 that is, steal from his pile in order to lessen their own 
 tasks. For those bolts that were spoiled, Archie was 
 given no credit ; every hour an inspector came around, 
 looked the bolts over and threw out those that were de- 
 fective. For this toil, which was unpaid and in which 
 he took no pride and found no joy because it was ugly 
 and without any result to him, Archie felt nothing but 
 loathing. This feeling was common among all the men 
 in the shop; they resorted to all sorts of devices to 
 escape it; some of them allowed the machines to snip 
 off the ends of their fingers so they could work no 
 more ; others found a friend in Sweeny, the confidence 
 man who was serving a five-year sentence and was de- 
 tailed as a steward in the hospital. When they were 
 in the hospital. Sweeny would burn the end of a finger 
 with acid, rub dirt on it, and when it festered, amputate 
 the finger. 
 
 Belden, who worked a machine next to Archie, did 
 that; but only as a last resort. 
 
 *Tt's no use for me to learn this trade," he said to 
 Archie one day when the guard was at the other end 
 of the shop. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " 'Cause I'll be on tHe street in two months ; my 
 mouthpiece's going to take my case to the Supreme 
 Court, and he's sure to have it reversed. All I got to 
 do's to raise a hundred and fifty case; I've written 
 my mother, and she's already saved up seventy-eight. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 315 
 
 There's nothing to it. Me learn to make these damned 
 bolts for McBride ? I guess not !" 
 , Belden talked a great deal about his case in the Su- 
 preme Court. Many of the convicts did that. They 
 did everything to raise money for their lawyers. After 
 Belden's attorney had taken the case up, and failed, 
 Belden made application for pardon; and this required 
 more money. His mother v^as saving up again. But 
 this failed also ; then Belden feigned sickness, was sent 
 to the hospital ; and they all admired him for his suc- 
 cess. 
 
 Archie was sick once, and after three sick calls — ^he 
 was, in reality, utterly miserable and suflfered greatly 
 — the physician, who, like every one else in the peni- 
 tentiary, was controlled by the contractors, gave in and 
 sent him to the hospital. Though the hospital was a 
 filthy place, Archie for two days enjoyed the rest he 
 found there. Then Sweeny told him that the bed he 
 occupied had not been changed since a consumptive 
 had died in it the day before Archie arrived. 
 
 "You stick to that pad,'' said Sweeny, "and the 
 croakers'll be peddling your stiff in a month." 
 
 Sweeny was accounted very wise, as indeed he was ; 
 for he held his position by reason of his discovery that 
 the doctor was supplying his brother, who kept a drug- 
 store outside, with medicines, silk bandages, plasters 
 and surgical instruments. 
 
 Archie recovered then and went back to Bolt B. 
 
 After his return things went better for a while, be- 
 cause, to his surprise, the Kid, of whom he had heard 
 in the jail at home, was there working at the machine 
 next to his. The Kid had been transferred to that 
 shop because he had utterly demoralized Bolt A, where 
 
3i6 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 he had been working. The little pickpocket, indeed, 
 had been tried on all kinds of work — in the broom fac- 
 tory, in the cigar factory, in the foundry, everywhere, 
 but he could not long be tolerated anywhere. His pres- 
 ence was too diverting. He was taken from the broom 
 shop because he amused himself at the expense of 
 a country boy sent up for grand larceny, whom, as the 
 country boy thought, he was teaching to be a prowler. 
 In the cigar shop he made another unsophisticated boy 
 think that he could teach him the secret of making 
 "cluck," or counterfeit money ; and he went so far as to 
 give him a can of soft gray earth, which the convict 
 thought was crude silver, and some broken glass to 
 give the metal the proper ring. The convict hid this 
 rubbish in his cell and jealously guarded it; he was 
 to be released in a month. F6r a while the warden 
 employed the Kid about the office, but one day he said 
 to one of the trusties, an old life man who had been in 
 the prison twenty years, until his mind had weakened 
 under the confinement : 
 
 "What do you want to stay around here for ? Ain't 
 there other countries besides this ?" 
 
 The old man sniggered in his silly way, then he went 
 to the warden, and hanging his head with a demented 
 leer said : 
 
 "Warden, the Kid said there's other countries be- 
 sides this." 
 
 He stood, swaying like a doltish school-boy from 
 side to side, grinning, with his tongue lolling over his 
 lips. 
 
 The warden summoned the Kid. 
 
 "What do you mean," he said, "putting notions in 
 old Farlow's head?" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 317 
 
 The Kid was surprised. 
 
 *'Oh, come off," said the warden impatiently. "You 
 know — telling him there were other countries besides 
 this?" 
 
 "Oh !" said the Kid with sudden illumination. "Oh, 
 now I know what you mean !" And he laughed. "He 
 asked me where I was from and I told him Canada. 
 Then he wanted to know if Canada was in this coun- 
 try, and I told him there were other countries besides 
 this." 
 
 "YouVe too smart, Willie," said the warden. "You'd 
 better go back to the shops." 
 
 They tried all the punishments, the paddle, the bat- 
 tery, the water-cure, the bull rings, but nothing availed 
 to break the Kid's spirit. Then he was put on a bolt 
 machine. 
 
 There was a convict named Dalton working near 
 Archie and the Kid. Dalton had but one thought left in 
 his mind, and this was that when he got out he would 
 go to where he had concealed a kit of burglar tools. He 
 had been the victim of some earlier practical jokers in 
 the penitentiary, and had had a locksmith fashion for 
 him tools such as no burglar ever needed or used in a 
 business in which a jimmy, a piece of broom-stick and 
 creepers are all the paraphernalia necessary. Dalton 
 still had fourteen years to serve. 
 
 "Well, Jack, how's everything this morning?" the 
 Kid would ask as soon as the guard went down to the 
 other end of the shop. 
 
 "Oh, all right," Dalton would reply. Then he would 
 grow serious, grit his teeth, clench his fist for emphasis 
 and say : "Just wait till I get home ! By God, if any 
 one springs that kit of mine, I'll croak him !" 
 
3i8 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Where's the plant?" the Kid would ask. "In the 
 jungle?" 
 
 "Oh, you'll never find out!" Dalton would reply 
 warily. 
 
 "Some of the hoosiers or the bulls are likely to 
 spring it," the Kid would suggest. 
 
 The possibility tortured Dalton. 
 
 "By God," he could only say, "if they do--riI croak 
 'em !" 
 
 "I wouldn't do that," said the Kid. "Get Dutch 
 here to take you out with a tribe of peter men ; he can 
 teach you to pour the soup. Can't you get a little soup 
 and some strings and begin with him now, Archie ?" 
 
 "Sure," said Archie, grinning, proud to be thus 
 recognized. 
 
 "That's the grift; we'll nick the screw; and when 
 you go home you'll be ready to — " 
 
 "No," said Dalton determinedly, "I've got them tools 
 planted — but — " 
 
 "Why don't you take him out with a swell mob of 
 guns?" suggested Archie. 
 
 "Think he could stall for the dip?" asked the Kid. 
 "What do you think, Jack?" 
 
 "I'll stick to prowlin'," said Dalton, shaking his head 
 and muttering to himself. 
 
 "He's stir simple," remarked the Kid, not without 
 pity. 
 
 But the Kid was tired of his new occupation. 
 
 "I don't believe I'm a very good bolt-maker," he 
 said to Archie. 
 
 "You might cut off a finger, or get Sweeny — " 
 
 "Nix," said the Kid. "Not for Willie. Fll need my 
 finger. I'd do a nice job of reefing a kick with a finger 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 319 
 
 gone, wouldn't I?" He looked at his fingers, rapidly 
 stiffening under the rough, hard work. 
 
 ''Didn't I tell you to stop that spieling?" demanded 
 a guard who had slipped up behind him. 
 
 The Kid gave the guard a look that expressed the 
 contempt he felt for him better than any words. 
 
 "I'll report you for insolence," said the guard an- 
 grily. 
 
 "For what?" said the Kid. 
 
 "Insolence." 
 
 "How could you?" asked the Kid calmly. "You 
 couldn't spell the word." 
 
 The guard made a mark on his card. 
 
 "You'll be stood out for that," said the guard. The 
 Kid's face darkened, but he controlled himself. For 
 he had another plan. 
 
 A few days later he said to Archie : 
 
 "Are you on to that inspector?" 
 
 "What for?" asked Archie. 
 
 "He's boostin' bolts." 
 
 Archie thought of this for a long time. It took sev- 
 eral days for him to realize a new idea. The inspector, 
 in pretending to throw out defective bolts, threw out 
 quite as many perfect ones. These were boxed, shipped 
 and sold by the contractor, who pocketed the entire 
 proceeds without reporting them to the authorities. 
 The Kid had discovered this system after a week of 
 experience in having his labor stolen from him, and 
 the inspector, more and more greedy, had grown 
 bolder, until now he was stealing large quantities of 
 bolts ; and the tasks of Archie and the Kid were becom- 
 ing more and more impossible of performance. The 
 Kid was silent for days; his brows contracted as he 
 
320 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 jumped nimbly up and down before his clanking ma- 
 chine. Then one day when McBride was in the shop 
 the Kid obtained permission to speak to him. 
 
 "Mr. McBride/' he said, "I want a thousand dol- 
 lars." 
 
 McBride took his cigar from his lips, flecked some 
 dust from his new top-coat, and a laugh spread over 
 his rough red face. 
 
 "What's the kid this time, Willie?" 
 
 "This is on the square," said the Kid. "I want a 
 thousand case, that's all." 
 
 McBride saw that he was serious for once. 
 
 "I'll blow it off, if you don't," said the Kid. 
 
 "Blow what off?" 
 
 "The graft." 
 
 "What graft?" 
 
 "The defectives — oh, you know !" 
 
 McBride turned ashen, then his face blazed suddenly 
 with rage. 
 
 "I'll report you for this insolence !" 
 
 "All right," said the Kid, "I'll report you for steal- 
 ing. It ain't moral, the sky-pilot says." 
 
 Archie saw the Kid no more after that evening; he 
 was "stood out" at roll-call ; and in the way the news 
 of the little insular world inclosed in the prison walls 
 spreads among its inmates, he heard that the Kid had 
 been given the paddle and had been hung up in the cel- 
 lar. When his punishment was ended, he was trans- 
 ferred to the shoe shop and set to work making paper 
 soles for shoes. But he did not work long. He soon 
 conceived a plan which for two years was to baffle all 
 the prison authorities, especially the physicians. He de- 
 veloped a disease of the nerves; he said it was the 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 321 
 
 result of running a bolt machine and of his subsequent 
 punishment. The theory he imparted to the doctors, 
 in his innocent manner, was that the blows of the 
 paddle with the hanging had bruised and stretched his 
 spine. 
 
 The symptoms of the Kid's strange affliction were 
 these : he could not stand still for an instant ; his nerves 
 seemed entirely demoralized, his muscles beyond con- 
 trol. He would stand before the doctors and twitch' 
 and spasmodically shuffle his feet for hours, while the 
 doctors, those on the prison staff and those from out- 
 side, held consultations. Opinions differed widely. 
 Some said that the Kid was malingering, others that 
 his spine was really affected. Day after day the doc- 
 tors examined him ; they tested the accommodation of 
 the pupils of the eyes, they had him walk blindfolded, 
 they tested his extremities with heat and cold, with 
 needles, and with electricity. Then they seated him, 
 had him cross his legs and struck him below the knee- 
 cap, testing his reflex action. Strangely enough, his 
 reflexes were defective. 
 
 "Bum gimp, eh. Doc?" he would say mournfully. 
 
 For a while, after the Kid had gone, Archie found 
 it easier to accomplish his daily task, for the reason 
 that the inspector did not throw out so many defective 
 bolts. But McGlynn, the guard on Archie's contract, 
 disliked him and was ever ready to report him, and 
 Archie, while he did not at all realize it and could not 
 analyze it, developed the feeling within him that the 
 system which the people, and the legislature, and the 
 committee on penal and reformatory institutions, and 
 the state board of charities had devised and were so 
 proud of, was not a system at all, for the simple rea-^ 
 
322 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 son that it depended solely on men and had nothing 
 else to depend on. And just as the judge, the jury- 
 men, the prosecutor and the policemen were swayed by 
 a thousand whims and prejudices and moved by count- 
 less influences of which they were unconscious, so 
 the guards who held power over him were similarly 
 swayed. For each demerit he lost standing, and de- 
 merits depended not on his conduct, but on the feel- 
 ings of the guards. McGlynn disliked Archie because 
 he was German. He gave him demerits for all sorts 
 of things, and it was not long before Archie realized 
 that he had already lost all his good time and would 
 have to serve out the whole year. And then the in- 
 spector grew reckless and bold. McBride was greedy 
 for profits, and in a few weeks the bolts under Archie's 
 machine were again disappearing as rapidly as ever, 
 and his task was wholly beyond him. And then a dull, 
 sullen stubbornness seized him, and one morning, in a 
 fit of black rage, seeing the inspector throw out a dozen 
 perfect bolts, he stopped work. The inspector looked 
 up, then signaled the guard. McGlynn came. 
 
 "Get to work, you !" he said in a rage. 
 
 Archie looked at him sullenly. 
 
 *'You hear?" yelled McGlynn, raising his voice 
 above the din of the machines. 
 
 Archie did not move. 
 
 McGlynn took a step toward him, but when he saw 
 the look in Archie's eyes, he paused. 
 
 "Stand out, you toaster," he said. 
 .. .' f 
 
 f flThe next morning at seven o'clock Archie stood, 
 with forty other convicts who had broken rules or were 
 accused of breaking rules, in the prison court. This 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 323 
 
 court was held every morning in the basement of the 
 chapel to try infractions of the prison discipline. This 
 basement of the chapel was known about the peniten- 
 tiary as "the cellar," and as the word was spoken it 
 took on indeed a dark and sinister, one might almost 
 say a subterranean significance. For in the cellar were 
 the solitary, the bull rings, the ducking tub, the paddle, 
 — all the instruments of torture. And in the cellar, 
 too, was the court. Externally, it might have reminded 
 Archie somewhat of the police court at home, as it re- 
 minded other convicts of other police courts. It was 
 a small room made of wooden partitions, and in it, be- 
 hind a rail, was a platform for the deputy warden. It 
 may have reminded the convicts, too, of other courts 
 in its pitiable line of accused, in its still more pitiable 
 line of accusers. For there were guards grinning in 
 petty triumph, awaiting the revenge they could vicari- 
 ously and safely enjoy for the infractions which never 
 could seem to their primitive, brutal minds other than 
 personal slights and affronts. 
 
 This strange and amazing court, based on no law and 
 owning no law, this court from which there was no 
 appeal, whose judgments could not be reviewed, this 
 court which could not err, was presided over by Deputy 
 Warden Ball. He lay now loosely in his chair behind 
 the railing, his long legs stretched before him, the 
 soles of his big shoes protruding, his long arms hang- 
 ing by his sides, rolling a cigar round and round be- 
 tween his long teeth blackened by nicotine. He lay 
 there as if he had fallen apart, as if the various pieces 
 of him, his feet and legs, his arms and hands, would 
 have to be assembled before he could move again. But 
 this impression of incoherence was wholly denied hy^ 
 
3^4 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 his face. The lines about his mouth were those of a' 
 permanent smile that never knew humor; the eyes at 
 the top of his long nose were small and glistened cold- 
 ly, piercing through the broken, dry skin of his cheeks 
 and eyelids like the points of daggers through leather 
 scabbards. Such was the deputy warden, the real ex- 
 ecutive of the prison, the judge who could pronounce 
 any sentence he might desire, decreeing medieval tor- 
 tures and slow deaths, dooming bodies to pain, and the 
 remnants of souls to hell, and, when he willed, invent- 
 ing new tortures. Ball was at once the product and 
 the unconscious victim of the system in which he was 
 the most invaluable and indispensable factor. He had 
 been deputy in the prison for twenty years, and he 
 stood far above the mutations of politics. He might 
 have been said to live in the protection of a civil serv- 
 ice law of his own enactment. He ruled, indeed, by 
 laws that were of his own enactment, and he enacted 
 or repealed them as occasion or his mood suggested. 
 He ruled this prison, whether on the bench in the 
 court or scuffing loose- jointedly about the yard, the 
 shops, or the cell-houses, with his cane dangling from 
 the crotch of his elbow, speaking in a low, soft, almost 
 caressing voice, the secret, perhaps, of his power. For 
 his slow and passive demeanor and his slow, soft voice 
 seemed to visiting boards, committees and officials all 
 kindness; and he used it with the convicts, sometimes 
 drawing them close to him, and laying his great hand 
 on their shoulders or their heads, and speaking in a 
 low tone of pained surprise and gentle reproach, just 
 as he was speaking now to a white-haired and aged 
 burglar, wearing the dirty stripes of the fourth grade. 
 "Why, Dan, what's this I hear? I didn't think it of 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 325 
 
 you, old chap, no I didn't. A little of the solitary, eh ? 
 What say ? All right — if it must be.'' 
 
 It took Ball half an hour to doom the men this morn- 
 ing, and even at the last, when Archie went forward, 
 when Ball had glanced at the card whereon Mc- 
 Glynn's report ''was written in his illiterate hand, he 
 said : 
 
 "Ah,"' the Dutchman! Well, Archie, this is very 
 bad. Down to the fourth grade, bread and water to- 
 day, — ^and to-morrow back to work, my lad. Mind 
 now I";. 
 
 Archie changed his gray suit for the reddish brown 
 and white stripes, he ate his bread and drank his 
 water, and he went back to the bolt-shop. But he did 
 not work. He would not answer McGlynn when he 
 spoke to him. He set his jaw and was silent. 
 
 "What, again !" said Ball the next day. "Well, well, 
 well ! If you insist ; give him the paddle, Jim." 
 
 When court had adjourned, they took Archie into 
 a small room near by. Across one end of this room 
 was a huge bath-tub of wood ; this, and all the utensils 
 of torture, which in a kind of fiendish ingenuity of 
 economy were concentrated in it, were water-worn and 
 white. On the floor at the base of the tub were iron 
 stocks. In these, when he had been stripped naked, 
 perhaps for additional shame, Archie's ankles were 
 clamped. Then he was forced to bend forward, over 
 the bath-tub, and was held there by guards while Ball 
 stood by smoking. A burly negro, Jim, a convict with 
 privileges — this privilege among others — ^beat him on 
 the bare skin with a paddle of ashwood that had been 
 soaked in hot water and dipped in white sand. 
 j^ But Archie would not work. 
 
326 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 The next morning Ball patted him on the head, and 
 said: 
 
 "My dear boy! You are certainly foolish. He 
 wants the water, Jim." 
 
 Again they stripped him and forced him into the 
 bath-tub. This tub had many and various devices, 
 among them a block of wood, hollowed out on one 
 side to fit a man's chest if he sat in the tub, and as it 
 could be moved back and forth in grooves along the 
 top of the tub and fastened wherever need be, it could 
 be made to fit any man and hold him in its vise 
 against the end of the tub, in which quality of adjust- 
 ing itself to the size of its victim it differed from the 
 bed of Procrustes. And now they handcuffed Archie, 
 fastened him in the tub, pressed the block 'against his 
 broad, white, muscular chest, and while Ball and the 
 guards stood by, the negro with the privileges, ar- 
 rayed now in rubber coat and boots, turned a fierce 
 slender stream of water from a short rubber hose in 
 Archie's face. Archie gasped, his mouth opened, and 
 deftly the negro turned the fierce gushing stream into 
 his mouth, where it hissed and foamed and gurgled, 
 filling his throat and lungs, streaming down over his 
 chin and breast. Archie's lips turned blue; soon his 
 face was blue. 
 
 "I guess that'll do, Jim," said Ball. 
 
 When Archie regained consciousness they sent him 
 back to the bolt-shop. 
 
 But he would not work. 
 
 The next morning Ball showed again that tender- 
 ness that appealed so strongly to the humane gentle- 
 men on the Prison Board. 
 
 "Why, Archie!" he said. "Why, Archie !" Then he 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 327 
 
 paused, rolled his cigar about and said: "String him 
 up, boys, until he's ready to go back to work." 
 
 After the guards had fastened his hands above his 
 head in the bull rings, closed and locked the door of 
 the cell and left him, Archie's first thought was of 
 Curly, who had gone through this same ordeal in an- 
 other prison, and Archie found a compensation in 
 thinking that he would have an experience to match 
 Curly's when next they met and sat around the fire in 
 the sand-house or the fire in the edge of the woods. 
 And then his thoughts ran back to the day when Curly 
 had first told him of the bull rings ; and he could see 
 Curly as he told it — his eyes glazing, his face growing 
 gray and ugly, his teeth clenching. 
 
 Archie remembered more ; somehow, vividly, he saw 
 Curly tying a rope to the running board on top of the 
 freight-car, dangling it over the side and then letting 
 himself down on it until he hung before the car door, 
 the seal of which he quickly broke and unlocked ; and 
 the train running thirty miles an hour! No one else 
 could "bust tags" this way ; no one else had the nerve 
 of Curly. 
 
 At first Archie found relief in changing his position. 
 By raising himself on tiptoe he could ease the strain 
 on his wrists ; by hanging his weight from his wrists 
 he could ease the strain on his feet. He did this many 
 times; but he found no rest in either position. The 
 handcuffs grew tight; they cut into his wrists like 
 knives. His hands were beginning to go to sleep; 
 they tingled, the darting needles stung and pricked and 
 danced about. Then his hands seemed to have en- 
 larged to a preposterous size, and they were icy cold. 
 Presently he was filled with terror ; he lost all sense of 
 
328 THE TURN OF, THE BALANCE 
 
 feeling in his arms. Rubbing his head against them, 
 he found them cold ; they were no longer his arms, but 
 the arms of some one else. They felt like the arms of 
 a corpse. An awful terror laid hold of him. In his 
 insteps there was a mighty pain ; his biceps ached ; his 
 neck ached, ached, ached to the bones of it; his back 
 was breaking. The pain spread through his w^hole 
 body, maddening him. With a great effort he tore 
 and tugged and writhed, lifting one foot, then the 
 other, then stamped. At last he hung there numb, 
 limp, inert. In the cell it was dark and still. No 
 sound could reach him from the outer world. 
 
 Some time — it was evening, presumably, for time 
 was not in that cell — ^they came and let him down. A 
 guard gave him a cup of water. He held forth his 
 hand, groping after it ; and he could not tell when his 
 hand touched it. The cup fell, jangled against his 
 handcuffs ; the water was spilled, the tin cup rolled and 
 rattled over the cement floor. And Archie wept, wild 
 with disappointment. The guard, who was merciful, 
 brought another cup and held it to Archie's lips, and 
 he drank it eagerly, the water bubbling at his lips as it 
 had once, years ago, when he was a baby and his 
 mother held water to his lips to drink. 
 
 Presently Ball came and stood looking at him 
 through the little grated wicket in the door. 
 
 "Well, Archie, how goes it?" he said. "Had 
 enough ? Ready to go back to work ?" 
 
 Archie looked at him a moment. His eyeballs, still 
 protruding from the effects of the ducking-tub, 
 gleamed in the light of the guard lantern. He looked 
 at Ball, finally realized, and began to curse. At last 
 he managed to say: 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 329 
 
 "I'll croak you for this." 
 Ball laughed. 
 
 "Well, good night, my lad," he said. 
 Archie lay on a plank, the handcuffs still on him, 
 all the night. In the morning they hung him up again. 
 
 The next day, and the next, and the next, — for seven 
 days, — ^Archie hung in the bull rings. In the middle 
 of the eighth day, after his head had been rolling and 
 lolling about on his shoulders between his cold, swol- 
 len, naked arms, he suddenly became frantic, put forth 
 a mighty effort, lifted himself, and began to bite his 
 hands and his wrists, gnashing his teeth on the steel 
 handcuffs, yammering like a maniac. 
 
 That evening, the evening of the eighth day, when 
 the guard came and flashed his lamp on him, Archie's 
 body was hanging there, still, his chin on his breast. 
 Down his arms the blood was trickling from the 
 wounds he had made with his teeth. The guard set 
 down his lantern, ran down the corridor, returned 
 presently with Ball, and Jeffries, the doctor. 
 
 They lowered his body. The doctor bent his head 
 to the white breast and listened. 
 
 "Take him to the hospital," he said. "I guess he's 
 had about all he can stand." 
 
 "God, he had nerve !" said Ball, looking at the body. 
 "He wouldn't give in." 
 
 He shambled away, his head bent. He was per- 
 plexed. He had not failed since — when was it ? — since 
 number 13993 had — died of heart failure, in the hos- 
 pital, five years before. 
 
XXI 
 
 It was at Bradford Ford's that night of the wedding 
 that Eades made his proposal of marriage to Ehzabeth 
 Ward. It was June, court had adjourned, his work 
 was done, the time seemed to him auspicious ; he had 
 thought it all out, arranged the details in his mind. 
 The great country house, open to the summer night, 
 was thronged, the occasion, just as the newspapers had 
 predicted in their hackneyed phrase, was a brilliant 
 one, as befitted the marriage of Ford's youngest daugh- 
 ter. Hazel, to Mr. Henry Wilmington Dodge, of Phila- 
 delphia. Eades moved about, greeting his friends, 
 smiling automatically, but his eyes were discreetly 
 seeking their one object. At last he had a glimpse of 
 her, through smilax and ribbons; it was during the 
 ceremony ; she was in white, and her lips were drawn 
 as she repressed the emotions weddings inspire in 
 women. He waited, in what patience he could, until 
 the service was pronounced ; then he must take his 
 place in the line that moved through the crowd like a 
 current through the sea; the bestowal of the felicita- 
 tions took a long time. Then the supper; Elizabeth 
 was at the bride's table, and still he must wait. He 
 went up-stairs finally, and there he encountered Ford 
 alone in a room where, in some desolate sense of neg- 
 lect, he had retired to hide the sorrow he felt at this 
 parting with his child, and to combat the annoying 
 
 330 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 331 
 
 feeling the wedding had thrust on him — ^the feeUng 
 that he was growing old. Ford sat by an open win- 
 dow, gazing out into the moonlight that lay on the 
 river by which he had built his colossal house. He was 
 smoking, in the habit which neither age nor sorrow 
 could break. 
 
 ''Come in, come in," said Ford. "Fm glad to see 
 you. I want some one to talk to. Have a cigar." 
 
 But Eades declined, and Ford glanced at him in the 
 suspicion which was part of the bereaved and jealous 
 feeling that was poisoning this evening of happiness 
 for him. He knew that Eades smoked, and he won- 
 dered why he now refused. ''He declines because Fm 
 getting old; he wishes to shun my society; he feels 
 that if he accepts the cigar, he will have to stay long 
 enough to smoke it. It will be that way now. Yes, 
 Fm getting old. I'm out of it." So ran Ford's 
 thoughts. 
 
 Eades had gone to the window and stood looking 
 out across the dark trees to the river, swimming in the 
 moonlight. Below him were the pretty lights of Jap- 
 anese lanterns, beyond, at the road, the two lamps on 
 the gate-posts. The odors of the June night came to 
 him and, from below, the laughter of the wedding- 
 guests and the strains of an orchestra. 
 
 "What a beautiful place you have here, Mr. Ford !" 
 Eades exclaimed. 
 
 "Well, it'll do for an old — for a man to spend his 
 declining years." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," mused Eades. 
 
 Ford winced at this immediate acquiescence. 
 
 "And what a night !" Eades went on. "Ideal for a 
 >vedding." 
 
332 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Ford looked at him a moment, then decided to 
 change the subject. 
 
 "Well, I see you struck pay-dirt in the grand jury," 
 he said. 
 
 "Yes," replied Eades, turning away from night and 
 nature when such subjects were introduced. 
 
 "You're doing a good work there," said Ford; "a 
 good work for law and order." 
 
 He used the stereotyped phrase in the old belief that 
 "law" and "order" are synonyms, though he was not 
 thinking of law or of order just then ; he was thinking 
 of the radiant girl in the drawing-room below. 
 
 Eades turned to the window again. The night at- 
 tracted him. He did not care to talk. He, too, was 
 thinking of a girl in the drawing-room below; think- 
 ing how she had looked in that moment during the 
 ceremony when he had had the glimpse of her. He 
 must go at once and find her. He succeeded presently 
 in getting away from Ford, and left in a manner that 
 deepened Ford's conviction that he was out of it. 
 
 He met her at the foot of the staircase, and they went 
 out of doors. 
 
 "Oh," exclaimed Elizabeth, "how delicious it is out 
 here!" 
 
 In silence they descended the wide steps from the 
 veranda and went down the walk. The sky was pur- 
 ple, the stars trembled in it, and the moon filled all the 
 heavens with a light that fell to the river, flowing si- 
 lently below them. They went on to the narrow strip 
 of sward that sloped to the water. On the dim farther 
 shore they could see the light in some farm-house ; far 
 down the river was the city, a blur of light. 
 
THE TURN OE THE BALANCE 333 
 
 "What a beautiful place the Fords have here !" said 
 Eades. 
 
 "Yes," said Elizabeth, "it's ideal." 
 
 "It's my ideal of a home," said Eades, and then after 
 a silence he went on. "I've been thinking a good deal 
 of home lately." 
 
 He glanced at the girl ; she had become still almost 
 to rigidity. 
 
 "I am so glad our people are beginning to appreciate 
 our beautiful river," she said, and her voice had a pe- 
 culiar note of haste and fear in it. "I'm so glad. Peo- 
 ple travel to other lands and rave over scenery, when 
 they have this right at home." She waved her hand 
 in a little gesture to include the river and its dark 
 shores. She realized that she was speaking unnatural- 
 ly, as she always did with him. The realization irri- 
 tated her. "The Country Club is just above us, isn't 
 it ?" she hurriedly continued, consciously struggling to 
 appear unconscious. "Have you — " 
 
 He interrupted her. "I've been thinking of you a 
 good deal lately," he said. His voice had mastery in 
 it. "A good deal," he repeated, "for more than a year 
 now. But I've waited until I had something to offer 
 you, some achievement, however small, and now — I 
 begin to feel that I need help and — sympathy in the 
 work that is laid on me. Elizabeth — " 
 
 "Don't," she said, "please don't." She had turned 
 from him now and taken a step backward. 
 
 "Just a minute, Elizabeth," he insisted. "I have 
 waited to tell you — that I love you, to ask you to be my 
 wife. I have loved you a long, long time. Don't deny 
 me now— don't decide until you can think — I can wait. 
 
334 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Will you think it over? Will you consider it — care- 
 fully — will you ?" 
 
 He tried to look into her face, which she had turned 
 away. Her hands were clasped before her, her fingers 
 interlocked tightly. He heard her sigh. Then with 
 an effort she looked up at him. 
 
 "No," she began, "I can not ; I—" 
 
 He stopped her. 
 
 "Don't say no," he said. "You have not considered, 
 I am sure. Won't you at least think before deciding 
 definitely?" 
 
 She had found more than the usual difficulty there 
 is in saying no to anything, or to any one; now she 
 had strength only to shake her head. 
 
 "You must not decide hastily," he insisted. 
 
 "We must go in." She turned back toward the 
 house. 
 
 "I can wait to know," Eades assured her. 
 
 They retraced their steps silently. As they went up 
 the walk she said : 
 
 "Of course, I am not insensible of the honor, Mr. 
 Eades." 
 
 The phrase instantly seemed inadequate, even silly, 
 to her. Why was it she never could be at ease with 
 'him? 
 
 "Don't decide, I beg," he said, "until you have con- 
 sidered the matter carefully. Promise me." 
 
 "You must leave me now," she said. 
 
 He bowed and stood looking after her as she went 
 up the steps and ran across the veranda in her eager- 
 ness to lose herself in the throng within the house. 
 And Eades remained outside, walking under the trees. 
 
 Half an hour later Elizabeth stood with Marriott in 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 335 
 
 the drawing-room. Her face was pale; the joy, the 
 spirit that had been in it earUer in the evening had 
 gone from it. 
 
 "Ah," said Marriott suddenly, *'there goes John 
 Eades. I hadn't seen him before." 
 
 Elizabeth glanced hurriedly at Eades and then cu- 
 riously at Marriott. His face wore the peculiar smile 
 she had seen so often. Now it seemed remote, to be- 
 long to other days, days that she had lost. 
 
 "He's making a great name for himself just now," 
 said Marriott. "He's bound to win. He'll go to Con- 
 gress, or be elected governor or something, sure." 
 
 She longed for his opinion and yet just then she felt 
 it impossible to ask it. 
 
 "He's a—" 
 
 "What ?" She could not forbear to ask, but she put 
 the question with a little note of challenge that made 
 Marriott turn his head. 
 
 "One of those young civilians." 
 
 "One of what young civilians ?" 
 
 "That Emerson writes about." 
 
 "He's not so very young, is he?" Elizabeth tried to 
 smile. 
 
 "The young civilians are often very old; I have 
 known them to be octogenarians." 
 
 He looked at her and was suddenly struck by her 
 pallor and the drawn expression about her eyes. She 
 had met his gaze, and he realized instantly that he had 
 made some mistake. They were standing there in the 
 drawing-room, the canvas-covered floor was littered 
 with rose-leaves. It was the moment when the guests 
 had begun to feel the first traces of weariness, when 
 the laughter had begun to lose its spirit and the talk its 
 
336 THE TURK OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 spontaneity, when the older people were beginning to 
 say good night, leaving the younger behind to shower 
 the bride and groom with rice and confetti. Perplexed, 
 excited, self-conscious after Eades's declaration, feeling 
 a little fear and some secret pride, suddenly Elizabeth 
 saw the old, good-humored, friendly expression fade 
 from INlarriott's eyes, and there came a new look, one 
 she had never seen before, an expression of sudden, il- 
 luminative intelligence, followed by a shade of pain 
 and regret, perhaps a little reproach. 
 
 ''Where does Emerson say — that ?" she asked. 
 
 ''You look it up and see," he said presently. 
 
 She looked at him steadily, though it was with a 
 great effort, tried to smile, and the smile made her ut- 
 terly sick at heart. 
 
 "I — must look up father," she said, "it's time — " 
 
 She left him abruptly, and he stood there, the smile 
 gone from his face, his hands plunged deep in his 
 pockets. A moment he bit his lips, then he turned and 
 dashed up the stairs. 
 
 "Fm a fool," he said to himself. 
 
 Elizabeth had thought of love, she had Imagined its 
 coming to her in some poetic way, but this — somehow, 
 this was not poetic. She recalled distinctly every word 
 Eades had spoken, but even more vividly she recalled 
 Marriott's glance. It meant that he thought she loved 
 Eades ! It had all become irrevocable in a moment ; 
 she could not, of course, undertake to explain ; it was 
 all ridiculous, too ridiculous for anything but tears. 
 
 Looking back on her intimacy with Marriott, she 
 realized now that what she would miss most was the 
 good fellowship there had been between them. With 
 him, though without realizing it at the time, she had 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 337 
 
 found expression easy, her thoughts had been clear, 
 she could find words for them which he could under- 
 stand and appreciate. Whenever she came across any- 
 thing in a book or in a poem or in a situation there was 
 always the satisfying sense that she could share it with 
 Marriott; he would apprehend instantly. There was 
 no one else who could do this ; with her mother, with 
 her father, with Dick, no such thing was possible; 
 with them she spoke a different language, lived in an- 
 other world. And so it was with her friends; she 
 moved as an alien being in the conventional circle of 
 that existence to which she had been born. One by 
 one, her friends had ceased to be friends, they had be- 
 gun to shrink away, not consciously, perhaps, but cer- 
 tainly, into the limbo of mere acquaintance. She 
 thought of all this as she rode home that night, and 
 after she had got home ; and when it all seemed clear, 
 she shrank from the clarity; she would not, after all, 
 have it too clear ; she must not push to any conclusion 
 all these thoughts about Gordon Marriott. She chose 
 to decide that he had been stupid, and his stupidity of- 
 fended her ; it was not pleasant to have him sneer at a 
 man who had just told her he loved her, no matter who 
 the man was, and she felt, with an inconsistency that 
 she clung to out of a sens^i of self-preservation, that 
 Marriott should have known this; he might have let 
 her enjoy her triumph for a little, and then — ^but this 
 was dangerous ; was he to conclude that she loved him ? 
 What was it, she wondered, that made her weak and 
 impotent in the presence of Eades? She did not like 
 to own a fear of him, yet she felt a fear ; would she 
 some day succumb? The fear crept on her and dis- 
 tressed her ; she knew very well that he would pursue 
 
338 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 her, never waver or give up or lose sight of his pur- 
 pose. In some way he typified for her all that was 
 fixed, impersonal, irrefragable — society on its solid 
 rocks. He had no doubts about anything, his opinions 
 were all made, tested, tried and proved. Any uncer- 
 tainty, any fluidity, any inconsistency was impossible. 
 And she felt more and more inadequate herself; she 
 felt that she had nothing to oppose to all this. 
 
> 
 
 Book III 
 
Four miles from town, where a white pike crosses a 
 mud road, is Lulu Corners. There is little at this 
 cross-roads to inspire a name less frivolous, nothing 
 indeed but a weather-beaten store, where the people of 
 the neighborhood wait for the big yellow trolley-cars 
 that sweep across the country hourly, sounding their 
 musical air-whistles over the fields. Half a mile from 
 the Corners two unmarried sisters, Bridget and Mar- 
 garet Flanagan, for twenty years had lived alone in 
 a hovel that was invaded by pigs and chickens and 
 geese. Together, these aged women, tall, bony and 
 masculine, lived their graceless, squalid lives, un- 
 touched by romance or tragedy, working their few 
 acres and selling their pork, and eggs and feathers in 
 the city. The nearest dwelling was a quarter of a mile 
 away, and the neighbors were still farther removed by 
 prejudices, religious and social. Thus the old women 
 were left to themselves. The report was that they 
 were misers, and the miserable manner of their lives 
 supported rather than belied this theory; there was a 
 romantic impression in a country-side that knew so 
 little romance, that a large amount of money was hid- 
 den somewhere about the ugly premises. 
 
 On an evening in late October, Bridget Flanagan 
 was getting supper. The meal was meager, and when 
 she had made it ready she placed a lamp on the table 
 and waited for Margaret, who had gone out to fasten 
 
 341 
 
342 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 the shanty in which the barn-yard animals slept. Mar- 
 garet came in presently, locked the door, and the sis- 
 ters sat down to their supper. They had just crossed 
 themselves and heaped their plates with potatoes, when 
 they heard a knock at the door. 
 
 "Who can that be, sister ?" said Bridget, looking up. 
 
 *T wonder now!" said Margaret in a surprise that 
 3vas almost an alarm. 
 
 The knocking was repeated. 
 
 "Mary help us!" said Bridget, again making the 
 sign of the cross. "No one ever came at this hour be- 
 fore." 
 
 The knocking sounded again, louder, more insistent. 
 
 "You go on to the door, sister," said Bridget, "and 
 let them in, — whoever they may be, I dunno." 
 
 Margaret went to the door, shot back the bolt, and 
 pulled on the knob. And then she turned and cast a 
 look of terror at her sister. Some one was holding 
 the door on the other side. The strange resistance of 
 this late and unknown visitor, who but a moment be- 
 fore had wanted to come in, appalled her. She pressed 
 her knee against the door, and tried to lock it again. 
 But now the door held against her; she strained and 
 pushed, then turned and beckoned her sister with 
 frightened eyes. Bridget came, and the two women, 
 throwing their weight against the door, tried to close 
 it; but the unknown, silent and determined one was 
 holding it on the other side. This strange conflict con- 
 tinued. Presently the two old women glanced up ; in 
 the crack, between the door and the jamb, they 
 saw a club. Slowly, slowly, it made way against them, 
 twisting, turning, pushing, forcing its way into the 
 room. They looked in awful fascination. The club 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 343 
 
 grew, presently a foot of it was in the room; then a 
 hand appeared, a man's hand, gripping the club. They 
 watched ; presently a wrist with a leather strap around 
 it ; then slowly and by degrees, a forearm, bare, enor- 
 mous, hard as the club, corded with heavy muscles and 
 covered with a thick fell of black hair, came after it. 
 Then there was a final push, an oath, the door flew 
 open, and two masked men burst into the room. 
 
 Three hours later, Perkins, a farmer who lived a 
 quarter of a mile away, hearing an unusual sound in 
 his front yard, took a lantern and went out. In the 
 grass heavy with dew, just inside his gate, he saw a 
 woman's body, and going to it, he shed the rays of his 
 lantern into the face of Bridget Flanagan. Her gray 
 hair was matted, and her face was stained with blood ; 
 her clothes were torn and covered with the mud 
 through which she had dragged herself along the road- 
 side from her home. Perkins called and his wife came 
 to the door, holding a lamp above her head, shading 
 her eyes with her hand, afraid to go out. When he 
 had borne Bridget indoors, Perkins took his two sons, 
 his lantern and his shot-gun, and went across the fields 
 to the Flanagans'. In the kitchen, bound and gagged, 
 Margaret lay quite dead, her head beaten in by a club. 
 The two old women must have fought desperately for 
 their lives. The robbers, for all their work, as Per- 
 kins learned when Bridget almost miraculously recov- 
 ered, had secured twenty-three silver dollars, which 
 the sisters had kept hidden in a tin can — the fatal for- 
 tune which rumor had swelled to such a size. 
 
 Perkins roused the neighborhood, and all night long 
 men were riding to and fro between Lulu Corners and 
 
344 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 the city. A calm Sunday morning followed, and then 
 came the coroner, the reporters and the crowds. While 
 the bell of the little Methodist church a mile away on 
 the Gilboa Pike was ringing, Mark Bentley, the sheriff, 
 dashed up behind a team of lean horses, sweating and 
 splashed with mud from their mad gallop. Behind 
 him came his deputies and the special deputies he had 
 sworn in, and, sitting in his buggy, holding his whip 
 in a gloved hand, waving and flourishing it like a 
 baton, Bentley divided into posses the farmers who had 
 gathered with shot-guns, rifles, pitchforks, axes, clubs, 
 anything, placed a deputy at the head of each posse 
 and sent them forth. Detectives and policemen came, 
 and all that Sunday mobs of angry men were beating 
 up the whole country for miles. Some were mounted, 
 and these flew down the roads, spreading the alarm, 
 leaving w^omen standing horror-stricken in doorways 
 with children whimpering in their skirts ; others went 
 in buggies, others plodded on foot. And all day long 
 crowds of women and children pressed about the little 
 house, peering into the kitchen with morbid curiosity. 
 The crowd swelled, then shrank, then swelled again. 
 The newspapers made the most of the tragedy, and un- 
 der head-lines of bold type, in black ink and in red, they 
 told the story of the crime with all the details the 
 boyish imaginations of their reporters could invent; 
 they printed pictures of the shanty, and diagrams of 
 the kitchen, with crosses to indicate where Margaret 
 had fallen, where Bridget had been left for dead, where 
 the table and the stove had stood, where the door was ; 
 and by the time the world had begun a new week, the 
 whole city was in the same state of horror and fear, 
 and breathed the same rage and lust of vengeance that 
 had fallen on Lulu Corners. 
 
II 
 
 Four days before the Sunday of the tragedy Archie 
 Koerner finished his year's imprisonment and passed 
 from the prison within the walls to the larger prison 
 that awaited him in the world outside. The same day 
 was released another convict, a man aged at fifty, who 
 had entered the prison twenty years before. The judge 
 who had sentenced him was a young man, just ele- 
 vated to the bench, and, intoxicated by the power that 
 had come to him so early in life, had read the words, 
 "twenty years," in the statute book, and, assuming as 
 axiomatic that the words were the atonement for the 
 crime the man had committed, without thinking, had 
 pronounced these words aloud, and then written them 
 in a large book. From there a clerk copied them on to 
 a blank form, sealed it with a gilt seal, and, like the 
 young judge, forgot the incident. The day the man 
 was released he could no longer remember what crime 
 he had committed. He was old and shattered, and 
 had looked forward to freedom with terror. Time 
 and again he had asked his guard to report him, so 
 that he might be deprived of his good time and have 
 the day of release postponed. The guard, however, 
 knowing that the man's mind was gone, had refused 
 to do this, and the man was forced out into the world. 
 Having no family, no friends and no home, he clung 
 to Archie as to the last tie that bound him to the only 
 life he knew. Archie, of course, considered him an 
 
 345 
 
346 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 incubus, but he pitied him, and when they had sold 
 their railroad tickets to a scalper, they beat their way 
 back to the city on a freight-train,, Archie showing the 
 old man how it was done. 
 
 At eleven o'clock on Friday morning they entered 
 Danny Gibbs's saloon. Archie was glad to find the 
 place unchanged — ^the same whisky barrels along the 
 wall, the opium pipe above the bar, the old gray cat 
 sleeping in the sun. All was familiar, save the bar- 
 tender, who, in fresh white jacket, leaned against the 
 bar, a newspaper spread before him, and studied the 
 form sheets that were published daily to instruct men 
 how to gamble on the races. 
 
 "Where's Dan?" asked Archie. 
 
 The bartender looked at him superciliously, and 
 then concluded to say : 
 
 "He's not here." 
 
 "Not down yet, Heh?" said Archie. "Do you know 
 a certain party called — " Archie glanced about cau- 
 tiously and leaned over the bar, " — called Curly ?" 
 
 The bartender looked at him blankly. 
 
 "He's a friend of mine — it's all right. If he comes 
 in, just tell him a certain party was asking for him. 
 Tell Dan, too. Fve just got home — just done my bit." 
 
 But even this distinction, all he had to show for his 
 year in prison, did not impress the bartender as Archie 
 thought it should. He drew from his waistcoat pocket 
 a dollar bill, carefully smoothed it out, and tossed it 
 on to the bar. 
 
 "Give us a little drink. Here, Dad," he said to the 
 old convict, "have one." The old man grinned and 
 approached the bar. "Never mind him," said Archie 
 in a confidential undertone, "he's an old-timer." 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 347 
 
 The old convict had lost the middle finger of his 
 right hand in a machine in the prison years before, and 
 now, in his imbecility, he claimed the one compensa- 
 tion imaginable ; he used this mutilation for the enter- 
 tainment of his fellows. If any one looked at him, he 
 would spread the fingers of his right hand over his 
 face, the stub of the middle finger held against his nose, 
 his first and third fingers drawing down the lower lids 
 of his eyes until their whites showed, and then wiggle 
 his thumb and little finger and look, now gravely, now 
 with a grin, into the eyes of the observer. The old 
 convict, across whose sodden brain must have glim- 
 mered a vague notion that something was required of 
 him, was practising his one accomplishment, his silly 
 gaze fixed on the bartender. 
 
 When the bartender saw this his face set in a kind 
 of superstitious terror. 
 
 "Don't mind him,'' said Archie ; "He's stir simple." . 
 
 The bartender, as he set out the whisky, was reas- 
 sured, not so much by the patronage as by Archie's 
 explanation that he had just come from prison. He 
 had been at Danny Gibbs's long enough to know that a 
 man is not to be judged solely by his clothes, and 
 Archie, as a man reduced to the extremity of the garb 
 the state supplied, might still be of importance in their 
 world. While they were drinking, another man en- 
 tered the saloon, a short, heavy man, and, standing 
 across the room, looked, not at Archie and Dad, but at 
 their reflections in the mirror behind the bar. Archie, 
 recognizing a trick of detectives, turned slightly away. 
 The man went out. 
 ' "Elbow, eh ?" said Archie. 
 
 "Yep," said the bartender. "Cunningham." 
 
348 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "A new one on me. Kouka here yet ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "Flyin'?" ' 
 
 "Yep." 
 
 "Well," said Archie, "give 's another. I got a thirst 
 in the big house anyway — and these rum tums." He 
 smiled an apology for his clothes. They drank again ; 
 then Archie said : 
 
 "Tell Dan I was here." 
 
 "Who shall I say?" inquired the bartender. 
 
 "Dutch." 
 
 "Oh, yes! All right. He'll be down about one 
 oVlock." 
 
 "All right. Come on. Dad," said Archie, and he went 
 out, towing his battered hulk of humanity behind him. 
 At the corner he saw Cunningham with another man, 
 whom he recognized as Quinn. When they met, as 
 was inevitable, Quinn smiled and said : 
 
 "Hello, Archie ! Back again ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Archie. He would have kept on, but 
 Quinn laid a hand on his arm. 
 
 "Hold on a minute," he said. 
 
 "What's the rap?" asked Archie. 
 
 "Well, you'd better come down to the front office a 
 ^minute." 
 
 Cunningham had seized the old man, and the two 
 were taken to the Central Police Station. They were 
 charged with being "suspicious persons," and spent 
 the night in prison. The next morning, when they 
 were arraigned before Bostwick, the old man surprised 
 every one by pleading guilty, and Bostwick sentenced 
 him to the workhouse for thirty days. But Archie de- 
 
THE JURN OF. .THE BALANCE 349 
 
 manded a jury and asked that word be sent to his at- 
 torney. 
 
 "Your attorney!" sneered Bostwick, "and who's 
 your attorney ?" 
 
 "Mr. Marriott," said Archie. 
 
 The suggestion of a jury trial maddened Bostwick. 
 He seemed, indeed, to take it almost as a personal in- 
 sult. He whispered with Quinn, and then said : 
 
 "Fll give you till evening to get out of town — you 
 hear?" 
 
 Archie, standing at attention in the old military way, 
 said: 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "You've got to clear out ; we don't want you around, 
 you understand?" 
 
 "I understand, sir." 
 
 "All right," said Bostwick. 
 
 After Archie had bidden good-by to the old conyict, 
 who was relieved to get back to prison again, and after 
 he had been photographed for the rogues' gallery — 
 for his confinement and his torture had made him thin 
 and so changed his appearance and his figure that 
 his Bertillon measurements were even more worthless 
 than ever — ^he was turned out. 
 
 Archie, thus officially ordered on, was afraid to go 
 back to Gibbs's, and when he went out of the Central 
 Station that Saturday morning he turned southward 
 into the tenderloin. He thought it possible that he 
 might find Curly at some of the old haunts; at any 
 rate, he might get some word of him. 
 
 The morning was brilliant, the autumnal sun lay hot 
 and comforting on his back, and there was a friendli- 
 ness in the hazy mellow air that was like a welcome 
 
350 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 to Archie, the first the world had had for him. Though' 
 man had cast him out, nature still owned him, and a 
 kind of joy filled his breast. This feeling was intensi- 
 fied by the friendly, familiar faces of the low, decrepit 
 buildings. Two blocks away, he was glad to see the 
 old sign of Cliff Decker's saloon, with the name paint- 
 ed on the window in crude blue letters, and, pictured 
 above it, a preposterous glass of beer foaming like the 
 sea. More familiar than ever, was old man Pepper, 
 the one-eyed, sitting on the doorstep as if it were sum- 
 mer, his lame leg flung aside, as it were, on the walk 
 before him, his square wrinkled face presenting a hor- 
 rid aspect, with its red and empty socket scarcely less 
 sinister than the remaining eye that swept three quar- 
 ters of the world in its fierce glance. On another step 
 two doors away, before a house of indulgence fre- 
 quented only by white men, sat a mulatto girl, in a clean 
 white muslin dress, her kinky hair revealing a wide 
 part from its careful combing. The girl was showing 
 her perfect teeth in her laugh and playing with a white 
 poodle that had a great bow of pink ribbon at its neck. 
 Across the street was Wing Tu's chop-suey joint, de- 
 serted thus early in the day, suggesting oriental calm 
 and serenity. 
 
 On the other corner was Eva Clason's place, and 
 thither Archie went. He had some vague notion of 
 finding Curly there, for it was Eva who, on that morn- 
 ing, now more than a year ago, in some impotent, puny 
 human effort to stay the fate that had decreed him as 
 the slayer of Benny Moon, had tried to give Curly a 
 refuge. 
 
 The place wore its morning quiet. The young bar- 
 tender, with a stupid, pimpled face, was moping sleej>- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 351 
 
 ily at the end of the bar; at Archie's step, he looked 
 up. The step was heard also in the "parlor" behind 
 the bar, revealing through chenille portieres its cheap 
 and gaudy rugs and its coarse-grained oaken furni- 
 ture, upholstered in plush of brilliant reds and blues. 
 One of the two girls who now appeared had yellow 
 hair and wore a skirt of solid pink gingham that came 
 to her knees ; her thin legs wore open-work stockings, 
 her feet bulged in high-heeled, much-worn shoes. She 
 wore a blouse of the same pink stuff, cut low, with a 
 sailor collar, baring her scrawny neck and the deep 
 hollows behind her collar bones. In her yellow fingers, 
 with a slip of rice paper, she was rolling a cigarette. 
 The other girl, who wore a dress of the same fashion, 
 but of solid blue gingham, splotched here and there 
 with starch, was dark and buxom, and her low collar 
 displayed the coarse skin of full breasts and round, 
 firm neck. The thin blonde came languidly, pasting 
 her cigarette with her tongue and lighting it ; but the 
 buxom brunette came forward with a perfunctory 
 smile of welcome. 
 
 "Where's Miss Clason?" Archie asked. 
 
 "She's gone out to Steve's," said the brunette. The 
 thin girl sank into a chair beside the portieres and 
 smoked her cigarette. The brunette, divining that 
 there was no significance in Archie's visit, and feeling 
 a temporary self-respect, dismissed her professional 
 smile and became simple, natural and human. 
 
 "Did you want to see her ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, I'm looking for a certain party." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Well, you know him, maybe — ^they call him Curly ; 
 Jackson's his name." 
 
352 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 The girl looked at Archie, exchanged glances with 
 the bartender ; and then asked : 
 
 "You a friend o' hisn ?" 
 
 "Yes, I just got home, and I must find him." 
 
 "Oh," said the girl, wholly satisfied. She turned to 
 the bartender. "Was Mr. Jackson in to-day. Lew? 
 He's around, in and out, you know. Comes in to use 
 the telephone now and then." 
 
 Archie was relieved. 
 
 "Tell him Dutch was in, will you ?" he said. 
 
 "Sure," replied the girl. 
 
 "Maybe he's in at Hunt's," said the thin girl, speak- 
 ing for the first time. 
 
 "I was going there,'* said Archie. 
 
 "I can run in and ask for you," said the brunette, in 
 the kindly willingness of the helpless to help others. 
 "Or, hold on, — maybe Teddy would know." 
 
 "Never mind," said Archie, "I'll go in to Hunt's my- 
 self." 
 
 "I'll tell Mr. Jackson when He comes in," said the 
 brunette, going to the door with Archie. "Who did 
 you say?" — she looked up into Archie's face with her 
 feminine curiosity all alive. 
 
 "Dutch." 
 
 "Dutch who?" 
 
 "Oh, just Dutch," said Archie, smiling at her insist- 
 ence. "He'll know." 
 
 "Oh, hell!" said the girl, "what's your name?" 
 
 Archie looked down into her brown eyes and smiled 
 mockingly ; then he relented. 
 
 "Well, it's Archie Koerner. Ever hear of me be- 
 fore?" 
 
 m 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 353 
 
 The girl's black brows, which already met across Her 
 nose, thickened in the eifort to recall him. 
 
 "You're no more wiser than you was ; are you, little 
 one ?" said Archie, and walked away. 
 
 He had reserved Hunt's as a last resort, for there, in 
 a saloon which was a meeting place for yeggs, Hunt 
 himself being an old yegg man who had stolen enough 
 to retire on, Archie was sure of a welcome and of a 
 refuge where he could hide from the police for a day, 
 at least, or until he could form some plan for the fu- 
 ture. 
 
 Hunt was not in, but Archie found King's wife, 
 Bertha Shanteaux, in the back room. She was a wom- 
 an of thirty-five, very fleshy, and it seemed that she 
 must crush the low lounge on which she sat, her legs 
 far apart, the calico wrapper she wore for comfort 
 stretching between her knees. She was smoking a 
 cigar, and she breathed heavily with asthma, and, when 
 she welcomed Archie, she spoke in a voice so hoarse 
 and of so deep a bass that she might well have been 
 taken for a man in woman's attire. 
 
 "Why, Dutch !" she said, taking her cigar from her 
 lips in surprise. "When did you get home ?" 
 
 "Yesterday morning," said Archie. "I landed in 
 with an old con, went up to Dan's — then I got pinched, 
 and this morning Bostwick gave me the run." 
 
 "Who made the pinch?" 
 
 "Quinn and some new gendy." 
 
 "Suspicion ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Huh," said Bertha, beginning to pull at her cigar 
 again. 
 
 "Where's John?" 
 
354 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Oh, he went up town a while ago." 
 
 "Is Curly here?" 
 
 "Yes, he's around. Just got in the other day. What 
 you goin' to do?" 
 
 "Oh, Fm waiting to see Curly. I've got to get to 
 work and see if I can't make a dollar or two. I want 
 to frame in with some good tribe." 
 
 "Well, Curly hasn't been out for a while. He'll be 
 glad to see you." 
 
 "Is Gus with him?" 
 
 "Oh, no. Gus got settled over in Illinois somewhere 
 — didn't you hear ? The boys say he's in wrong. But 
 wait ! Curly'll show up after a while." 
 
 "Well, Fm hipped, and I don't want to get you in 
 trouble, Mrs. Shanteaux, but if Kouka gets a flash at 
 me, it's all off." 
 
 "Oh, you plant here, my boy," she said in a mother- 
 ly way, "till Curly comes." 
 
 The tenderloin awoke earlier than usual that day, for 
 it was Saturday, and the farmers were in town. In the 
 morning they would be busy in Market Place, but 
 by afternoon, their work done, their money in their 
 pockets, they would be free, and beginning at the 
 cheap music halls, they, especially the younger ones, 
 would drift gradually down the line, and by night they 
 would be drinking and carousing in the dives. 
 
 Children, pale and hollow-eyed, coming with pitch- 
 ers and tin buckets to get beer for their awaking eld- 
 ers, seemed to be the first heralds of the day ; then a 
 thin woman, clutching her dirty calico wrapper to her 
 shrunken breast, and trying to hide a bruised, blue and 
 swollen eye behind a shawl, came shuffling into the 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 355 
 
 saloon in unbuttoned shoes, and hoarsely asked for 
 some gin. A little later another woman came in to 
 borrow enough oil to fill the lamp she carried without 
 its chimney, and immediately after, a man, ragged, 
 dirty, stepping in old worn shoes as soft as moccasins, 
 flung himself down in a chair and fell into a stupor, 
 his bloodless lips but a shade darker than his yellow 
 face, his jaws set in the rigidity of the opium smoker. 
 Archie looked at him suspiciously and shot a question- 
 ing glance at Bertha. 
 
 "The long draw?" he said in a low tone, as she 
 passed him to go to the woman who had the lamp. 
 
 "Umph huh," said Bertha. 
 
 *T thought maybe he might be — " 
 
 "No," she said readily. "He's right — ^he's been 
 hanging around for a month. — Some oil ?" she was say- 
 ing to the woman. "Certainly, my dear." She took 
 the lamp. 
 
 "Where's your husband now ?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, he's gone," the woman said simply. "When 
 the coppers put the Silver Moon Cafe" — she pro- 
 nounced it "kafe" — "out of business and he lost his job 
 slinging beer, he dug out." 
 
 Archie, beginning to fear the publicity of midday, 
 had gone into the back room again. Presently Bertha 
 joined him. 
 
 "Thought it was up to me to plant back here," he 
 said, explaining his withdrawal. "There might be an 
 elbow." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Bertha, in her hoarse voice, picking 
 up the cigar she had laid on a clock-shelf and resum- 
 ing her smoking, "we're running under protection now. 
 That dope fiend in there showed up two months ago 
 
356 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 with his woman. They had a room in at Eva's for a 
 while, but they stunk up the place so with their hops 
 that she cleaned 'em out — she had to have the room 
 papered again, but she says you can still smell it. They 
 left about five hundred paper-back novels behind 'em. 
 My God ! they were readers ! Nothing but read and 
 suck the bamboo all the time; they were fiends both 
 ways. One's 'bout as bad as the other, I guess." 
 
 She smoked her cigar and ruminated on this exces- 
 sive love of romanticistic literature. 
 
 "When Eva gave 'em the run," she went on later, 
 "the coppers flopped the moll — she got thirty-sixty, 
 and Bostwick copped the pipe to give to a friend, who 
 wanted a' ornament for his den. Since then her hus- 
 band comes in here now and then — and — why, hello 
 there ! Here's some one to see you. Curly !" 
 
 Archie sprang to his feet to greet Curly, who, check- 
 ing the nervous impulse that always bore him so ener- 
 getically onward, suddenly halted in the doorway. The 
 low-crowned felt hat he wore shaded his eyes ; he wore 
 it, as always, a little to one side ; his curls, in the morti- 
 fication they had caused him since the mates of his 
 school-days had teased him about them, were cropped 
 closely; his cheeks were pink from the razor, and 
 Archie, looking at him, felt an obscure envy of that 
 air of Curly's which always attracted. Curly looked a 
 moment, and then, with a smile, strode across the room 
 and took Archie's hand. Archie was embarrassed, and 
 his face, white with the prison pallor, flushed — ^he 
 thought of his clothes, quite as degrading as the hide- 
 ous stripes he had exchanged for them, and of his hair, 
 a yellow stubble, from the shaving that had been part 
 of his punishment. But the grip in which Curly held 
 
THE TURN. OF THE BALANCE 35;; 
 
 his hand while he wrung his greeting into it, made him 
 glad, and Bertha, going out of the room, left them 
 alone. The strangeness there is in all meetings after 
 absence wore away. Curly sat there, his hat tilted 
 back from his brow, leaned forward, and said : 
 
 "Well, how are you, anyway? When did you land 
 in?" 
 
 "Yesterday morning." 
 
 "Been out home yet ?" 
 
 Archie's eyes fell. 
 
 "No," he said, his eyes fixed on the cigarette he had 
 just rolled with Curly's tobacco and paper. "I was 
 pinched the minute I got here ; Quinn and some flatty 
 — and I fed the crummers all last night in the boob. 
 This morning Bostwick give me orders." 
 
 "Well, you can't stay here," said Curly. 
 
 "No, I was waiting to see you. I've got to get to 
 work. Got anything now ?" 
 
 "Well, Ted and me have a couple of marks — a jug 
 and a p. o." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Oh, out in the jungle — several of the tribes have 
 filled it out." 
 
 "Well, I'm ready." 
 
 "Not now," Curly said, shaking his Head ; "the old 
 stool-pigeon's out — she's a mile high these nights." 
 
 A reminiscent smile passed lightly over Curly's face, 
 and he flecked the ash from his cigarette. 
 
 "Phillie Dave's out," — and then he remembered that 
 Archie had never known the thief who had been 
 proselyted by the police and been one of a numerous 
 company of such men to turn detective, and so had be- 
 
358 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 queathed his name as a synonym for the moon. "But 
 you never knew him, did you ?" 
 
 *'Who?" 
 
 "Dave — Phillie Dave we call him ; he really belonged 
 to the cat — he's become a copper. He was before your 
 time." 
 
 They chatted a little while, and as the noise in the 
 bar-room increased, Curly said : 
 
 "You can't hang out here. Those hoosiers are likely 
 to start something any minute — we'll have to lam." 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 "We'll go over to old Sam Gray's." 
 
 They did not show themselves in the bar-room again. 
 Some young smart Alecks from the country were there, 
 flushed with beer and showing off. Curly and Archie 
 left by a side door, walked hurriedly to the canal, 
 dodged along its edges to the river, then along the 
 wharves to the long bridge up stream, and over to the 
 west side, and at four o'clock, after a wide detour 
 through quiet streets, they gained Sam Gray's at last. 
 
 Sam Gray kept a quiet saloon, with a few rooms up- 
 stairs for lodgers. Gray was a member of a family 
 noted in the under world; his brothers kept similar 
 places in other cities. His wife was a Rawson, a fa- 
 mous family of thieves, at the head of which was old 
 Scott Rawson, who owned a farm and was then in 
 hiding somewhere with an enormous reward hanging 
 over his head. Gray's wife was a sister of Rawson; 
 and the sister, too, of Nan Rawson, whom Snuffer 
 Wilson had in mind when, on the scaffold, he said, 
 "Tell Nan good-by for me." And in these saloons, 
 kept by the Rawsons and the Grays, and at the Raw- 
 son farm, thieves in good standing were always wel- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 359 
 
 come; many a hunted man had found refuge there; 
 the Rawsons would have care of him, and nurse him 
 back to health of the wounds inflicted by official bul- 
 lets. 
 
 When Curly and Archie entered, a man of sixty 
 years with thick white hair above a wide white brow, 
 in shirt-sleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his 
 trousers girded tightly into the fat at his waist, came 
 out, treading softly in slippers. 
 
 "A friend of mine, Mr. Gray," said Curly. "He's 
 right. He's just done his bit; got home last night, 
 and the bulls pinched him. He's got orders and I'm 
 going to take him out with me. But we can't go yet — 
 Phillie Dave's out." 
 
 The old man smiled vaguely at the mention of the 
 old thief. 
 
 "All right," he said, taking Archie's hand. 
 
 Archie felt a glow of pride when Curly mentioned 
 his having done his bit ; he was already conscious, now 
 that he had a record, of improved standing. 
 
 "Who's back there?" asked Curly, jerking his head 
 toward a partition from behind which voices came. 
 
 "A couple of the girls," said old Sam. "You know 
 'em, I guess." 
 
 The two women who sat at a table in the rear room 
 looked up hastily when the men appeared. 
 
 "Hello, Curly," they said, in surprise and relief. 
 
 They had passed thirty, were well dressed in street 
 gowns, wore gloves, and carried small shopping-bags. 
 They had put their veils up over their hats. Archie, 
 thinking of his appearance, was more self-conscious 
 than ever, and his embarrassment did not diminish 
 when one of the women, after Curly^ had told them 
 
36o THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 something of their plans, looked at the black mark 
 rubbed into Archie's neck by the prison clothes and 
 said: 
 
 "You can't do nothin' in them stir clothes." Before 
 he could reply, she got up impulsively. 
 
 "Just wait here," she said. She was gone an hour. 
 When she returned, her cheeks were flushed, and with 
 a smile she walked into the room with a peculiar minc- 
 ing gait that might have passed as some mode of 
 fashion, went to a corner, shook herself, and then, step- 
 ping aside, picked from the floor a suit of clothes she 
 had stolen in a store across the bridge and carried in 
 her skirts all the way back. Curly laughed, and the 
 other woman laughed, and they praised her, and then 
 she said to Archie : 
 
 "Here, kid, these'll do. I don't know as they'll fit, 
 but you can have 'em altered. They'll beat them stir 
 rags, anyhow." 
 
 Archie tried to tHank her, but she laughed his plati- 
 tudes aside and said : 
 
 "Come on, Sadie, we must get to work." 
 
 When they were away Archie looked at Curly in 
 surprise. There were things, evidently, he had not yet 
 learned. 
 
 "The best lifter in the business," Curly said, but he 
 added a qualification that expressed a tardy loyalty, 
 "except Jane." 
 
 Archie found he could wear the clothes, and he felt 
 better when he had them on. 
 
 "If I only had a rod now," he remarked. "I'll have 
 to go out and boost one, I guess." 
 
 "You can't show for a day," said Curly. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 361 
 
 **I wish I had that gat of mine. I wouldn't mind 
 doing time if I had that to show for it V* 
 
 "I told you that gat would get you in trouble," said 
 Curly, and then he added peremptorily : "You'll stay 
 here till to-morrow night ; then you'll go home and see 
 your mother. Then you'll go to work.'' 
 
 They remained at Gray's all that Saturday night 
 and all the following day, spending the Sunday in read- 
 ing such meager account of the murder of the Flana- 
 gan sisters as the morning papers were able to get into 
 extra editions. 
 
Ill 
 
 Sergeant Cragin, a short, red-haired Irishman with 
 a snub nose that with difficulty kept his steel-bowed 
 spectacles before his small, rheumy eyes, had just fin- 
 ished calling the roll of the night detail at the Cen- 
 tral Police Station when the superintendent of police, 
 Michael Cleary, unexpectedly appeared in the great 
 drill hall. Cleary stood in the doorway with Inspector 
 McFee ; his cap was drawn to his eyebrows, revealing 
 but a patch of his close-cut white hair ; his cheeks were 
 red and freshly shaven, his small chin-whiskers newly 
 trimmed. The velvet collar and cuffs of his blue coat, 
 as usual, were carefully brushed, the diamonds on his 
 hig gold badge flashed in the dim, shifting light. The 
 men did not often see their chief; he appeared at the 
 station but seldom, spending most of his time, pre- 
 sumably, in his office at the City Hall. 
 
 "Men," he said, *T want a word with you — about 
 this Flanagan job. WeVe got to get the murderers. 
 TheyVe somewhere in town right now. I want you to 
 keep a lookout ; run in every suspicious character you 
 see to-night — no matter who he is — run him in. See 
 what I mean ? We're going to have a cleaning up. I 
 want you to pull every place that's open after hours. 
 I want you to pinch every crook and gun in town. See 
 what I mean ? I won't stand for any nonsense ! You 
 fellows have been loafing around now long enough; 
 
 362 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 363 
 
 by God, if something isn't done before morning, some 
 of you'll lose your stars. You've heard me. You've 
 got your orders; now execute them. See what I 
 mean ?" 
 
 This proceeding was what Cleary called maintaining 
 discipline on the force, and, in delivering his harangue, 
 he had worked himself into a rage; his face was red, 
 his cheeks puffed out. The line of policemen shifted 
 and shuffled; the red faces became still redder, deep- 
 ening at last to an angry blue. 
 
 Cleary, with their anger and resentment following 
 him, left the drill room, descended the stairs, and 
 burst into the detective bureau. The room, like all the 
 rooms in the old building, was large, the ceiling high, 
 and in the shutters of the tall arched windows the dust 
 of years had settled; on the yellow walls were wire 
 racks, in which were thrust photographs of criminals, 
 each card showing a full face, a profile, and a number ; 
 there was little else, save some posters offering rewards 
 for fugitives. 
 
 The detectives who had been on duty all the day 
 were preparing to leave ; those who were to be on duty 
 that night were there; it was the hour when the day 
 force and the night force gathered for a moment, but 
 this evening the usual good nature, the rude joking 
 and badinage were missing ; the men were morose and 
 taciturn; in one corner Kouka and Quinn were quar- 
 reling. When Cleary halted in the door, as if with 
 some difficulty he had brought himself to a stop, the 
 detectives glanced up. 
 
 "Well," Cleary exploded, "that Flanagan job is 
 twenty-four hours old, and you fly cops haven't turned 
 anything up yet. I want you to turn up something. 
 
364 THE TURN. OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 See what I mean ? I want you to get busy, damn you, 
 and get busy right away. See what I mean?" 
 
 "But, Chief," one of the men began. 
 
 Cleary looked at him with an expression of unutter- 
 able scorn. 
 
 "G-e-t r-i-g-h-t!" he said, drawling out the words 
 in the lowest register of his harsh bass voice. "Get 
 right ! See what I mean ? Come to cases, you fellows ; 
 I want a show-down. You make some arrests before 
 morning or some of you'll quit flyin' and go back to 
 wearin' the clothes. See what I mean ?" 
 
 He stood glowering a moment, then repeated all he 
 had said, cursed them all again, and left the room, 
 swearing to himself. 
 
 Down-stairs, in the front office, the reporters were 
 waiting. Cleary stopped when he saw them, took off 
 his cap, and wiped his forehead with a large silk hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 "Do you care to give out anything, Chief, about the 
 Flanagan job?" asked one of the reporters timidly. 
 
 "No," said Cleary bluntly. 
 
 "Have you any clue ?" 
 
 Cleary thought a moment. 
 
 "We'll have the men to-morrow." 
 
 The reporters stepped eagerly forward. 
 
 "Any details. Chief?" 
 
 "I'd be likely to give 'em to you fellows to print, 
 wouldn't I?" said Cleary sarcastically. 
 
 "But—" 
 
 "You heard what I said, didn't you ? We'll have the 
 men to-morrow. Roll that up in your cigarette and 
 smoke it. See what I mean ?" 
 
THE TURN OF' THE BALANCE 365 
 
 "Do you care to comment on what the Post said this 
 evening ?" asked a representative of that paper. 
 
 "What the hell do I care what your dirty, black- 
 mailing sheet says ? What the hell do I care ?" 
 
 Cleary left then, and a moment later they heard his 
 heavy voice through the open window, swearing at the 
 horse as he drove away in his light official wagon. 
 
 In truth, the police were wholly at sea. All day the 
 newspapers had been issuing extras giving new details, 
 or repeating old details of the crime. The hatred that 
 had been loosened in the cottage of the Flanagan sis- 
 ters had, as it were, poured in black streams into the 
 whole people, and the newspapers had gathered up 
 this stream, confined it, and then, with demands for 
 vengeance, poured it out again on the head of the su- 
 perintendent of police, and he, in turn, maddened and 
 tortured by criticism, had poured out this hatred on 
 the men who were beneath him ; and now, at nightfall, 
 they were going out into the dark city, maddened and 
 tormented themselves, ready to pour it on to any one 
 they might encounter. And it was this same hatred 
 that had sickened the breasts of Kouka and Quinn so 
 that, after a friendship of years, they had quarreled, 
 and were quarreling even now up-stairs in the detec- 
 tives* office. 
 
 When he heard of the crime, Kouka realized that if 
 he could discover the murderers of Margaret Flanagan 
 he might come into a notoriety that would be the mak- 
 ing of him. And he had wondered how he might 
 achieve this. He had visited Lulu Corners, and all 
 day his mind had been at work, incessantly revolving 
 the subject; he had recalled all the criminals he knew, 
 
366 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 trying to imagine which of them might have done the 
 deed, trying to decide on which of them he might 
 fasten the crime. For his mind worked Hke the minds 
 of most poHcemen — the problem was not necessarily 
 to discover who had committed the crime, but who 
 might have committed it, and this night, with the criti- 
 cism of the newspapers, and with the abuse of the su- 
 perintendent, he felt himself more and more driven to 
 the necessity of doing something in order to show that 
 the police were active. And when he heard from 
 Quinn that he had arrested Archie Koerner on Friday, 
 and that Bostwick had ordered him out of the city, he 
 instantly suspected that it was Archie who had mur- 
 dered Margaret Flanagan. Quinn had laughed at the 
 notion, but this only served to convince Kouka and 
 make him stubborn. The problem then was to find 
 Archie. When Inspector McFee made his details for 
 that night, all with special reference to the Flanagan 
 murder, Kouka asked for a special detail, intimating 
 that he had some clue which he wished to follow alone, 
 and McFee, who was at his wits' end, was willing 
 enough to let Kouka follow his own leading. 
 
 The night detail tramped heavily down the dark 
 halls and out into Market Place ; the detectives left the 
 building and separated, stealing off in different direc- 
 tions. An hour later, patrol wagons began to roll up 
 to the station ; the tenderloin was in a turmoil ; saloons, 
 brothels and dives were raided, the night was not half 
 gone before the prison was crowded with miserable 
 men and women, charged with all sorts of crimes, and, 
 when no other charge could be imagined, with sus- 
 picion. 
 
 Meanwhile, Archie and Curly were trudging 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 367 
 
 through dark side-streets and friendly alleys on their 
 way to Archie's home; for Archie had determined to 
 see his father and his mother once more before he left 
 the city. Archie was armed with a revolver he had 
 procured from Gray. 
 
IV 
 
 Kouka visited the tenderloin and learned that Archie 
 had not left town. He learned, too, that he had a com- 
 panion, and though he could follow the trail no far- 
 ther, he had decided to watch Archie's home in the 
 chance that the boy might visit it some time during 
 the night. And now, for two hours, in the patience 
 that was part of his stupidity, he had lurked in the 
 black doorway of the grocery. Bolt Street was dark 
 and still. Overhead, low clouds were flying; and the 
 old stool-pigeon, coming later and later each night, as 
 if bad habits were growing on it, had not yet appeared. 
 Now and then, hearing footsteps, Kouka would shrink 
 into the darkest corner of the doorway; the steps 
 would sound louder and louder on the wooden side- 
 walk, some one would pass, and the steps would gradu- 
 ally fade from his hearing. All this had a curious 
 effect on Kouka's mind. In some doubt at first, the 
 waiting, the watching with one object in view, more 
 and more convinced him that he was right, and in time 
 the idea that Archie was the murderer he sought be- 
 came definitely fixed. The little house across the street 
 gradually, through the slowly moving hours, took on 
 an aspect that confirmed Kouka's theory; it seemed 
 to be waiting for Archie's coming as expectantly as the 
 detective. During the first hour of his vigil, a shaft 
 of yellow light had streamed out of the kitchen win- 
 dow into the side yard, and Kouka watched this light 
 
 368 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 369 
 
 intently. Finally, at nine o'clock, It was suddenly 
 drawn in, as it were, and the house became dark. 
 After this, the house seemed to enshroud itself with 
 some mysterious tragic apprehension ; and Kouka wait- 
 ed, stolidly, patiently, possessed by his theory. 
 
 And then, it must have been after ten o'clock, Kouka, 
 who had heard no footsteps and no sound whatever, 
 suddenly, across the street, saw two figures. They 
 stopped, opened the low gate, stepped on to the stoop 
 and knocked. Their summons was answered almost 
 immediately; the door opened, and, in the light that 
 suddenly filled the door-frame, Kouka recognized 
 Archie Koerner ; a woman, his mother, doubtless, stood 
 just inside ; he heard her give a little cry, then Archie 
 put out his arms and bent toward her ; then he went in, 
 his companion following, and the door was closed. In 
 another moment the shaft of light shot out into the 
 side yard again. 
 
 Kouka was exultant, happy; he experienced an in- 
 tense satisfaction; already he realized something of 
 the distinction that would be his the next morning, 
 when the little world he knew would hail him as the 
 man who, all alone, had brought the murderers of 
 that poor old Flanagan woman to the vengeance of 
 the people's law. 
 
 And yet, he must be cautious ; he knew what yeggs 
 were ; he knew how readily they would shoot and how 
 well, and he did not care to risk his own body, and the 
 chance of missing his prey besides, by engaging two 
 bad men alone. Bad men they were, to Kouka, and 
 nothing else; they had come suddenly to impersonate 
 to him all the evil in the world, just as, though un- 
 known, they or some two men impersonated all evil 
 
370 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 to all the people of the city and the county, where- 
 as Kouka felt himself to be a good man whose mis- 
 sion it was to crush this badness out of the world. 
 He must preserve himself, as must all good men, and 
 he ran down the street, opened a patrolmen's box, 
 called up the precinct station, and gave the alarm. 
 Then he hurried back; the shaft of light was still 
 streaming out into the side yard, its rays, like some 
 luminous vapor, flowing palpably from the small win- 
 dow and slanting downward to be absorbed in the 
 dark earth. 
 
 He heard the roll of wheels, the urge of straining 
 horses; the patrol wagon stopped at the corner; he 
 heard the harness rattle and one of the horses blow 
 softly through its delicate fluttering nostrils ; a moment 
 later, the squad of policemen came out of the gloom; 
 three of the men were in civilian attire, the other six 
 were in uniform. 
 
 Kouka received his little command with his big, 
 heavy hand upraised for silence. It was a fine moment 
 for him ; he felt the glow of authority ; he felt like an 
 inspector; perhaps this night's work would make an 
 inspector of him; he had never had such an opportu- 
 nity before. He must evolve a plan, and he paused, 
 scowled, as he felt a commander should who, con- 
 fronted by a crisis, was thinking. Presently he laid 
 his plan before them ; it was profound, strategical. The 
 ofiicers in uniform were to surround the house, but in 
 a certain way ; he explained this way. Three of them 
 were to go to the right and cover the ground from the 
 corner of the house to the shaft of light that streamed 
 from the window, the others were to extend themselves 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 371 
 
 around the other way, coming as far as the lighted 
 window ; then no one would be exposed. 
 
 "You'll go with me," said Kouka to the plain-clothes 
 men. He said it darkly, with a sinister eye, implying 
 that their work was to be heavy and dangerous. 
 
 "Don't shoot until I give the command." 
 
 They went across the street, bending low, almost 
 crouching, stealing as softly as they could in their 
 great heavy boots, gripping their revolvers nervously, 
 filled with fear. Inside the gate, they surrounded the 
 house. 
 
 Kouka led the way, motioning the others behind him 
 with his hand. He stepped on to the low stoop, but 
 stood at one side lest Archie shoot through the door. 
 He stood as a reconnoitering burglar stands at one side 
 of a window, out of range ; cautiously he put forth his 
 hand, knocked, and hastily jerked his hand away . . . 
 He knocked twice, three times . . . After a while 
 the door opened slowly, and Kouka saw Mrs. Koerner 
 standing within, holding a lamp. Kouka instantly 
 pushed his knee inside the door, and shouldered his 
 way into the room. The three officers followed, dis- 
 playing their revolvers. 
 
 "It's all off," said Kouka. "The house is surrounded. 
 Where is he?" 
 
 Mrs. Koerner did not speak; she could not. Her 
 face was white, the lamp shook in her hand; its yel- 
 low flame licked the rattling chimney, the reek of the 
 oil filled the room. Finally she got to the table and 
 with relief set the lamp down among the trinkets 
 Archie had brought from the Philippines. 
 
 "Aw come, old woman !" said Kouka, seizing her by 
 
372 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 the arm fiercely. "Come, don't give us any of the bull 
 con. Where is he ?" 
 
 Kouka held to her arm; he shook her and swore. 
 Mrs. Koerner swallowed, managed to say something, 
 but in German. And then instantly the four officers, 
 as if seized by some savage, irresistible impulse, began 
 to rummage and ransack the house. They tore about 
 the little parlor, entered the little bedroom that had 
 been Gusta's; they looked everywhere, in the most 
 unlikely places, turning up mats, chairs, pulling off the 
 bed-clothes. Then they burst into the room behind. 
 Suddenly they halted and huddled in a group. 
 
 There, in the center of the room, stood old man 
 Koerner, clad in his red flannel underclothes, in which 
 he must have slept. He had an air of having just got 
 out of bed ; his white hair was tumbled, and he leaned 
 on one crutch, as if one crutch were all that was neces- 
 sary in dishabille. Below the stump of his amputated 
 leg the red flannel leg of his drawers was tied into a 
 knot. He presented a grotesque appearance, like some 
 aged fiend. Under the white bush of his eyebrows, 
 under his touseled white hair, his eyes gleamed fiercely. 
 
 "Vat de hell ails you fellers?" 
 
 "We want Archie," said Kouka, "and, by God, we're 
 going to have him, dead or alive." He used the words 
 of the advertised reward. "Where is he ?" 
 
 Kouka and the other officers glanced apprehensively 
 about the room, as if Archie and Curly might start out 
 of some corner, or out of the floor, but in the end their 
 glances came always back to Koerner, standing there 
 in his red flannels, on one crutch and one leg, the red 
 knot of the leg of his drawers dangling between. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 373 
 
 "You vant Archie, huh ?" asked Koerner. "Dot's it, 
 aind't it — Archie — my poy Archie?" 
 
 "Yes, Archie, and we want him quick." 
 
 "Vat you want mit him, huh ?" 
 
 "It's none of your business what we want with him,'^ 
 Kouka replied with an oath. "Where is he? Hurry 
 up!" 
 
 "You bin a detective, huh ? Dot's it, a detective ?'* 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You got some bapers for him?" 
 
 "That's my business," said Kouka, advancing men- 
 acingly toward Koerner. "You tell where he is or I'll 
 run the whole family in. Here," he said suddenly, a 
 thought having occurred to him, "put 'em under ar- 
 rest, both of 'em !" 
 
 The old man shuffled backward, leaned against the 
 table for support and raised his crutch for protection. 
 
 "You better look oudt, Mis'er Detective," said 
 Koerner. "You'd better look oudt. Py Gott— " 
 
 Kouka stopped, considered, then changed his rnind. 
 
 "Look here, Mr. Koerner," he said. "It's no use, 
 [We know Archie's here and we want him." 
 
 "He's not here," suddenly spoke Mrs. Koerner be- 
 side him. "He's not here !" 
 
 "The hell he ain't !" said Kouka. "I saw him come 
 in — ten minutes ago. Search the house, men." And 
 the rummaging began again. 
 
 The men were about to enter the little room where 
 Koerner slept: it was dark in there and one of them 
 took the lamp, 
 
 "Look oudt !" Koerner said suddenly. "Look oudt ! 
 You go in dere if you vant to, but, py Gott, don't 
 blame me if — " 
 
374 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 The men suddenly halted and stepped back. 
 
 "Go on hi!" commanded Kouka. "What do you 
 want to stand there for ? Are you afraid ?" 
 
 Then they went, ransacked that room, threw every- 
 thing into disorder and came out. 
 
 "No one there," they reported in relief. 
 
 They searched the whole house over again, and old 
 man Koerner stood by on one leg and his crutch, with 
 a strange, amused smile on his yellow face. At last, 
 Kouka, lifting his black visage, looked at the ceiling, 
 sought some way as if to an upper story, found none, 
 and then began to swear again, cursing the old man 
 and his wife. Finally he said to the officers : 
 
 "He's been kidding us." 
 
 Then he called his men, dashed out of the house, 
 and with a dark lantern began seeking signs in the 
 back yard. Near the rear fence he discovered foot- 
 prints in the soft earth; they climbed over and found 
 other footprints in the mud of the alley. 
 
 "Here they went !" cried Kouka. 
 
Archie had stood for a moment In his mother's em- 
 brace ; he had felt her cheek against his ; he had heard 
 her voice again. He was forgetful of everything — of 
 Curly's presence, of all he had ever been made to suf- 
 fer by himself and by others. He knew that his moth- 
 er's eyes were closed and that tears were squeezing 
 through the lids ; he felt his own tears coming, but it 
 did not matter — in that moment he could cry without 
 being made ashamed. It was a supreme moment for 
 him, a moment when all he had been, all he had done, 
 all he had not done, made no difference; no questions 
 now, no reproaches, no accusations, not even forgive- 
 ness, for there was no need of forgiveness; a moment 
 merely of love, an incredible moment, working a mira- 
 cle in which men would not believe, having lost belief 
 in Love. It was a moment that suffused his whole be- 
 ing with a new, surging life, out of which — 
 
 But it was only a moment. Curly had turned away, 
 effacing himself. Presently he started, and cast about 
 him that habitual backward glance; he had heard a 
 step. It was Koerner. The old man in his shirt- 
 sleeves, swinging heavily between his crutches, paused 
 in the doorway, and then seeing his boy, his face soft- 
 ened, and, balanced on his crutches, he held out his 
 arms and Archie strode toward him. 
 
 Curly waited another moment like the first, taking 
 the chances, almost cynically wondering how far he 
 
 375 
 
376 THE TURN OE THE BALANCE 
 
 could brave this fate. It was still in the little room. 
 The words were few. The moment brought memories 
 to him as well, — ^but he could endure it no longer ; the 
 risk was enormous already; they were losing time. 
 For, just as they had entered the house, in that habitual 
 glance over the shoulder. Curly had seen the figure in 
 the dark doorway across the street — ^and he knew. 
 
 "Come on, Archie," he said. 
 
 Archie turned in surprise. 
 
 'Tt's all off," Curly said. "We're dogged." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "The bulls—" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Across the street — an elbow." 
 
 "Him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The hell!" 
 
 Curly glanced toward the back room. But Archie 
 suddenly grew stubborn. 
 
 "No," he said. "Let's stick and slug." 
 
 "Don't be a chump," said Curly. 
 
 "We're heeled." 
 
 "Well, they'd settle you in a minute." 
 
 "They can't. We can bust the bulls." 
 
 "All right," said Curly. "Be the wise guy if you 
 want to. I'll take it on the lam for mine; they ain't 
 going to bury me. Can I get out that way ?" 
 
 He brushed past them in the doorway, and called 
 from the kitchen : 
 
 "Besides, you've got orders." 
 
 Then Archie remembered ; he looked at his mother, 
 at his father, glanced about the little room, barren in 
 the poverty that had entered the home, hesitated, then 
 
THE TURN of; THE BALANCE 377 
 
 turned and left tliem standing there. As he passed 
 through the kitchen he heard little Katie and little 
 Jake breathing in their sleep, and the sound tore his 
 heart. 
 
 He was over the fence and in the alley just behind 
 Curly. They ran for a block, darted across a lighted 
 street, then into the black alley again. For several 
 blocks they dashed along, getting on as fast as they 
 could. Then at length Archie, soft from his imprison- 
 ment, stopped in the utter abandon of physical exhaus- 
 tion and stood leaning against a barn. 
 
 "God !" he said, "I hain't going another step ! Fm 
 all in r 
 
 Curly had been leading the way In the tireless en- 
 ergy of the health his out-of-door life gave him, but 
 when Archie stopped, he paused and stood attent, in- 
 clining his head and listening. 
 
 The night, almost half gone, was still; sounds that 
 in the daytime and in the earlier evening had been lost 
 in the roar of the city became distinct, trolley-cars 
 sweeping along some distant street, the long and lone- 
 some whistles of railroad engines, now and then the 
 ringing of a bell; close by, the nocturnal movements 
 of animals in the barns that staggered grotesquely 
 along the alley. 
 
 "It's all right," said Curly; "we've made a get- 
 away." 
 
 He relaxed and slouched over to where Archie stood. 
 
 "Where are we, do you know ?" he asked. 
 
 Archie thought. "That must be Fifteenth Street 
 down there. Yes, there's the gas house." He pointed 
 to a dark mass looming in the night. "And the canal 
 — and yes, Maynard's lumber-yard's right beyond." 
 
378 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ' "How far from the spill ?" 
 
 "About three blocks." 
 • "Come on, we must get out on the main stem." 
 
 They went on, but in the security they felt at not be- 
 ing followed, they ran no more, but paced rapidly 
 along, side by side. They had not had the time nor the 
 breath for talk, but now suddenly, Archie, in a tone 
 that paid tribute to Curly's powers, expressed the sub- 
 liminal surprise he had had. 
 
 "How did you know the bulls was there ?" 
 
 "I piked off the elbow just as we went in." 
 
 "I didn't see him," said Archie. "Where was he?" 
 
 "Right across the street, planted in a doorway." 
 . "How do you suppose he'd spotted us ?" 
 
 "Oh, he was layin' for you, that's all. He had it all 
 framed up. He thought he'd job you and swell him- 
 self." 
 
 "What do you think of that now !" 
 
 They reached the yard where the black shadows cast 
 by the tall leaning piles of lumber welcomed them like 
 friends, and through this they passed, coming out at 
 length on the railroad. They reconnoitered. The sky 
 of the October night was overcast by thin clouds 
 which, gray at first, turned bright silver as they flew 
 beneath the risen moon. 
 
 "The dog's out," said Curly, who had almost as 
 many names for the moon as a poet. 
 
 Before them the rails gleamed and glinted ; over the 
 yards myriads of switch-lights glowed red and green, 
 sinister and confusing. Not far away a switch-engine 
 stood, leisurely working the pump of its air-brake, 
 emitting steamy sighs, as if it were snatching a mo- 
 ment's rest from its labors. On the damp and heavy 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 379 
 
 air the voices of the engineer and fireman were borne 
 to them. At times other switch-engines slid up and 
 down the tracks. Curly and Archie sat down in the 
 shadow of the lumber and waited. After a while, 
 down the rails a white light swung in an arc, the rest- 
 ing switch-engine moved and began to make up a 
 freight-train. 
 
 "Now's our chance," said Curly. 
 
 The switch-engine went to and fro and up and down, 
 whistling now and then, ringing its bell constantly, 
 drawing cars back and forth interminably, pulling 
 strings of them here and there, adding to and taking 
 from its train, stopping finally for a few minutes while 
 a heavy passenger-train swept by, its sleeping-cars all 
 dark, rolling heavily, mysteriously, their solid wheels 
 clicking delicately over the joints of the rails. 
 
 "I wish we were on that rattler," said Archie, witH 
 the longing a departing train inspires, and more than 
 the normal longing. Curly laughed. 
 
 '*The John O'Brien's good enough for us," he said. 
 
 The passenger-train, shrinking in size by swift per- 
 ceptible degrees as it lost itself in the darkness, soon 
 was gone. The white lantern swung again, and the 
 switch-engine resumed its monotonous labors, confined 
 to the tedious limits of that yard, never allowed to go 
 out into the larger world. Gradually it worked the 
 train it was patiently piecing together over to the side 
 of the yard where Archie and Curly waited. Then, at 
 last, watching their chance, they slipped out, found an 
 open car, sprang into it, slunk out of possible sight of 
 conductor or switchman, and were happy. 
 
 The car was bumped and buffeted up and down the 
 yard for an hour, but Archie and Curly within were 
 
38o THE TURN OE THE BALANCE 
 
 laughing at having thus eluded the officers. They sat 
 against the wall of the car, their knees to their chins, 
 talking under cover of the noise the cars made. After 
 a while the engine whistled and the train moved. 
 
 When they awoke, the car was standing still and a 
 gray light came through the cracks of the door. 
 
 "I wonder where we are," said Archie, rubbing his 
 eyes. 
 
 Curly got up, stretched, crept to the middle of the 
 car and looked out. Presently Archie heard him say : 
 
 "By God r 
 
 He joined him. And there were the lumber piles. 
 It was morning, the city was awake, the grinding of 
 its weary mills had begun. They were just where they 
 had been the night before. 
 
 "Marooned !'* said Curly, and he laughed. 
 
 They decided, or Curly decided, that they must wait. 
 Some of those restless switch-engines would make up 
 another train before long, and in it they might leave 
 the town, in which there was now no place of safety 
 for them. The morning was cold; the chill of the 
 damp atmosphere stiffened them. Just outside, in the 
 lumber-yard, several men were working, and the fugi- 
 tives must not be seen by them, for they would be 
 as hostile as the whole world had suddenly become. 
 They waited, but the men did not leave. Their task 
 seemed to be as endless as that of the switch-engine. 
 For a long while the railroad yards were strangely 
 still. Now and then Curly crept to the door and 
 peeped out; the lumber-shovers were not twenty feet 
 away. The door on the opposite side of the car was 
 locked. Finally, they grew restless; they decided to 
 go out anyhow. 
 
THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 381 
 
 "Hell !'' said Archie. "There's nothing to it. Let's 
 mope." 
 
 Something of Archie's recklessness and disregard of 
 consequences affected Curly. 
 
 "Well, all right," he said ; "come on." 
 
 They went to the door of the car. And there, look- 
 ing full in their faces, was a switchman with a red, 
 rough face and a stubble of reddish beard. The 
 switchman drew back with a curse to express his as- 
 tonishment, his surprise, the sudden fright that con- 
 fused and angered him. 
 
 "Come out o' that, you hobos," he called, stepping 
 back. The men in the lumber-yard heard his sudden 
 cry, stopped and looked up. The switchman cursed 
 and called again. 
 
 Curly and Archie shrank into tKe darkness of the 
 car. Archie had drawn his revolver. 
 
 "Put it up," said Curly, with the anger of his disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 They waited and listened ; the switchman's voice was 
 heard no more ; he must have gone away. 
 
 "He'll blow us to the railroad coppers. Now's our 
 only chance !" 
 
 They went to the door, leaped out, bent their heads 
 and ran. And instantly, with the howl of the hunter, 
 the men in the lumber-yard, not knowing Archie or 
 Curly or what they had done, or whether they had done 
 anything, left their work and ran after them, raising 
 the old hue and cry of English justice. Even the en- 
 gines in the yards joined by sounding sharp, angry 
 blasts on their whistles, and behind the little group 
 that was rapidly becoming a mob, raced the switchman 
 with two of the railroad's detectives. 
 
382 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 As swiftly as they could, in their stiffness and their 
 hunger and their cold, Archie and Curly ran down the 
 long yards, over cinders and uneven ties. They ran 
 for a quarter of a mile and the yard narrowed, the 
 tracks began to converge, to unite, marking the begin- 
 ning of the main line. On either side rose the clayey 
 banks, ahead there was a narrow cut with an ele- 
 vated crossing; near this was a switchman's shanty. 
 Just then something sang over their heads, a musical 
 humming sound. They knew the sound a bullet makes 
 and dodged into the switchman's shanty, slammed the 
 door behind them, locked it and, a moment later, were 
 at bay with the mob. The crowd surged up to the very 
 door, flung itself against the shanty. Then Curly 
 called : 
 
 "Stand back!" 
 
 The cry of the crowd was given in a lower, angrier 
 tone; again it hurled itself against the door, and the 
 little shanty, painted in the yellow and white of the 
 railroad, rocked. Another shot pierced the shanty, 
 splintering the boards above their heads. Then Archie 
 stepped to the little window, thrust out his revolver. 
 There was an angry cry outside, then stillness ; the 
 crowd gave way, withdrew, and kept its distance. 
 
 "Don't push the rod!" Curly commanded. "What 
 in hell ails you ?" 
 
 "Oh, sin not leery ! I'll plug 'em for keeps !" 
 
 Curly looked into Archie's white face. 
 
 "Are the bulls tailing on ?" he asked. 
 
 "They're coming strong ! Listen !" 
 
 "We'd better cave !" urged Curly. 
 
 "Like hell!" Archie replied. "They don't drop me 
 without a muss now. If you want to flunk — " 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 383 
 
 Curly's face flamed and his little eyes pierced Archie. 
 
 "Look out, young fellow !" he said, taking a sudden 
 step toward him. Archie looked at him with a sneer. 
 Then Curly stopped. 
 
 "Look here, Dutch," he said. "Don't be a fool. 
 We're—" 
 
 "I've told you what I'll do," said Archie, all the 
 dogged stubbornness of his nafure aroused. Then 
 Curly seemed to lose interest. Outside they could 
 hear the crowd again. 
 
 Half an hour passed. They heard the clang of a 
 gong in the near-by street. 
 
 "The pie wagon," said Curly. 
 
 Archie was quiet. There was a cheer, then a voice, 
 deep, commanding and official : 
 
 "Surrender in the name of the law !" 
 . Curly looked a question at Archie. 
 
 "What ails you to-day?" asked Archie. "Lost your 
 nerve ?" 
 
 "I haven't lost my nut." 
 
 "We'll give you three minutes," said the voice, "then 
 if you don't come out, holding up your hands, we'll 
 fire." 
 
 For what seemed a long time there was utter quiet, 
 then bullets tore through the pine boards of the little 
 shanty and Archie sprang to the window and fired. 
 Curly was squatting on the floor. Archie fired again, 
 and again, and yet again. 
 
 "I've only got one left," he said, turning from the 
 window. 
 
 "All right, then we'll cave." 
 
384 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Curly got up, went to the door, flung it open and 
 held up his hands. The mob cheered. 
 
 But Archie stayed. The officer called again, Curly 
 called, the crowd called; then the shooting began 
 again. Presently Archie appeared in the doorway and 
 looked about with a white, defiant face. And there, 
 before him, a rod away, stood Kouka, revolver in hand. 
 He saw Archie, his brow wrinkled, and he smiled 
 darkly. 
 
 "You might as well — " he began. 
 
 Archie looked at him an instant, slowly raised his 
 revolver above his head, lowered it in deliberate aim, 
 fired, and Kouka fell to his knees, toppled forward 
 with a groan and collapsed in a heap on the ground, 
 dead. 
 
 The crowd was stricken still. Archie stood looking 
 at Kouka, his eyes burning, his face white, his smok- 
 ing revolver lowered in' his hand. A smile came to his 
 pale, tense lips. Then the crowd closed in on him ; the 
 policemen, angry and ferocious, caught and pinioned 
 him, began to club him. The crowd pressed closer, 
 growing savage, shaking fists at him, trying to strike 
 him. Suddenly some one began to call for a rope. 
 
 Then the policemen, so eager a moment before to 
 wreak their own vengeance on him, were now con- 
 cerned for his safety. A sergeant gave a command; 
 they dragged Archie toward the patrol wagon. The 
 crowd surged that way, and Archie, bareheaded, his 
 yellow hair disordered, his eyes flashing, his white 
 brow stained with blood, stared about on the police- 
 men and on the crowd with a look of hatred. Then he 
 glanced back to where some men were bending over 
 Kouka, and he smiled again. 
 
Archie looked about with a white, defiant face Page J84 
 
I UNIVERSITY 
 
 \ OF 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 385 
 
 **Well, I croaked him all right," he said. 
 
 A patrolman struck him with a club; and he stag- 
 gered as the blow fell with a sharp crash on his head. 
 
 "Get on there !" said the sergeant, cursing him. He 
 was thrown into the patrol wagon beside Curly, and 
 he sat there, white, with the blood trickling in two 
 streams from his forehead, his eyes flashing, and the 
 strange smile on his lips whenever he looked back 
 where Kouka lay. The patrol wagon dashed away. 
 
VI 
 
 Marriott was sensible of a hostile atmosphere the 
 moment he entered the police station. The desk ser- 
 geant glanced at him with disapproval, kept him wait- 
 ing, finally consulted an inspector, blew savagely into 
 a speaking tube, and said : 
 
 ''Here's a young lawyer to see Koemer." 
 
 The contemptuous description, the tone, the attitude, 
 all expressed the hatred the police had for Archie, a 
 hatred that Marriott realized would extend itself to 
 him for taking sides with Archie. The turnkey, a 
 thin German with cheek-bones that seemed about to 
 perforate his sallow skin, a black mustache, and two 
 black, glossy curls plastered on his low forehead, like- 
 wise scowled and showed reluctance. 
 
 "How many damned lawyers," he said, taking a 
 corn-cob pipe from his mouth, "is that feller going to 
 have, anyway?" 
 
 "Why," asked Marriott in a sudden hope that ig- 
 nored the man's insolence, "have there been others?" 
 
 "Humph!" said the turnkey, jangling his heavy 
 keys. "Only about a dozen." 
 
 "Well, I'll see him anyway." 
 
 Marriott had waited thus for Archie and for other 
 men who had done crimes ; but never for one who had 
 killed a man. He felt a new, unpleasant sensation, a 
 nervous apprehension, just a faint sickness, and then 
 — Archie came. 
 
 386 
 
THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 387 
 
 The boy stepped into the turnkey's room with a 
 certain air of relief ; he straightened himself, stretched, 
 and within the flannel undershirt that showed his 
 white, muscular neck to its base, his chest expanded 
 as he filled his lungs with the welcome air. He threw 
 away his cigarette, came forward and pressed Marri- 
 ott's hand, strongly, with hearty gratitude. 
 
 The turnkey led them to a dingy room, and locked 
 them in a closet used as a consulting cabinet by those 
 few prisoners who could secure lawyers. The gloom 
 was almost as thick as the dust in the closet. Marriott 
 thought of all the tragedies the black hole had known ; 
 and wondered if Archie had any such thoughts. He 
 could not see Archie's face clearly, but it seemed to be 
 clouded by too many realities to be conscious of the 
 romantic or the tragic side of things. It was essential 
 to talk in low tones, for they knew that the turnkey 
 was listening through the thin, wooden partition. 
 Marriott waited for Archie to begin. 
 
 "Well?" he said presently. 
 
 "Got a match, Mr. Marriott ?" Archie asked. 
 
 Marriott drew out his silver match-box, and then 
 looked at Archie's face glowing red in the tiny flame 
 of the light he made for his cigarette. The action 
 calmed and reassured Marriott. Archie's face wore 
 no unwonted or tragic expression; if his experience 
 had changed him, it had not as yet set its mark on 
 him. Marriott lighted a cigarette himself. 
 
 "I was afraid you wouldn't come," said Archie, 
 dropping to the floor the match he economically shared 
 with Marriott, and then solicitously pressing out its 
 little embers with his foot. 
 
 "I got your message only this morning." 
 
388 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Humph!" sneered Archie. "That's the way of 
 them coppers. I asked 'em to 'phone you the morning 
 they made the pinch." 
 
 "Well, they didn't." 
 
 "No, they've got it in for me, Mr. Marriott ; they'll 
 job me if they can. I was worried and 'fraid I'd have 
 to take some other lawyer." 
 
 "They told me you had seen others." 
 
 "Oh, some of them guys was here tryin' to tout out 
 a case ; you know the kind. Frisby and Pennell, some 
 of them dead ones. I s'pose they were lookin' for a 
 little notoriety." 
 
 The unpleasant sensation Marriott felt at Archie's 
 recognition of his own notoriety was lost in the greater 
 disgust that he had for the lawyers who were so 
 anxious to share that notoriety. He knew how Frisby 
 solicited such cases, how the poor and friendless pris- 
 oners eagerly grasped at the hopes he could so shame- 
 lessly hold out to them, how their friends and relatives 
 mortgaged their homes, when they had them, or their 
 furniture, or their labor in the future, to pay the fees 
 he extorted. And he knew Pennell, the youth just out 
 of law-school, who had the gift of the gab, and was an 
 incorrigible spouter, having had the misfortune while 
 in college to win a debate and to obtain a prize for 
 oratory. His boundless conceit and assurance made 
 up for his utter lack of knowledge of law, or of human 
 nature, his utter lack of experience, or of sympathy. 
 He had no principles, either, but merely a determina- 
 tion to get on in the world ; he was ever for sale, and 
 Marriott knew how his charlatanism would win, how; 
 soon he would be among the successful of the city. 
 
 "I tell you, Archie," he was saying, "I can't consent 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 389 
 
 to represent you if either of these fellows is in the 
 case." 
 
 "Who? Them guys? Not much!" Archie puffed 
 at his cigarette. "Not for me. Tm up against the real 
 thing this time." He gave a little sardonic laugh. 
 
 It was difficult to discuss the case to any purpose 
 in that little closet with its dirt and darkness, and the 
 repressing knowledge that some one was straining to 
 hear what they would say. Marriott watched the 
 spark of Archie's cigarette glow and fade and glow 
 and fade again. 
 
 "We can't talk here," said Archie. "You pull off 
 my hearing as soon as possible, and get me out of 
 here. When I get over to the pogey I'll h^ve a chance 
 to turn around, and we can talk. Bring it on as soon's 
 you can, Mr. Marriott. Won't you? God! It's hell 
 in that crum box, and those drunks snoring and snort- 
 ing and havin' the willies all night. Can't you get it 
 on to-morrow morning ?" 
 
 "Can we be ready by then ?" 
 
 "Oh, there's nothin' to it down here. We'll waive." 
 
 "We'll see," said Marriott, with the professional 
 dislike of permitting clients to dictate how their des- 
 perate affairs should be managed. "You see I don't 
 know the circumstances of the affair yet. All I know 
 is what I've read in the papers." 
 
 "Oh, well, to hell with them," said Archie, "Never 
 mind what they say. They're tryin' to stick me for 
 that Flanagan job. You know, Mr. Marriott, I didn't 
 have nothin' to do with that, don't you ?" 
 
 Archie leaned forward in an appeal that was irre- 
 sistible, convincing. 
 
 'Tes, I know that." 
 
390 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "All right, I want you to know that. I ain't that 
 kind, you know. But Kouka — well", I got him, but I 
 had to, Mr. Marriott; I had to. You see that, don't 
 you ? He agitated me to it ; he agitated me to it." 
 
 He repeated the word thus strangely employed a 
 ^number of times, as if it gave him relief and comfort. 
 
 "Yes, sir, he agitated me to it. I had to ; that's all. 
 It was a case of self-defense." 
 
 Marriott was silent for a few moments. Then he 
 asked : 
 
 "Have you talked to the police ?" 
 
 Archie laughed. 
 
 "They give me the third degree, but — ^there was 
 nothin' doin'." 
 
 Marriott was relieved to find that he did not have 
 to face the usual admission the police wring from their 
 subjects, but Archie went on : 
 
 "Of course, that don't make no difference. They 
 can frame up a confession all right." 
 
 "They'd hardly do anything that desperate," said 
 Marriott, though not with the greatest assurance. 
 
 "Well," said Archie, "I wouldn't put it past 'em." 
 
 Marriott finished his cigarette in a reflective silence, 
 dropped it to the floor and imitated Archie in the care 
 with which he extinguished it. Then he sighed, 
 straightened up and said : 
 
 "Well, Archie, let's get down to business; tell me 
 the particulars." 
 
 And Archie narrated the events that led up to the 
 tragedy. 
 
 "I wanted to see the old people — and the kids — and 
 Gus." He was silent then, and Marriott did not break 
 the silence 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 391 
 
 "Say, Mr. Marriott/* the boy suddenly asked, 
 "where is Gus ?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "What's become of her ? Do you know that ?" 
 
 "N-no — r said Marriott. He felt that Archie was 
 eying him shrewdly. 
 
 "You know," said Archie in the lowest tone, "I'm 
 afraid, I've got a kind of hunch — that she's — gone 
 wrong." 
 
 Marriott feared his own silence, but he could not 
 speak. 
 
 "Hell!" Archie exclaimed, in a tone that dismissed 
 the question. "Well, I wanted to go home, and I 
 goes. Curly and me. Kouka followed ; he plants him- 
 self across the street, gets the harness bulls, and they 
 goes gunning. Curly, he sees him — Curly can see any- 
 thing. We lammed. The coppers misses us ; and we 
 gets on a freight-car. They cuts that car out, and we 
 stays in it all night. Damn it! Did you ever hear o' 
 such luck ? Now did you, Mr. Marriott ?" 
 
 Marriott owned that he had not. 
 
 "In the morning," Archie went on, "they lagged 
 us and we ran — ^they began to shoot, and — •" 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 "Well," he said very quietly. "I had my rod, and 
 barked at Kouka. I got him." 
 
 Marriott wished that he could see Archie's face. It 
 was not so dim in there as it had been, or so it seemed 
 to Marriott, for his eyes had accommodated themselves 
 to the gloom, but he could not read Archie's expres- 
 sion. He waited for him to go on. He was intensely 
 interested now in the human side of the question ; the 
 legal side might wait. He longed to put a dozen ques- 
 
392 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 tions to Archie, but he dared not ; he felt that he could 
 not profane this soul that had erred and gone astray, 
 by prying out its secrets ; he was conscious only of a 
 great pity. He thought he might ask Archie if he had 
 shot, aimed, intentionally; he wished to know just 
 what had been in the boy's heart at that moment ; then 
 he had a great fear that Archie might tell him. But 
 Archie was speaking again. 
 
 "Say, Mr. Marriott," he said, "could you go out 
 to my home and get me some clothes ? I want to make 
 as good a front as I can when I go into court.'* 
 
 "Your clothes seem pretty good; they look new. 
 They gave them to you, I suppose, at the peniten- 
 tiary?" 
 
 Archie laughed. 
 
 "I'd look like a jay in them stir clothes," he said. 
 "These — well, these ain't mine," he added simply. 
 "But get me a shirt, if you can, and a collar and — ^a 
 tie— a blue one. And say, if you can, get word to the 
 folks — tell 'em not to worry. And if you can find Gus, 
 tell her to come down. You know." 
 
 Marriott went out into the street, glad of the sun- 
 light, the air, the bustle of normal life. And yet, as 
 he analyzed his sensations, he was surprised to note 
 that the whole affair had lacked the sense of tragedy 
 he had expected; it all seemed natural and common- 
 place enough. Archie was the same boy he had known 
 before. The murder was but an incident in Archie's 
 life, that was all, just as his own sins and follies and 
 mistakes were incidents that usually appeared to be 
 necessary and unavoidable — incidents he could always 
 abundantly account for and palliate and excuse and 
 justify. Sometimes it seemed that even good grew 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 393 
 
 out of them. Sometimes ! Yes, always, he felt, else 
 were the universe wrong. And after all — where was 
 the difference between sins? What made one greater 
 than another? Wherein was the murder Archie had 
 done worse than the unkind word he, Gordon Marriott, 
 had spoken that morning ? But Marriott put this phase 
 of the question aside, and tried to trace Archie's deed 
 back to its first cause. As he did this, he became fasci- 
 nated with the speculation, and his heart beat fast as 
 he thought that if he could present the case to a jury 
 in all its clarity and truth— perhaps — perhaps — 
 
VII 
 
 Archie did not have his hearing the next morning. 
 The newspapers said "the State'* was not ready, which 
 meant that Allen, the prosecutor, and the police were 
 not ready. Quinn and Allen had conferences. They 
 felt it to be their duty to have Archie put to death if 
 possible, and they were undecided as to which case 
 would the better insure this result. Allen found legal 
 difficulties; there was a question whether or not the 
 murder of Kouka had been murder in the first degree. 
 Hence he wished to have Bridget Flanagan identify 
 Archie. 
 
 Several days elapsed, and then one morning, Bent- 
 ley, the sheriff, brought Bridget Flanagan to the Cen- 
 tral Police Station in a carriage. Allen and Cleary and 
 Quinn, with several officers and reporters, were waiting 
 to witness her confrontation of Archie. 
 
 The old woman was dressed in black; she wore a 
 black shawl and a black bonnet, but these had faded 
 independently of each other, so that each was now of 
 its own dingy shade. The dress had a brown cast, the 
 shawl a tone of green, the bonnet was dusty and gray- 
 ing, and the black veil that was tightly bound about 
 her brow, like the band of a nun, had been empurpled 
 in the process of decay. She leaned heavily on Bent- 
 ley, tottering in her weakness, now and then lifting 
 her arms with a wild, nervous gesture. Bentley's 
 
 394 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 395 
 
 huge, disproportionate bulk moved uncertainly beside 
 her, lurching this way and that, as if he feared to step 
 on her feet or her ancient gown, finding it difficult, at 
 arm's length, to support and guide her. But at last he 
 got her to a chair. At the edge of the purplish veil 
 bound across the hairless brows, a strip of adhesive 
 plaster showed. The old woman wearily closed the 
 eyes that had gazed on the horrors of the tragedy; 
 her mouth moved in senile spasms. Now and then 
 she mumbled little prayers that sounded like oaths; 
 and raised to her lips the little ball into which she 
 had wadded her handkerchief. And she sat there, her 
 palsied head shaking disparaging negatives. The po- 
 lice, the detectives, the prosecutor, the reporters looked 
 on. They said nothing for a long time. 
 
 Cleary, trying to speak with an exaggerated tender- 
 ness, finally said : 
 
 **Miss Flanagan, we hate to trouble you, but we 
 won't keep you long. We think we have the man who 
 killed your dear sister — we'd like to have you see 
 him—" 
 
 The old woman started, tried to get up, sank back, 
 made a strange noise in her throat, pushed out her 
 hands toward Cleary as if to repulse him and his sug- 
 gestion, then clasped her hands, wrung them, closed 
 her eyes, swayed to and fro in her chair and moaned, 
 ejaculating the little prayers that sounded like oaths. 
 Cleary waited. Quinn brought a glass of water. Pres- 
 ently the old woman grew calm again; after a while 
 Cleary renewed his suggestion. The old woman con- 
 tinued to moan. Cleary whispered to two policemen 
 and they left the room. The policemen were gone 
 \vhat seemed a long time, but at last they appeared in 
 
396 THE TURN OK THE BALANCE 
 
 the doorway, and between them, looking expectantly 
 about him, was Archie Koerner. The policemen led 
 him into the room, the group made way, they halted 
 before the old woman. Cleary advanced. 
 
 "Miss Flanagan," he said very gently, standing be- 
 side her, and bending assiduously, "Miss Flanagan, 
 will you please take a look now, and tell us — if you 
 ever saw this man before, if he is the man who — " 
 
 Wearily, slowly, the old woman raised her blue eye- 
 lids; and then she shuddered, started, seemed to have 
 a sudden access of strength, got to her feet and cried 
 out: 
 
 "OH, my poor sister ! my poor sister ! You kilt her ! 
 You kilt her!" 
 
 Then she sank to Her knees and collapsed on the 
 floor. Bentley ran across the room, brought a glass 
 of water, and stood uncertainly, awkwardly about, 
 while the others bore the old woman to a couch, 
 stretched her out, threw up a window, began to fan 
 her with newspapers, with hats, anything. Some one 
 took the water from the sheriff, pressed the glass to 
 the old woman's lips ; it clicked against her teeth. 
 
 Then Cleary, Quinn, Bentley, the policemen, the de- 
 tectives, the reporters, looked at one another and 
 smiled, Cleary bent over the old woman. 
 
 "That's all, Miss Flanagan. You needn't worry any 
 more. We're sorry we had to trouble you, but the law, 
 you know, and our duty — " 
 
 He repeated the words "law" and "duty'* several 
 times. Meanwhile Archie stood there, between the two 
 policemen. He looked about him, at the men in the 
 room, at the old woman stretched on the lounge ; finally 
 his gaze fastened on Cleary, and his lips slowly curled 
 
THE TURN. OE THE BALANCE 397 
 
 in a sneer, and his face hardened into an expression of 
 utter scorn. 
 
 "Take him down I" shouted Geary angrily. 
 
 The reporters rushed out. An hour later the extras 
 were on the streets, announcing the complete and posi- 
 tive identification of Archie Koerner by Bridget Flana- 
 gan. 
 
 "The hardened prisoner," the reports said, "stood 
 and sneered while the old woman confronted him. 
 The police have not known so desperate a character in 
 years." 
 
VIII 
 
 Marriott had attended to all of Archie's commis' 
 sions, save one — that of telling Gusta to go to him. 
 He had not done this because he did not know where to 
 find her. But Gusta went herself, just as she seemed 
 to do most things in life, because she could not help do- 
 ing them, because something impelled, forced her to do 
 them, — some power that made sport of her, using a 
 dozen agencies, forces hereditary, economic, social, 
 moral, all sorts — driving her this way and that. She 
 had read of the murder, and then, with horror, of 
 Archie's arrest. She did not know he was out of pris- 
 on until she heard that he was in prison again. 
 She began to calculate the time that had flowed 
 by so swiftly, making such changes in her life. Her 
 first impulse was to go to him, but now she feared 
 the police. She recalled her former visits, that first 
 Sunday at the workhouse, on which she had thought 
 herself so sad, whereas she had not begun to learn 
 what sorrow was. She recalled the day in the police 
 station a year before, and remembered the policeman 
 who had held her arm so suggestively. She read the 
 newspapers eagerly, absorbed every detail, her heart 
 sinking lower than it had ever gone before. When 
 she read that Marriott was to defend Archie, she al- 
 lowed herself to hope. The next day she read an ac- 
 count of the identification of Archie by the surviving 
 
 398 
 
The turn of the balance 399 
 
 Flanagan sister, and then, when hope was gone, she 
 could resist no longer the impulse to go to him. 
 
 She paused again at the door of the sergeant's room, 
 her heart beating painfully with the fear that showed 
 itself in little white spots on each side of her nostrils ; 
 then the timid parleying with the officers, the delay, 
 the suspicion, the opposition, the reluctance, until an 
 officer in uniform took her in charge, led her down the 
 iron stairway to the basement, and had the turnkey 
 open the prison doors. Archie came to the bars, and 
 peered purblindly into the gloom. And Gusta went 
 close now, closer than she had ever gone before; the 
 bars had no longer the old meaning for her, they had 
 no longer their old repulsion, and she looked at Archie 
 no more with the old feeling of reproach and moral 
 superiority. In fact, she judged no more; sin had 
 healed her of such faults as self-satisfaction and moral 
 complacency; it had softened and instructed her, and 
 in its great kindness revealed to her her own relation to 
 all who sin, so that she came now with nothing but 
 compassion, sympathy and love. Tears were streaming 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 *'Oh, Archie!" she said. "Oh, Archie!" 
 
 Archie looked at her and at the officers. Gusta was 
 oblivious; she put her face to the greasy bars, and 
 pressed her lips mutely between them. Archie, who 
 did not like to cry before an officer and before the 
 other prisoners, struggled hard. Then he kissed her, 
 coldly. 
 
 "Oh, Archie, Archie !" was all she could say, putting 
 all her anguish, her distress, her sorrow, her impotent 
 desire to help into the varying inflections of her tone. 
 
 "Oh, Archie! Archie! Archie T 
 
4C» THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 She spoke his name this last time as if she must 
 find reHef by wringing her whole soul into it. Then 
 she stood, biting her lip as if to stop its quivering. 
 Archie, on his part, looked at her a moment, then at 
 the floor. 
 
 ''Say you didn't do it, Archie." 
 
 "Do what?" 
 
 "You know—" 
 
 "You mean Kouka?" 
 
 "Oh, no," she said, impatient with the question. 
 
 "That Flanagan job ?" 
 
 She nodded rapidly. 
 
 "Of course not ; you ought to know that. Every one 
 knows that — even the coppers." His sentence ended 
 with a sneer cast in the officer's direction. And Gusta 
 sighed. 
 
 "Fm so glad !" she said, her bosom rising and falling 
 in relief. "They all said — " 
 
 "Oh, that's just the frame-up," said Archie. "They'd 
 job me for it quick enough." He was sneering again 
 at the officer, as incarnating the whole police system, 
 and his face was darkened by a look of all hatred and 
 malignity. The officer smiled calmly. 
 
 "Fm so glad," Gusta was smiling now. "But — " she 
 began. Her lip quivered; the tears started afresh. 
 "What about the other ?" 
 
 "That was self-defense; he agitated me to it. But 
 don't let's talk before that copper there — " He could 
 not avert his look of hatred from the officer, whose face 
 was darkening, as he plucked nervously at his mus- 
 tache. 
 
 "He'd say anything — that's his business," Archie 
 went on, unable to restrain himself. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 401 
 
 "Sh! Don't, Archie rCusta said. "Don't!" 
 
 Archie drew in full breaths, inflating his white 
 chest. The officer returned his look of hatred, his 
 bronzed face had taken on a shade of green; the two 
 men struggled silently, then controlled themselves. 
 Gusta was trying again to choke down her sobs. 
 
 "How's father ?" Archie asked, after a silence, striv- 
 ing for a commonplace tone. 
 
 "He's well,— I guess." 
 
 "He knows, does he ?" 
 
 "I— don't know." 
 
 "What! Why — can't you tell him? He could get 
 down here, couldn't he ? He had a crutch when I was 
 there." 
 
 She was silent, her head drooped, the flowers in her 
 hat brushed the bars at Archie's face. She thrust the 
 toe of a patent-leather boot between the bars at the 
 bottom of the door. The tips of her gloved fingers 
 touched the bars lightly; there was a slight odor of 
 perfume in the entry-way. 
 
 "You see," she said, "I — I can't go out there — any 
 more." Her tears were falling on the cement floor, fall- 
 ing beside the iron bucket in which was kept the water 
 for the prisoners to drink. 
 
 "Oh !" said Archie coldly. 
 
 She looked up suddenly, read the meaning of his 
 changed expression, and then she pressed her face 
 against the bars tightly, and cried out : 
 
 "Oh, Archie! Don't! Don't!" 
 
 He was hard with her. 
 
 "By God !" he said. "I don't know why you should 
 have— oh, hell !" 
 
 He whirled on his heel, as if he would go away. 
 
402 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 She clung to the bars, pressing her face against 
 them, trying, as it were, to thrust her lips through 
 them. 
 
 "Oh, Archie !" she said. "Archie ! Don't do that— 
 don't go that way! Listen — listen — listen to your sis- 
 ter! I'm the same old Gus — ^honest, honest, Archie! 
 Listen ! Look at me !" 
 
 He had thrust his hands into his pockets and walked 
 to the end of the corridor. He paused there a moment, 
 then turned and came back. 
 
 "Say, Gus," he said, "I wish you'd go tell Mr. Mar- 
 riott I want to see him again. And say, if you go out 
 to the house, see if you can't find that shirt of mine 
 with the white and pink stripes — you know. I guess 
 mother knows where it is. Do that now. And — " 
 
 "Time's up," said the officer. "I've got to go." 
 
 "And come down to-morrow, Gus," said Archie. 
 She scarcely heard him as she turned to go. 
 
 "Hold on !" he called, pressing his face to the bars. 
 "Say ! Gus ! Come here a minute." 
 
 She returned. She lifted her face, and he kissed 
 her through the bars. And she went away, with sobs 
 that racked her whole form. 
 
 As she started out by the convenient side door into 
 the alley, the officer laid a hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "This way, young woman." 
 
 She looked at him a moment. 
 
 "You'd better go out the other door," he said. 
 
 She climbed the steps behind him, wondering why 
 one door would not do as well as another. She had 
 always gone out that side door before. When they 
 were up-stairs, passing the sergeant's room, he touched 
 her again. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 403 
 
 "Hold on," he said. 
 
 "What do you want ?" she asked in surprise, 
 
 "I guess you'd better stay here." 
 
 "Why?" she exclaimed. Her surprise had become 
 a great fear. He made no reply, and pushed her into 
 the sergeant's room. Then he whistled into a tube — 
 some one answered. "Come down," he commanded. 
 Presently a woman appeared, a woman with gray hair, 
 in a blue gingham gown something like a nurse's uni- 
 form, with a metal badge on her full breast. 
 
 "Matron," said the officer, "take this girl in 
 charge." 
 
 "Why ! What do you mean ?" Gusta exclaimed, her 
 eyes wide, her lips parted. "What do you mean? 
 What have I done? What do you — am I — arrested f" 
 
 "That's what they call it," said the officer. 
 
 "But what for?" 
 
 "You'll find out in time. Take her up-stairs, Ma- 
 tron." 
 
 Gusta looked at the officer, then at the matron. Her 
 face was perfectly white. 
 
 The matron drew near, put her arm about her, and 
 said: 
 
 "Come with me." 
 
 Gusta swayed uncertainly, tottered, then dragged 
 herself off, leaning against the matron, walking as if 
 in a daze. 
 
IX 
 
 It had been montHs since Marriott had gone up those 
 steps at the Wards', and he mounted them that No- 
 vember evening with a regret at the loss of the old 
 footing, and an impatience with the events that had 
 kept him away. He had waited for some such excuse 
 as Gusta's commission now gave him, and the indigna- 
 tion he felt at the girl's arrest was not strong enough 
 to suppress his gratitude for the opportunity the injus- 
 tice opened to him. He was sure that Elizabeth knew 
 he was to defend Archie ; she must know how sensitive 
 he was to the criticism that was implied in the tone 
 with which the newspapers announced the fact. The 
 newspapers, indeed, had shown feeling that Archie 
 should be represented at all. They had published 
 warnings against the law's delays, of which, they said, 
 there had already been too many in that county, for- 
 getting how they had celebrated the success and 
 promptness, the industry and enterprise of John Eades, 
 They had spoken of Archie as if he were a millionaire, 
 about to evade and confound law and justice by the 
 use of money. Marriott told himself, bitterly, that 
 Elizabeth's circle would discuss the tragedy in this 
 same tone, and speak of him with disappointment and 
 distrust; that was the attitude his own friends had 
 adopted; that was the way the lawyers and judges 
 even had spoken to him of it ; he recalled how cold and 
 disapproving Eades had been. This recollection gave 
 
 404 
 
THE TURN on THE BALANCE ^o^j 
 
 Marriott pause ; would it not now be natural for Eliza- 
 beth to take Eades's attitude? He shrank from the 
 thought and wished he had not come, but he was at the 
 door and he had Gusta's message — impossible as it 
 seemed after all these thoughts had crossed his mind. 
 
 She received him in her old manner, without any 
 of the stiffness he had feared the months might have 
 made. 
 
 "Ah, Gordon," she said. "Fm so glad you came." 
 
 She led the way swiftly into the library. A little 
 wood fire, against the chill of the autumn evening, was 
 blazing in the wide fireplace; under the lamp on the 
 broad table lay a book she must have put down a mo- 
 ment before. 
 
 "What have you been reading? Oh, Walden!" 
 And he turned to her with the smile of their old com- 
 radeship in such things. 
 
 "I've been reading it again, yes," she said, "and I've 
 wished to talk it over again with you. So you see Fm 
 glad you came." 
 
 "I came with a message from — " 
 . "Oh !" The bright look faded from her eyes. "Well, 
 I'm glad, then, that some one sent you to me." 
 
 He saw his mistake, and grieved for it. 
 
 "I wanted to come," he stammered, "I've been in- 
 tending to come, Elizabeth, anyway, and — " 
 
 He felt he was only making the matter worse, and 
 he hated himself for his awkwardness. 
 
 "Well," she was saying, "sit down then, and tell me 
 whom this fortunate message is from." 
 
 She leaned back in her chair, rather grandly, he felt. 
 He regretted the touch of formality that was almost 
 an irony in her speech. But he thought it best to le^ 
 
4o6 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 it pass, — they could get back to the old footing more 
 quickly if they did it that way. 
 
 "You'd never guess," he said. 
 
 "I'll not try. Tell me." 
 
 "Gusta." 
 
 "Gusta!" Elizabeth leaned forward eagerly, and 
 Marriott thought that he had never before seen her so 
 good to look upon; she was so virile, so alive. He 
 noted her gray eyes, bright with interest and surprise, 
 her brown hair, too soft to be confined in any conven- 
 tional way, and worn as ever with a characteristic in- 
 dependence that recognized without succumbing to 
 fashion. He fixed his eyes on her hands, white, strong, 
 full of character. And he bemoaned the loss of those 
 months ; why, he wondered, had he been so absurd ? 
 
 "Gusta !" she repeated. "Where did you see Gusta ?" 
 
 "In prison." 
 
 "What! No! Oh, Gordon!" she started with the 
 shock, and Marriott found this attitude even more fas- 
 cinating than the last ; her various expressions chang- 
 ing swiftly, responding with instant sensitiveness to 
 every new influence or suggestion, were all delightful. 
 
 "What for? Tell me ! Why don't you tell me, Gor- 
 don ? Why do you sit there ?" 
 
 Her eyes flashed a reproach at him — and he smiled. 
 He was wholly at ease now. 
 
 "For nothing. She's done nothing. She went to see 
 Archie, and the police, stupid and brutal as usual, de- 
 tained her. That's all ; they placed the charge of sus- 
 picion against her to satisfy the law. The law !" 
 
 He sneered out the word. 
 
 Elizabeth had fallen back in her chair with an ex- 
 pression of pain. 
 
 ^ 
 
THE TURN op: THE BALANCE 407 
 
 "Oh, Gordon!" she said with a shudder. "Isn't it 
 horrible, horrible !" 
 
 "Horrible!" he echoed. 
 
 "That poor Koerner family ! What can the fates be 
 about? You know — ^you know it all seems to come so 
 near. Such things happen in the world, of course, 
 every day the newspapers, the dreadful newspapers, 
 are filled with them. But they never were real at all, 
 because they never happened to people I knew. But 
 this comes so near. Just think. I've seen that Archie 
 Koerner, and he has spoken to me, and to think of him 
 now, a murderer ! Will — ^they hang him ?" 
 
 She leaned forward earnestly. 
 
 "No," he said slowly. "They may electrocute him 
 though — to use their barbarous word." 
 
 "And now Gusta's in prison!" Elizabeth went on, 
 forgetting Archie. "But her message! You haven't 
 given me her message !" 
 
 Marriott waited a moment, perhaps in his inability 
 to forego the theatrical possibilities of the situation. 
 
 "She wants you — to come to her." 
 
 Elizabeth stared at him blankly. 
 
 "To come to her?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "In prison?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Her brows contracted, her eyes winked rapidly. 
 
 "But Gordon, how — ^how can I ?" 
 
 "I don't know." He sat at his ease in the great 
 chair, enjoying the meaning, the whole significance of 
 her predicament. He had already appreciated its dif- 
 ficulties, its impossibilities, and he was prepared now 
 to wring from every one of them its last sensation. 
 
4o8 iTHE iTURN OF. THE BALANCE' 
 
 Elizabeth, with her elbow on the arm of her chair, her 
 laces falling away from her white forearm, bit her lip 
 delicately. She seemed to be looking at the toe of her 
 suede shoe. 
 
 "Poor little thing!" She spoke abstractedly, as if 
 she were oblivious to Marriott's presence. He was 
 i satisfied; it was good just then to sit, merely, and look 
 at her. "I must go to her." And then suddenly she 
 looked up and said in another tone : 
 
 "But how am I to do it, Gordon ?" 
 
 He did not answer at once and she did not wait for 
 a reply, but went on, speaking rapidly, her eyes in a 
 dark glow as her interest was intensified. 
 
 "Isn't it a peculiar situation? I don't know how to 
 deal with it. I never was so placed before. You must 
 see the difficulties, Gordon. People, well, people don't 
 go to such places, don't you know ? I really don't see 
 how it is possible ; it makes me shudder to think of it ! 
 Ugh !" She shrugged her shoulders. "What shall you 
 say to her, Gordon ?" She said this as if the problem 
 were his, not hers, and showed a relief in this transfer 
 of the responsibility. 
 
 "I don't know yet," he said. "Whatever you tell 
 me. 
 
 "But you must tell Her something; you must make 
 her understand. It won't do for you to hurt the poor 
 girl's feelings." 
 
 "Well, I'll just say that I delivered her message and 
 that you wouldn't come." 
 
 "Oh, Gordon! How could you be so cruel? You 
 certainly would not be so heartless as to say I 
 wouldn't!" 
 
 "Well, then, that you couldn't" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 409 
 
 "But she would want a reason, and she'd be entitled 
 to one. What one could you give her ? You must 
 think, Gordon, we must both think, and decide on 
 something that will help you out. What are you laugh- 
 ing at?" 
 
 "Why, Elizabeth," he said, "it isn't my predicament. 
 It's your predicament." 
 
 He leaned back in his chair comfortably, in an at- 
 titude of irresponsibility. 
 
 "How can you sit there," Elizabeth said, "and leave 
 it all to me?" 
 
 And then she laughed, — and was grave again. 
 
 "Of course," she said. "Well — I'm sure I can't 
 solve it. Poor little Gusta ! She was so pretty and so 
 good, and so — comfortable to have around — don't you 
 know ? Really, we've never had a maid like her. She 
 was ideal. And now to think of her — iii prison 1 Isn't 
 it awful?" 
 
 Marriott sat with half-closed eyes and looked at her 
 through the haze of his lashes. The room was still; 
 the fire burned slowly in the black chimney ; now and 
 then the oil gurgled cozily in the lamp. 
 
 "What is a prison like, Gordon? Is it really such" 
 an awful place ?" 
 
 Marriott thought of the miserable room in the wom- 
 en's quarters, with its iron wainscoting, the narrow 
 iron bed ; the wooden table and chair, and he contrasted 
 it with this luxurious library of the Wards. 
 
 "Well," he said, turning rather lazily toward the 
 fire, "it's nothing like this." 
 
 "But," — Elizabeth looked up suddenly with the ea- 
 gerness of a new idea, — "can't you get her out on bail — 
 isn't that what it's called? Can't you get some kind 
 
4IO THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 of document, some writ? — ^yes, that's it." She spoke 
 with pleasure because she had found a word with a 
 legal sound. "Get a writ. Surely you are a lawyer 
 clever enough to get her out. I always thought that 
 any one could get out of prison if he had a good law- 
 yer. The papers all say so." 
 ' "You get in prison once and see," said Marriott. 
 
 "Mercy, I expect to be in prison next!" Elizabeth 
 exclaimed. "Prisons! We seem to have had nothing 
 but prisons for a year or more. I don't know what 
 started it — first it was that poor Harry Graves, then 
 Archie, and now it's Gusta. And you talk of them 
 and John Eades talks of them — and I had to see them 
 one night taking some prisoners to the penitentiary. 
 I'd never even thought of prisons before, but since 
 then I've thought of nothing else; I've lived in an 
 atmosphere of prisons. It's just like a new word, one 
 you never heard before, — you see it some day, and then 
 you're constantly running across it. Don't you know ? 
 It's the same way with history — I never knew who 
 Pestalozzi was until the other day ; never had heard of 
 him. But I saw his name in Emerson, then looked 
 him up — now everything I read mentions him. And 
 oh ! the memory of those men they were taking to the 
 penitentiary! I'll never escape it! I see their faces 
 always !" 
 
 "Were they such bad faces ?" 
 
 "Oh, no ! such poor, pale, pathetic faces ! Just like 
 a page from a Russian novel !" 
 
 The memory brought pain to her eyes, and she suf- 
 fered a moment. Then she sat erect and folded her 
 hands with determination. 
 
 "We might as well face it, Gordon, of course. I 
 
m 
 
 Y:' 
 
 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 411 
 
 just can't go; you see that, don't you? What shall 
 we do ?" 
 
 "You might try your Organized Charities." His 
 eyes twinkled. 
 
 "Don't ever mention that to me," she commanded. 
 "I never want to hear the word. That's a page from 
 my past that I'm ashamed of." 
 
 "Ashamed ! Of the Organized Charities ?" 
 
 "Oh, Gordon, I needn't tell you what a farce that is 
 — you know it is organized not to help the poor, but 
 to help the rich to forget the poor, to keep the poor at 
 a distance, where they can't reproach you and prick 
 your conscience. The Organized Charities is an insti- 
 tution for the benefit of the unworthy rich." Her eyes 
 showed her pleasure in her epigram, and they both 
 laughed. But the pleasure could not last long; in an- 
 other instant Elizabeth's hands fell to her lap, and she 
 looked at Marriott soberly. Then she said, with hope- 
 less conviction : 
 
 "I just can't go, Gordon." 
 
 Before Marriott could reply there was a sense of in- 
 terruption; he heard doors softly open and close, the 
 muffled and proper step of a maid, the well-known 
 sounds that told him that somewhere in the house a 
 bell had rung. In another moment he heard voices in 
 the hall ; a laugh of familiarity, more steps, — and then 
 Eades and Modderwell and Mrs. Ward entered the 
 room. Elizabeth cast at Marriott a quick glance of 
 disappointment and displeasure; his heart leaped, he 
 wondered if it were because of Eades's coming. Then 
 he decided, against his will, that it was because of 
 Modderwell. A constraint came over him, he sud- 
 denly felt it impossible that he should speak, he 
 
» 1 
 
 412 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 withdrew wholly within himself, and sat with an air of 
 detachment. 
 
 The clergyman, stooping an instant to chafe his 
 palms before the fire, had taken a chair close to Eliza- 
 beth, and he now began making remarks about noth- 
 ing, his clean, ruddy face smiling constantly, showing 
 his perfect teeth, his eyes roving over Elizabeth's 
 figure. 
 
 "Well! Well! Well!" he cried. "What grave ques- 
 tions have you two been deciding this time ?'* 
 
 Elizabeth glanced at Marriott, whose face was 
 drawn, then at Eades, who sat there in the full pro- 
 priety of his evening clothes, then at her mother, seated 
 in what was considered the correct attitude for a lady 
 on whom her rector had called. 
 
 "I think it's good we came, eh, Eades?" the clergy- 
 man went on, without waiting for an answer. "It is 
 not good for you to be too serious, Miss Elizabeth, — 
 my pastoral calls are meant as much as anything to 
 take people out of themselves." He laughed again in 
 his abundant self-satisfaction and reclined comfortably 
 in his chair. And he rolled his head in his clerical col- 
 lar, with a smile to show Elizabeth how he regarded 
 duties that in all propriety must not be considered too 
 seriously or too sincerely. But Elizabeth did not smile. 
 She met his eyes calmly. 
 
 "Dear me," he said, mocking her gravity. "It must 
 have been serious." 
 
 "It was," said Elizabeth soberly. "It was^the mur- 
 der!" 
 
 "The murder ! Shocking !" said Modderwell. "I've 
 read something about it. The newspapers say the 
 identification of Koerner by that poor old woman was 
 
THE TURN of: THE BALANCE 413; 
 
 complete and positive; they say the shock was sucH 
 that she fainted, and that he stood there all the time 
 and sneered. I hope, Eades, you will see that the 
 wretch gets his deserts promptly, and send him to the 
 gallows, where he belongs !" 
 
 ''Marriott here doesn't join you in that wish, I 
 know," said Eades. 
 
 *'No? Why not?" asked Modderwell. "Surely 
 he—" 
 
 "He's going to defend the murderer." Eades spoke 
 in a tone that had a sting for Marriott. 
 
 "Oh !" said Modderwell rather coldly. "I don't see 
 how you can do such a thing, Marriott. For your own 
 sake, as much as anybody's, I'm sorry I can't wish you 
 success." 
 
 "I wish he hadn't undertaken the task," said Eades. 
 
 "I'm sure it must be most disagreeable," said Mrs. 
 Ward, feeling that she must say something. 
 
 "Why do you wish it?" said Marriott, suddenly 
 turning almost savagely on Eades. 
 
 "Why," said Eades, elevating his brows in a su- 
 perior way, "I don't like to see you in such work. A 
 criminal practice is the disreputable part of the pro- 
 fession." 
 
 "But you have a criminal practice." 
 
 "Oh, but on the other side !" said Modderwell. "And 
 we all expect so much better things of Mr. Marriott." 
 
 "Oh, don't trouble yourselves about me !" said Mar- 
 riott. "I'm sure I prefer my side of the case to 
 Eades's." 
 
 The atmosphere was surcharged with bitterness. 
 Mrs. Ward gave a sidelong glance of pain, deprecating 
 such a contretemps. 
 
414 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "And Fm going to try to save him," Marriott was 
 forging on. 
 
 "Well," said Eades, looking down on his large oval 
 polished nails, and speaking in a tone that would final- 
 ly dispose of the problem, "for my part, I revere the 
 law and I want to see it enforced." 
 
 "Exactly !" Modderwell agreed. "And if there were 
 fewer delays in bringing these criminals to justice, 
 there would be fewer lynchings and more respect for 
 the law." 
 
 Marriott did not even try to conceal the disgust with 
 which he received this hackneyed and conventional 
 formula of thoughtless respectability. He felt that it 
 was useless to argue with Eades or Modderwell; it 
 seemed to him that they had never thought seriously 
 of such questions, and would not do so, but that they 
 were merely echoing speeches they had heard all their 
 lives, inherited speeches that had been in vogue for 
 generations, ages, one might say. 
 
 "I am sure it must be a most disagreeable task," 
 Mrs. Ward was saying, looking at her daughter in the 
 hope that Elizabeth might relieve a situation with 
 which she felt herself powerless to deal. Marriott 
 seemed always to be introducing such topics, and she 
 had the distaste of her class for the real vital questions 
 of life. But Elizabeth was speaking. 
 ' "Fm sure that Gordon's task isn't more disagreeable 
 than mine." 
 
 "Yours ?" Mrs. Ward turned toward her daughter, 
 dreading things even worse now. 
 
 "Yes," replied Elizabeth, looking about in pleasure 
 at the surprise she had created. 
 
 "Why, what problem have you ?" asked Modderwell 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 415 
 
 "Fve been sent for — to come to the prison to see — " 
 
 "Not himT said Modderwell. 
 
 Eades started suddenly forward. 
 
 "No," said Elizabeth calmly, enjoying the situation, 
 "his sister." 
 
 "His sister!" 
 
 "Yes," she turned to her mother. "You know, dear ; 
 Gusta. She's been arrested." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Ward. "Elizabeth! The 
 idea! What impertinence! Who could have brought 
 such an insolent message!" She looked at Marriott, 
 as did the others. 
 
 "The idea!" Mrs. Ward went on. "Why, I had no 
 notion he was her brother. To think of our harboring 
 such people!" 
 
 Mrs. Ward stiffened in her chair, with glances from 
 time to time for Marriott and Elizabeth, in an attitude 
 of chilling and austere social disapproval ; then, as if 
 she had forgotten to claim the reassurance she felt to 
 be certain, she leaned forward, out of the attitude as it 
 were, to say : 
 
 "Of course you sent the reply her assurance de- 
 served." 
 
 "No," said Elizabeth in a bird-like tone, "I didn't. 
 What would you do, Mr. Eades ?" 
 
 "Why, of course you could not go to a prison," re- 
 plied Eades. 
 
 "But you could, couldn't you ? And you do ?" 
 
 "Only when necessary." 
 
 "But you do, Mr. Modderwell ?" 
 
 "Only professionally," said Modderwell solemnly, 
 for once remembering his clerical dignity. 
 
 "Oh, professionally!" said Elizabeth with a meaning. 
 
4X6 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "You go professionally, too, Gordon, don't you? And 
 I — I can't go that way. I can go only — what shall I 
 say ? — ^humanly ? So I suppose I can't go at all !" 
 
 "Certainly not," said Mrs. Ward. "How can you 
 ask such a question ?" She was now too disapproving 
 for words. "I can not consent to your going at all, so 
 let that end it.'* 
 
 "But, Mr. Modderwell," said Elizabeth, with a smile 
 for her mother, "we pray, don't we, every Sunday for 
 'pity upon all prisoners and captives' ?" 
 
 "That's entirely different," said Modderwell. 
 
 "What does it mean, — 'I was in prison and ye vis- 
 ited me' ?" She sat with her hands folded in humility, 
 as if seeking wisdom and instruction. 
 
 "That was in another day," said Modderwell. "So- 
 ciety was not organized then as it is now; it was — all 
 different, of course." Modderwell went on groping 
 for justification. "If these people are repentant — 
 are seeking to turn from their wickedness, the church 
 has appointed the clergy to visit them and give them 
 instruction." 
 
 "Then perhaps you'd better go!" Elizabeth's eyes 
 sparkled, and she looked at Modderwell, who feared a 
 joke or a trap ; then at Eades, who was almost as deep- 
 ly distressed as Mrs. Ward, and then at Marriott, 
 whose eyes showed the relish with which he enjoyed 
 the situation. 
 
 "I don't think she wishes to see me," said Modder- 
 well, with a significance that did not have a tribute for 
 Gusta. No one disputed him, and there was silence, 
 in which Eades looked intently at Elizabeth, and then, 
 just as he seemed on the point of speaking to her, he 
 turned to Marriott and said : 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 417 
 
 "You certainly don't think that a proper place for 
 her to go ?" 
 
 "Oh," said Marriott, "don't refer to me ; I'm out of 
 it. I've been, I brought the message — it's — it's up to 
 Elizabeth." 
 
 "Well," said Eades, turning to Elizabeth, "you sure- 
 ly can't be seriously considering such a thing. You 
 don't know, of course, what kind of place that is, or 
 what kind of people you would be going among, or 
 what risks you would be exposing yourself to." 
 
 "There would be no danger, would there?" said 
 Elizabeth in her most innocent manner. "There would 
 be plenty of policemen at hand, wouldn't there, — in 
 case of need ?" 
 
 "Well, I don't think you'd willingly elect to go 
 among policemen," said Eades. 
 
 "Perhaps you three would go with" me?" suggested 
 Elizabeth. "I'd be safe then — all I'd lack would be a 
 physician to make my escort completely representative 
 of the learned professions." 
 
 "The newspaper men would be there," said Eades, 
 "you may be sure of that, and the publicity — " 
 
 At the word "publicity" Mrs. Ward cringed with 
 genuine alarm. 
 
 "Do you find publicity so annoying?" asked Eliza- 
 beth, smiling on the three men. 
 
 "Elizabeth !" said Mrs. Ward, "I do wish you'd stop 
 this nonsense ! It may seem very amusing to you, but I 
 assure you it is not amusing to me ; I find it very dis- 
 tressing." She looked her distress, and then turned 
 away in the disgust that was a part of her distress. 
 "It would be shocking!" she said, when she seemed to 
 them all to have had her say. 
 
4i8 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "rm sorry to shock you all," said Elizabeth meekly. 
 'Tt*s very kind of you, I'm sure, to act as mentors and 
 censors of my conduct. I feel sufficiently put down; 
 you have helped me to a decision. I have decided, 
 after hearing your arguments, and out of deference to 
 your sentiments and opinions, to — " 
 
 They all looked up expectantly. 
 
 " — ^to go," she concluded. 
 
 She smiled on them all with serenity; and they 
 looked at her with that blank helplessness that came 
 over them whenever they tried to understand her. 
 
X 
 
 Though Elizabeth, as long as Eades and Modder- 
 well were there, had chosen to satirize her predica- 
 ment, and had experienced the pleasure of shocking 
 them by the decision she reached, she found when they 
 had gone that night, and she was alone in her room, 
 that it was no decision at all. The situation presented 
 itself in all seriousness, and she found that she must 
 deal with it, not in any whimsical spirit, but in sober 
 earnestness. She found it to be a real problem, in- 
 capable of isolation from those artificialities which 
 were all that made it a problem. She had found it 
 easy and simple enough, and even proper and respect- 
 able to visit the poor in their homes, but when she con- 
 templated visiting them in the prisons which seemed 
 made for them alone, and were too often so much bet- 
 ter than their homes, obstacles at once arose. As 
 she more accurately imagined these obstacles, they 
 became formidable. She sat by the table in her 
 room, under the reading-lamp that stood among the 
 books she kept beside her, and determined to think 
 it out. She made elaborate preparations, deciding 
 to marshal all the arguments and then make deduc- 
 tions and comparisons, and thus, by a process al- 
 most mathematical, determine what to do. But she 
 never got beyond the preparations ; her mind worked, 
 after all, intuitively, she felt rather than thought; 
 she imagined herself, in the morning, going to the 
 
 419 
 
420 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 police station, confronting the officers, finally, perhaps, 
 seeing Gusta. She saw clearly what her family, 
 her friends, her set, the people she knew, would say 
 — how horrified they would be, how they would judge 
 and condemn her. Her mother, Eades and Mod- 
 derwell accurately represented the world she knew. 
 And the newspapers, in their eagerness for every de- 
 tail touching the tragedy, however remotely, would 
 publish the fact ! "This morning Miss Elizabeth Ward, 
 daughter of Stephen Ward, the broker, called on the 
 Koerner girl. Fashionably dressed — " She could al- 
 ready see the cold black types ! It was impossible, un- 
 heard of. Gusta had no right — ah, Gusta ! She saw 
 the girl's face, pretty as ever, but sad now, and stained 
 by tears, pleading for human companionship and sym- 
 pathy. She remembered how Gusta had served her 
 almost slavishly, how she had sat up at night for her, 
 and helped her at her toilet, sending delicious little 
 thrills through her by the magnetic touch of her soft 
 fingers. If she should send for Gusta, how quickly she 
 would come, though she had to crawl ! 
 
 And what, after all, was it that made it hard ? What 
 had decreed that she, one girl, should not go to see an- 
 other girl who was in trouble ? Such a natural human 
 action was dictated by the ethics and by the religion 
 of her kind and by all the teachings of her church, and 
 yet, when it was proposed to practise these precepts, 
 she found them treated cynically, as if they were of no 
 worth or meaning. That very evening the representa- 
 tives of the law and of theology had urged against it ! 
 
 At breakfast her mother sat at table with her. 
 Mrs. Ward had breakfasted an hour earlier with her 
 husband, but she had a kindly way of following the 
 
[THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 421 
 
 members of her family one after another to the table, 
 and of entertaining them while they ate. She had told 
 her husband of Elizabeth's contemplated visit to the 
 prison, and then had decided to say nothing of it to 
 Elizabeth, in the hope that the whim would have passed 
 with the night. But Mrs. Ward could not long keep 
 anything in her heart, and she was presently saying : 
 
 "I hope, dear, that you have given up that notion of 
 going to see Gusta. I hope," she quickly added, put- 
 ting it in the way she wished she had put it at first, 
 "that you see your duty more clearly this morning." 
 
 "No," said Elizabeth, idly tilting a china cup in her 
 fingers, and allowing the light that came through the 
 tall, broad windows to fill it with the golden luminos- 
 ity of the sun, "I don't see it clearly at all. I wish I 
 did." 
 
 "Don't you think, dear, that you allow yourself to 
 grow morbid, pondering over your duty so much?" 
 
 "I don't think I'm morbid." She would as readily 
 have admitted that she was superstitious as that she 
 was morbid. 
 
 "You have — ^what kind of conscience was it that Mr. 
 Parrish was talking about the other night?" Mrs. 
 Ward knitted the brows that life had marked so lightly. 
 
 "New England, I suppose," Elizabeth answered 
 wearily. "But I have no New England conscience, 
 mama. I have very little conscience at all, and as for 
 my duty, I almost never do it. I am perfectly aware 
 that if I did my duty I should lead an entirely different 
 life ; but I don't ; I go on weakly, day after day, year 
 after year, leading a perfectly useless existence, sur- 
 rounded by wholly artificial duties, and now these 
 same artificial duties keep me from performing my 
 
422 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 real duty — which, just now, seems to me to go and see 
 poor little Gusta." 
 
 Mrs. Ward was more disturbed, now that her daugh- 
 ter saw her duty, than she had been a moment before, 
 when she had declared she could not see it. 
 
 "I do wish you could be like other girls," she said, 
 speaking her thought as her habit was. 
 
 "I am," said Elizabeth, "am I not?" 
 
 "Well," Mrs. Ward qualified. 
 
 **In all except one thing." 
 
 Mrs. Ward looked her question. 
 
 "I'm not getting married very fast." 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Ward. 
 
 Elizabeth laughed for the first time that morning. 
 
 "You dear little mother, I really believe you're anx- 
 ious to get rid of me !" 
 
 "Why, Elizabeth !" said Mrs. Ward, lifting her eyes 
 and then lowering them suddenly, in her reproach. 
 "How can you say such a thing !" 
 
 "But never mind," Elizabeth went on : 
 
 " 'If no one ever marries me I sha'n't mind very much ; 
 I shall buy a squirrel in a cage and a little rabbit hutch. 
 I shall have a cottage in a wood, and a pony all my own, 
 And a little lamb quite clean and tame that I can take to town. 
 And when I'm getting really old — at twenty-eight or nine — 
 I shall buy a little orphan girl and bring her up as mine." 
 
 She smiled as she finished her quotation, and then 
 suddenly sobered as she said : 
 
 "I'm twenty-seven already !" 
 
 "Who wrote that?" asked Mrs. Ward. 
 
 "Alma-Tadema." 
 
 "Oh! I thought Mr. Marriott might have done it. 
 It's certainly very silly." 
 
' THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 423 
 
 Nora had brought her breakfast, and the action re- 
 called Gusta to Elizabeth. 
 
 "What did papa say — ^about my going to the 
 prison ?" 
 
 "He said," Mrs. Ward began gladly, "that, of 
 course, we all felt very sorry for Gusta, but that you 
 couldn't go there. He said it would be absurd; that 
 you don't understand." Mrs. Ward was silent for a 
 moment, knowing how much greater the father's in- 
 fluence was than her own. She was glad that Eliza- 
 beth seemed altogether docile and practicable this 
 morning. 
 
 , "There's a good girl now," Mrs. Ward added in the 
 hope of pressing her advantage home. 
 
 Elizabeth gave a little start of irritability. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't talk to me in that way, mama. 
 I'm not a child." 
 
 "But surely your father knows best, dear," the 
 mother insisted, "more than — we do." 
 
 "Not necessarily," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "Why! How can you say so!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Ward, who bowed to all authority as a part of her re- 
 ligion. 
 
 "Papa takes merely the conventional view," Eliza- 
 beth went on, "and the conventional view is taken 
 without thought." 
 
 "But — surely — " Mrs. Ward stammered, in the im- 
 potence of one who, easily convinced without reasons, 
 has no reasons at command — "surely — ^you heard what 
 Mr. Modderwell and Mr. Eades said." 
 
 "Their view is conventional," said Elizabeth, "and 
 proper." She gave a little curl of her lip as she spoke 
 this last word. 
 
424 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE ^ 
 
 "Well, I'm sure, dear, that we all wish to be proper, 
 and Mr. Modderwell and Mr. Eades — " 
 
 "Oh! Don't quote those two men to me! Two 
 such prigs, such Pharisees, I never saw !" 
 
 Mrs. Ward looked at her daughter in a new horror. 
 "Why, Elizabeth ! I'm surprised— I thought that Mr. 
 Eades especially — " 
 
 "Well, don't you think Mr. Eades especially at all ! 
 He's not especially ; he thinks he is, no doubt, and so 
 does everybody else, but they have no right to, and 
 hereafter Mr. Eades can't come here — that's all!" 
 Her eyes were flashing. 
 
 Mrs. Ward ventured no further just then, but pres- 
 ently resumed: 
 
 "Think what people would say !" 
 
 "Oh, mother! Please don't use that argument. I 
 have often told you that I don't care at all what 
 people say." 
 
 "I only wish you cared more." She looked at Eliza- 
 beth helplessly a moment and then broke out with what 
 she had been tempted all along to say. 
 
 "It's that Gordon Marriott ! That's what it Is ! He 
 has such strange, wild notions. He defends these 
 criminals, it seems. I don't see how he can approve 
 their actions the way he does." 
 
 "Why, mother!" said Elizabeth. "How you talk! 
 You might think I was a little child with no mind of 
 my own. And besides, Gordon does not approve of 
 their actions, he disapproves of their actions, but he 
 recognizes them as people, as human beings, just like 
 us—" 
 
 "Just like us!" exclaimed Mrs. Ward, withdrawing 
 herself wholly from any contact with the mere sug- 
 
THE TURN OF, THE BALANCE 425 
 
 gestion. "J^^^t like us, Indeed! Well, I'd have him 
 know they're not like us, at all !" 
 
 Elizabeth saw how hopeless it was to try to make her 
 mother understand Marriott's attitude, especially when 
 she found it difficult to understand it herself. 
 
 "Just like us, indeed !" Mrs. Ward repeated. "You 
 are certainly the most astonishing girl." 
 
 "What's the excitement?" 
 
 It was Dick, just entering the room. He was clean- 
 shaved, and glowing from his plunge, his face ruddy 
 and his eyes bright. He was good-humored that morn- 
 ing, for he had had nearly five hours of sleep. His 
 mother poured his coffee and he began eating his 
 breakfast. 
 
 "What's the matter, Bess?" he asked, seizing the 
 paper his father had laid aside, and glancing at it in 
 a man's ability to read and converse with women at 
 the same time. 
 
 "Why, she threatens to go to the jail," Mrs. Ward 
 hastened to reply, in her eagerness for a partizan in her 
 cause. "And her father and Mr. Modderwell and Mr. 
 Eades have all advised her that it would be improper 
 — to say nothing of my own wishes in the matter." 
 
 Dick, to his mother's disappointment, only laughed. 
 
 "What do you want to go there for ? Some of your 
 friends been run in ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Elizabeth calmly. 
 
 "That's too bad ! Why don't you have Eades let 'em 
 out, — ^you certainly have a swell pull with him." 
 
 "You have just had Mr. Eades's opinion from 
 mama." 
 
 "Who is your friend?" 
 
 "Gusta." 
 
426 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Dick's face was suddenly swept with scarlet, and he 
 started — looked up, then hastily raised his coffee-cup, 
 drained its last drop, flung his napkin on his plate, and 
 said : 
 
 "Oh, that girl that used to work for us?*' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, mother's right." 
 
 Mrs. Ward looked her gratitude. 
 
 "Of course, you can't go." 
 I can t r 
 
 He had risen from the table, and Elizabeth's tone 
 impressed him. 
 
 "Look here," he said peremptorily. "You just can't 
 go there, that's all there is about it !" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because you can't. It wouldn't do, it wouldn't be 
 the thing ; you ought to know that." 
 
 "But why?" Elizabeth persisted. "I want a rea- 
 son." 
 
 "You don't mean to say you seriously consider it?" 
 asked Dick in real alarm. 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 Dick suddenly grew excited, his eyes flamed, and he 
 was very red. 
 
 "Look here, Bess," he said. "You just can't, that's 
 all." 
 
 "Can't I?" she said, and she gave a little laugh. It 
 was not her usual pleasant laugh. 
 
 "No, you can't." He spoke more than insistently, 
 he spoke angrily. He snatched out his thin gold watch 
 and glanced at it. "I've not got time to discuss this 
 thing. You just can't go — ^that's all there is to it." 
 
 Elizabeth rose from the table calmly, went out of 
 
; THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 427 
 
 the room, and Dick, after a hesitant moment, ran after 
 her. 
 
 "Bess! Bess!" 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 "See here, Bess, you must not go there to see that 
 girl. I'm surprised! She isn't the sort, you under- 
 stand ! You don't know what you're doing. Now look 
 here — wait a minute!" He caught her by the arm. 
 *T tell you it's not the thing, you mustn't !" 
 
 He was quite beside himself. 
 
 "You seem greatly excited," she said. 
 
 He made a great effort, controlled himself, and, still 
 holding her, began to plead. 
 
 "Please don't go, Bess !" he said. "Please don't !" 
 
 "But why — why?" she insisted. 
 
 "Because I say so." 
 
 "Humph!" 
 
 "Because I ask it. Please don't ; do it for me, this 
 once. You'll be sorry if you do. Please don't go !" 
 
 His eyes were full of the plea he was incoherently 
 stammering. He was greatly moved, greatly agitated. 
 
 "Why, Dick," she said, "what is the matter with 
 you ? You seem to take this trifle very much to heart. 
 You seem to have some special interest, some deep 
 reason. I wish you'd tell me what it is. Why shouldn't 
 I go to see poor Gusta ? She's in trouble — she was al- 
 ways good to me." 
 
 There was a sudden strange wild expression in his 
 face, his lips were slightly parted. The moments were 
 flying, and he must be off. 
 
 "Oh, Bess," he said, "for God's sake, don't go!" 
 
 He implored her in his look, then snatching out his 
 watch ran to the hall, seized his hat and top-coat, and 
 
42S THE TURN, OF THE BALANCE 
 
 went out, flinging on his coat as he ran, and leaving 
 the door flying wide behind him. Elizabeth stood look- 
 ing after him. When she turned, her mother was in 
 the room. 
 
 "What can be the matter with Dick ?" said Elizabeth. 
 *'I never saw him so excited before. He seemed — " 
 She paused, and bit her lip. 
 
 "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Ward calmly, "you see 
 now, I hope, just how the world regards such a wild 
 action. It was his love and respect for his sister, of 
 course." 
 
XI 
 
 "No, don't say anything more. I've thought it all 
 out; my duty's clear now, I must go." Elizabeth laid 
 her hand on her father's shoulder, and though he 
 turned from the great desk at which he sat in his pri- 
 vate office, he hesitated. "Come on." 
 
 "That conscience of yours, Bess — " he began, draw- 
 ing down the lid of his desk. 
 
 "Yes, I know, but I can't help it." 
 
 "How did you decide at last to go ?" asked Ward, as 
 they walked rapidly along in the crowded street. 
 
 "Well, it tortured me — I couldn't decide. It seemed 
 so difficult, — every one — mama, our dear Modderwell, 
 Mr. Eades, Dick — he nearly lost his reason, and he did 
 lose his temper — thought it impossible. But at last I 
 decided — " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "—just to go." 
 
 Elizabeth gave a little laugh at this not very illu- 
 minating explanation. 
 
 "I didn't know what the proprieties were," she went 
 on. "Our little code had not provided rules — what to 
 wear, the chaperonage, and all that, you know. And 
 then," — she abandoned her irony, — "I thought of you." 
 
 "As a last resort, eh?" said Ward, looking fondly 
 into her face, flushing behind her veil in the keen No- 
 vember air. She drew close to him, put her hand on 
 his arm. 
 
 429 
 
430 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Yes," she said, "and as a first resort, as a constant, 
 never-failing resort." 
 
 She gave his arm a Httle squeeze, and he pressed her 
 hand to his side in silence. 
 
 "Do you know where it is?" Elizabeth asked pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I was there once." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "When that boy of mine was arrested — Graves." 
 
 "Yes, I remember." 
 
 "I wonder," he said after a pause, and he paused 
 again at the question he seemed to fear — "whatever 
 became of him !" 
 
 She had never told him of that day at the charity 
 bureau; she wondered if she should do so now, but 
 she heard him sigh, and she let it pass. 
 
 "Yes," he went on as if she had been privy to his 
 rapid train of thought, "I suppose such things must 
 be ; something must be done with them, of course. I 
 hope I did right." 
 
 At the Central Station they encountered a young po- 
 liceman, who, when he saw Ward, evidently recognized 
 him as a man of affairs, for he came forward with 
 flattering alacrity, touching his helmet in the respect 
 which authority always has ready for the rich, as per- 
 haps the real source of its privilege and its strength. 
 The young policeman, with a smile on his pleasant 
 Irish face, took Ward and Elizabeth in charge. 
 
 "I'll take yez to the front office," he said, "and let 
 yez speak to the inspector himself." 
 
 When McFee understood who Ward was, he camQ 
 out instantly, with an unofficial readiness to make a 
 difficult experience easy for them; he implied an in- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 431 
 
 slant and delicate recognition of the patronage he saw, 
 or thought it proper to see, in this visit, and he even 
 expressed a sympathy for Gusta herself. 
 
 "Fm glad you came, Mr. Ward," he said. "We had 
 to hold the poor girl, of course, for a few days, until 
 we could finish our investigation of the case. Will you 
 go up — or shall I have her brought down ?" 
 
 "Oh, we'll go up," said Ward, wondering where that 
 was, and discovering suddenly in himself the usual 
 morbid desire to look at the inmates of a prison. The 
 sergeant detailed to conduct them led them up two 
 broad flights of stairs, and down a long hall, where, 
 at his step, a matron appeared, with a bunch of keys 
 hanging at her white apron. Elizabeth went with none 
 of the sensations she had expected. She had been sur- 
 prised to find the police station a quiet place, and the 
 policemen themselves had been very polite, obliging 
 and disinterested. But when the matron unlocked one 
 of the doors, and stood aside, Elizabeth felt her breast 
 flutter with fear. 
 
 The sergeant stood in the hall, silent and uncon- 
 cerned, and when the matron asked him if he would be 
 present at the interview he shook his head in a way 
 that indicated the occasion as one of those when rules 
 and regulations may be suspended. Ward, though he 
 would have liked to go in, elected to remain outside 
 with the sergeant, and as he did this he smiled reas- 
 suringly at Elizabeth, just then hesitating on the 
 threshold. 
 
 "Oh, just step right in," said the matron, standing 
 politely aside. And Elizabeth drew a deep breath and 
 took the step. 
 
 She entered a small vestibule formed of high parti- 
 
432 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 tions of flanged boards that were painted drab ; and she 
 waited another moment, with its gathering anxiety and 
 apprehension, for the matron to unlock a second door. 
 The door opened with a whine and there, at the other 
 end of the room in the morning light that struggled 
 through the dirty glass of the grated window, she saw 
 Gusta. The girl sat on a common wooden chair that 
 had once been yellow, her hat on, her hands gloved 
 and folded in her lap, as if in another instant she were 
 to leave the room she somehow had an air of refusing 
 to identify herself with. 
 
 "She's sat that way ever since she came," the matron 
 whispered. "She hasn't slep' a wink, nor e't a mouth- 
 ful." 
 
 Elizabeth's glance swept the room which was Gusta's 
 prison, its walls lined higher than her head with sheet- 
 iron; on one side a narrow cot, frowsy, filthy, that 
 looked as if it were never made, though the dirty pillow 
 told how many persons had slept in it — or tried to sleep 
 in it. There was a wooden table, with a battered tin 
 cup, a few crusts and crumbs of rye bread, and cock- 
 roaches that raced energetically about, pausing now 
 and then to wave their inquisitive antennae, and, be- 
 sides, a cheap, small edition of the Bible, adding with 
 a kind of brutal mockery the final touch of squalor to 
 the room. 
 
 Gusta moved, looked up, made sure, and then sud- 
 denly rose and came toward her. 
 
 "I knew you'd come. Miss Elizabeth," the girl said, 
 with a relief that compromised the certainty she had 
 just expressed. 
 
 "I came as soon as I could, Gusta," said Elizabeth, 
 with an amused conjecture as to what Gusta might 
 
<« She's sat that way ever since she came" Page 4J2 
 
>^ OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 433 
 
 think had the girl known what difficulties she had Had 
 in getting there at all. 
 
 "Yes," said Gusta, "thank you, I—" 
 
 She blushed to her throat. They stood there in the 
 middle of that common prison ; a sudden constraint lay 
 on them. Elizabeth, conscious of the difficulty of the 
 whole situation, and with a little palpitating fear at be- 
 ing in a prison at all — a haunting apprehension of 
 some mistake, some oversight, some sudden slip or slid- 
 ing of a bolt — did not know what to say to Gusta now 
 that she was there. She felt helpless, there was not 
 even a chair to sit in; she shuddered at the thought 
 of contact with any of the mean articles of furniture, 
 I and stood ripfidly in the middle of the room. She looked 
 at Gusta osely ; already, of course, with her feminine 
 instinc , :i- ' "^.d .aken in Gusta's dress — the clothes 
 that she instantly recognized as being better than Gusta 
 had ever before worn — a hat heavy with plumes, a tan 
 coat, long and of that extreme mode which foretold 1tts 
 early passing from the fashion, the high-heeled boots. 
 Her coat was open and revealed a thin bodice with a 
 lace yoke, and a chain of some sort. An odor of per- 
 fume enveloped her. The whole costume was distaste- 
 ful to Ehzabeth, it was something too much', and had 
 an indefinable quality of tawdriness that was hard to 
 confirm, until she saw in it, somehow, the first signs 
 of moral disintegration. And this showed in Gusta's 
 face, fuller — as was her whole figure — than Elizabeth 
 remembered it, and in a certain coarseness of expres- 
 sion that had scarcely as yet gone the length of fixing 
 itself in lines. Elizabeth felt something that she re- 
 coiled from, and her attitude stiffened imperceptibly. 
 But not imperceptibly to Gusta, who was a woman, 
 
434 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 too, and had an instant sense of the woman in Eliza- 
 beth shrinking from what the woman in her no longer 
 had to protect itself with, and she felt the woman's 
 rush of anger and rebellion in such a relation. But 
 then, she softeried, and looked up with big tears. She 
 had a sudden yearning to fling herself on Elizabeth's 
 breast, but leave was wanting, and then, almost des- 
 perately, for she must assert her sisterhood, must 
 touch and cling to her, she seized Elizabeth's hand and 
 held it. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Elizabeth," she said, "I oughtn't to 'av' 
 sent for you. I know I had no right ; but you was al- 
 ways good to me, and I had no one. I've done nothing. 
 I've done nothing, honest, honest, Miss Elizabeth, 
 I've done nothing. I don't know what I'm here for at 
 all ; they won't tell me. And Archie, too, it must have 
 something to do with him, but he's innocent, too. He 
 hasn't done nothing either. Won't you believe me? 
 Oh, say you will !" 
 
 She still clung to Elizabeth's hand, and now she 
 pressed it in both her own, and raised it, and came 
 closer, and looked into Elizabeth's face. 
 
 "Say you believe me!" she insisted, and Elizabeth, 
 half in fear, as though to pacify a maniac, nodded. 
 
 "Of course, of course, Gusta." 
 
 "You mean it?" 
 
 "Surely I do." 
 
 "And you know Fm just as good as I ever was, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Why— of course, I do, Gusta." It is so hard to 
 lie; the truth, in its divine persistence, springs so in- 
 cautiously to the eyes before it can be checked at the 
 lips. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE ^35 
 
 The tears dried suddenly in Gusta's blue eyes. She 
 spoke fiercely. 
 
 "You don't mean it ! No, you don't mean it ! I see 
 you don't — you needn't say you do ! Oh, you needn't 
 say you do !" 
 
 She squeezed Elizabeth's hand almost maliciously 
 and Elizabeth winced with pain. 
 
 "You — you don't know !" Gusta went on. And then 
 she hesitated, seemed to deliberate on the verge of a 
 certain desperation, to pause for an instant before a 
 temptation to which she longed to yield. 
 
 "I could tell you something," she said significantly. 
 
 A wonder gathered in Elizabeth's eyes. Her heart 
 was beating rapidly, she could feel it throbbing. 
 
 "Do you know why I sent for you — what I had to 
 tell you?" 
 
 She was looking directly in Elizabeth's eyes; the 
 faces of both girls became pale. And Elizabeth groped 
 in her startled mind for some clear recognition, some 
 postulation of a fact, a horrible, blasting certitude that 
 was beginning to formulate itself, a certitude that 
 would have swept away in an instant all those formal 
 barriers that had stood in the way of her coming to 
 this haggard prison. She shuddered, and closed her 
 mind, as she closed her eyes just then, to shut out the 
 look in the eyes of this imprisoned girl. 
 
 But the moment was too tense to last. Some mercy 
 was in the breast of the girl to whom life had shown 
 so little mercy. Voluntarily, she released Elizabeth, 
 and put up her hands to her face, and shook with sobs. 
 
 "Don't, don't, Gusta," Elizabeth pleaded, "don't cry, 
 dear." 
 
 The endearment made Gusta cry the harder. And 
 
436 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 then Elizabeth, who had shrunk from her and from 
 everything in the room, put her arms about her, and 
 supported her, and patted her shoulder and repeated: 
 
 "There, dear, there, you mustn't cry." 
 
 And then presently : 
 
 "Tell me what I can do to help you. I want to help 
 you." 
 
 Gusta sobbed a moment longer. 
 
 ''Nothing, there is nothing," she said. "I just want- 
 ed you. I wanted some one — " 
 
 "Yes, I understand," said Elizabeth. She did un- 
 derstand many things now that made life clearer, if 
 sadder. 
 
 "I wanted you to tell my poor old mother," said 
 Gusta. "That's all—that's what I had to tell you." 
 
 She said it so unconvincingly, and looked up sud- 
 denly with a wan smile that begged forgiveness, and 
 then Elizabeth did what a while before would have 
 been impossible — she kissed the girl's cheek. And 
 Gusta cuddled close to her in a peace that almost 
 purred, and was contented. 
 
 Gusta was held for a week ; then released. 
 
XII 
 
 Archie was looking well that Monday morning in 
 January on which his trial was to begin. He had 
 slept soundly in his canvas hammock; not even the 
 whimpering of Reinhart, the young sneak thief whom 
 every one in the jail detested, nor the strange noises 
 and startled outcries he made in his sleep — when he 
 did sleep — ^had disturbed him. The night before, Utter 
 had allowed Archie a bath, though he had broken a 
 rule in doing so, and that morning Archie had bor- 
 rowed a whisk from Utter, brushed his old clothes in- 
 dustriously, and then he had put on the underwear his 
 mother had washed and patched and mended, and the 
 shirt of blue and white stripes Marriott had provided. 
 iThen with scrupulous care he set his cell in order, ar- 
 ranged his few things on the little table — ^the deck of 
 cards, the yellow-covered dog's-eared novel and a 
 broken comb. Beside these, lay his fresh collar and 
 his beloved blue cravat with the white polka dots ; his 
 coat and waistcoat hung over the back of his chair. 
 At seven o'clock Willie Kirkpatrick, alias "Toughie," 
 a boy who, after two terms in the Reform School, was 
 now going to the Intermediate Prison, had brought in 
 the bread and coffee. At eight o'clock Archie was 
 turned into the corridor, and with him Blanco, the 
 bigamist, whose two young wives were being held as 
 witnesses in the women's quarter. Blanco was a bar- 
 ber, and he made himself useful by shaving the other 
 
 437 
 
438 THE TURK OF THE BALANCE 
 
 prisoners. This morning, with scissors, razor, lather- 
 brush and cup, he took especial pains with Archie. 
 Now and then he paused, cocked his little head with its 
 plume of black hair, and surveyed his handiwork with 
 honest pride. 
 
 "I'll fix you up swell, Dutch, so's they'll have to ac- 
 quit you." 
 
 From the cells came laughter. The prisoners began 
 to josh Blanco — it was one of their few pastimes. 
 
 "Don't stand for one of them gilly hair-cuts, Dutch," 
 cried Billy Whee, a porch-climber. "It'll be a fritzer, 
 sure." 
 
 "Yes, he'll make your knob look like a mop." 
 
 "When I was doing my bit at the Pork Dump," be- 
 gan O'Grady, in the tone that portends a story; the 
 cell doors began to rattle. 
 
 "Cheese it," cried the voices. They had grown 
 tired of O'Grady's boasting. 
 
 After Archie had returned to his cell, an English 
 thief whom they called the Duke, began to sing in a 
 clear tenor voice, to the tune of Dixie: 
 
 "I wish there were no prisons, 
 I do, I does — 'cause why? — 
 This old treadmill makes me feel ill, 
 I only pinch my belly for to fill, 
 ,Wi' me 'ands, 
 Wi' me dukes, 
 Wi' me clawrs, 
 Me mud hooks." 
 
 Archie scowled; he wished, for once, the Duke 
 would keep still. He was trying to think, trying to 
 assure himself that his trial would turn out well. Day 
 after day, Marriott had come, and for hours he and 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 439 
 
 Archie had sat in the long gray corridor, in the dry 
 atmosphere of the overheated jail, conferring in whis- 
 pers, because Archie knew Danner was Hstening at 
 the peep-hole in the wall. Marriott was perplexed; 
 how could he get Archie's true story before the jury? 
 He had even consulted Elizabeth, told her the story. 
 
 "Oh, horrible!" she exclaimed. "But surely, you 
 can tell the jury — surely they will sympathize." 
 
 He had shaken his head. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because," said Marriott, "the rules of evidence are 
 designed to keep out the truth." 
 
 "But can't Archie tell it?" 
 
 "I don't dare to let him take the stand." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because he'll be convicted if he does." 
 
 "And if he doesn't?" 
 
 "The same result — he'll be convicted. He's con- 
 victed now — the mob has already done that; the trial 
 is only a conventional formality." 
 
 "What mob?" 
 
 "The newspapers, the preachers, the great moral, 
 respectable mob that holds a man guilty until he proves 
 himself innocent, and, if he asserts his innocence, looks 
 even on that as a proof of his guilt." 
 
 Eades had announced that Archie would be tried 
 for the murder of Kouka, and Elizabeth had been im- 
 pressed. 
 
 "Wasn't that rather fine in him ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Marriott, "and very clever," 
 
 "Clever?" 
 
 "He means to try him for the murder of Kouka, and 
 convict him of the murder of Margaret Flanagan." 
 
440 THE TURN, OK THE BALANCE' ! 
 
 This morning tKen, Archie awaited the hour of his 
 trial. The night before he had played solitaire, trying 
 to read his fate in the fall of the fickle cards. The 
 first game he had lost; then he decided that he was 
 entitled to two out of three chances. He played 
 again, and lost. Then he decided to play another — ^best 
 three out of five — he might win the other two. He 
 played and won the third game. He lost the fourth. 
 And now he stood and waited. At half-past eight he 
 drew on his waistcoat and his coat, giving them a final 
 brushing. The Duke was singing again : 
 
 "An* I wish there were no bobbies, 
 
 I do, I does — 'cause why? — 
 This oakum pickin' gives me such a lickin'. 
 But still I likes to do a bit o' nickin', 
 .Wi' me 'ands, 
 Wi' me dukes, 
 Wi' me clawrs. 
 Me mud hooks." 
 
 The last words of the song were punctuated by the 
 clanging of the bolts. 
 
 *'Koerner !" called out Banner's voice. 
 
 He was throwing the locks of Archie's cell from the 
 big steel box by the door, Archie sprang to his feet, 
 gave his cravat a final touch, and adjusted his coat. 
 The steel door went gliding back in its hard grooves. 
 He stepped out, thence through the other door, and 
 there Danner waited. Archie held out his right hand, 
 Danner slipped on the handcuff and its spring clicked. 
 As they went out, cries came from the cells. 
 
 "So long, Archie ! Good luck to ye !" | 
 
 "Good luck !" came the chorus. 
 
 Archie, standing in the strange light outside the 
 
THE TURN DF: THE BALANCE 441 
 
 prison, seemed to take on a changed aspect. He had 
 grown fat during his two months' idleness in jail ; his 
 skin was white and soft. Now in the gray light of the 
 January morning, his face had lost the ruddy glow 
 Blanco's shaving had imparted to it, and was pale. 
 The snow lay on the ground, the air was cold and 
 raw, Archie gasped in the surprise his lungs felt in 
 this atmosphere, startling in its cold and freshness 
 after the hot air of the steam-heated jail. He filled 
 his lungs with the air and blew it out again in frost. 
 A shudder ran through him. Danner was jovial 
 for once. 
 
 "Fine day," he said. 
 
 Archie did not reply. He hated Danner more than 
 he hated most people, and he hated every one, almost 
 — save Marriott and Gusta, and his father and mother 
 and the kids, and Elizabeth, who, as Marriott had re- 
 ported to him, wished him well. The air and the 
 light gave him pain — he shrank from them; he had 
 not been outdoors since that day, a month before, 
 when he had been taken over with Curly to be ar- 
 raigned. He looked on the world again, the world 
 that was so strange and new. Once more there swept 
 over him that queer sensation that always came as 
 he stepped out of prison, the sensation of fear, of un- 
 certainty, a doubt of reality, the blur before his eyes. 
 The streets were deserted, the houses still. The snow 
 crunched frigidly under his heels. The handcuff 
 chain clicked in the frost. A wagon turned the corner ; 
 the driver walked beside his steaming horses and 
 flapped his arms about his shoulders; the wheels 
 whined on the snow. Archie looked at the man ; it was 
 strange, he felt, that a man should be free to walk the 
 streets and flap his arms that way. 
 
XIII 
 
 The court-room was already crowded and buzzed 
 with a pleasant yet excited hum of voices. Mrs. 
 Koerner, the first to appear that morning, had been 
 given a seat directly in front of the bailiff's elevated 
 desk, where she was to sit, a conspicuous figure of sor- 
 row through all the trial. The twenty-four aged men of 
 the special venire were seated inside the bar ; the report- 
 ers were at their table; two policemen, wearing their 
 heavy overcoats as if they were no discomfort at all, 
 were gossiping together ; Giles, the court stenographer, 
 grown old in automatic service, wandered about in a 
 thin coat with ragged sleeves, its shoulders powdered 
 by dandruff. The life that for so many years had been 
 unfolded to him in a series of dramatic tableaux could 
 have interested him but little; he seemed, indeed, to 
 have reduced it to mere symbols — dashes, pothooks, 
 points and outlines. At one of the trial tables sat Mar- 
 riott. He was nervous, not having slept well the night 
 before. At the table with him was Pennell, the young 
 lawyer with the gift of the gab, who had been so un- 
 fortunate as to win the oratorical prize in college. 
 Pennell, at the last moment, somehow — Marriott never 
 knew exactly how — had insinuated himself into the 
 case. He explained his appearance by saying, in his 
 grand, mysterious way, that he had been engaged by 
 "certain influential friends" of Archie's, who preferred 
 to remain unknown. Archie, who did not know that 
 
 442 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 443 
 
 he had any Influential friends, could not explain Pen- 
 nell's presence, but, feeling that the more lawyers he 
 had the better, he was secretly glad, and Marriott, 
 who bowed before the whole situation in a kind of help- 
 less fatalism, made no objection. 
 
 But suddenly a change occurred. The atmosphere 
 became electric. Men started up, their eyes glistened, 
 they leaned forward, a low murmur arose ; the old 
 bailiff started violently, smote his marble slab with his 
 gavel, and Mark Bentley, very red in the face, was 
 seen striding toward the door, waving his authorita- 
 tive hand and calling : 
 
 "Back there ! Get back, I tell you !" 
 
 Archie had just been brought in. Banner led him 
 to the trial table, and he took his seat, hid his mana- 
 cled hands, and sat motionless, gazing straight before 
 him, unconsciously obeying some long-hidden, obscure 
 instinct of the hunted. But Marriott's hand had found 
 his. 
 
 "How did you sleep last night?" 
 
 "Pretty well," said Archie as politely as possible, the 
 occasion seeming to require those conventionalities of 
 which he was so very uncertain. 
 
 "Well, we'll soon be at it now," said Marriott, think- 
 ing, however, of his own wretched night. 
 
 Arcliie watched Marriott tumble the papers out of 
 his green bag and arrange his briefs and memoranda ; 
 he did not take his eyes from the green bag. When- 
 ever he did, they met other eyes that looked at him 
 with an expression that combined all the lower, brutish 
 impulses — curiosity, fear and hate. 
 
 At half-past nine Glassford, having finished his 
 cigar, entered the court-room. Directly behind him 
 
444 THE TURN OE THE BALANCE 
 
 came Eades. THe bailiff, who if he had been drows- 
 ing again, had been drowsing as always, with one eye 
 on Glassford, now got to his feet, and, as Glassford as- 
 cended the bench, struck the marble slab with the 
 gavel and in the instant stillness, repeated his worn 
 formula. 
 
 *The case of the State versus Archie Koerner," said 
 Glassford, reading from his docket. He glanced over 
 his gold glasses at Marriott. 
 
 "Are you ready for trial, Mr. Marriott ?" 
 
 "We are ready, your Honor." 
 
 Danner unlocked the handcuffs from Archie's 
 wrists. The reporters began writing feverishly; al- 
 ready messenger boys were coming and going. Gard, 
 the clerk, was calling the roll of the venire-men, and 
 when he had done, it was time for the lawyers to begin 
 examining them ; but before this could be done, it was 
 necessary that a formula be repeated to them, and 
 Gard told them to stand up. As soon as they could 
 comprehend his meaning, they got to their feet with 
 their various difficulties, and Gard proceeded : 
 
 " *You and each of you do solemnly swear' — ^hold up 
 your right hands — 'that the answers you are about to 
 give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing 
 but the truth, s'elp you God.' " 
 
 And then, in a lower voice, as if the real business 
 were now to begin, he called : 
 
 "William C. McGiffert." 
 
 An aged man came forward leaning on a crooked 
 cane, and took the witness-stand. Eades began his ex- 
 amination by telling McGiffert about the death of 
 Kouka, and, when he had finished, asked him if he had 
 ever heard of it, or read of it, or formed or expressed 
 
THE .TURN OF THE BALANCE i^S 
 
 an opinion about it, if he were related to Koerner, or 
 to Marriott, or to Pennell, or had ever employed them, 
 or either of them, as attorney. Then he asked McGif- 
 fert if Lamborn or himself had acted as his attorney ; 
 finally, with an air of the utmost fairness, as if he 
 would not for worlds have any but an entirely unpre- 
 judiced jury, he appealed to McGiffert to tell whether 
 he knew of any reason why he could not give Koerner 
 a fair and impartial trial and render a verdict accord- 
 ing to the law and the evidence. McGiffert had shaken 
 his head hastily at each one of Eades's questions. Eades 
 paused impressively, then asked a question that sent a 
 thrill through the onlookers. 
 
 "Mr. McGiffert, have you any conscientious scruples 
 against capital punishment ?" 
 
 The suggestive possibility affected men strangely; 
 they leaned forward, hanging on the reply. McGiffert 
 shook his aged head again as if it were a gratuitous re- 
 flection on his character to hint at his being in any way 
 unfit for this office. 
 
 Eades, having had McGiffert on many juries and 
 knowing that he invariably voted for conviction, with 
 a graceful gesture of his white hand, waved him, as it 
 were, to Marriott. 
 
 Marriott, after an examination he knew was hope- 
 less from the start, found no cause for challenge ; and 
 after Glassford, as if some deeper possibilities had oc- 
 curred to his superior mind, had asked McGiffert about 
 his age and his health, McGiffert, with the relief of a 
 man who has passed successfully through an ordeal, 
 climbed hastily into the jury-box and retreated to its 
 farthest corner, as if it were a safe place from which 
 he could not be dislodged. 
 
446 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 One by one the venire-men were examined ; several 
 were excused. One old man, although he protested, 
 was manifestly deaf, another had employed Eades, an- 
 other rose and, hanging over the desk, whispered to 
 Glassford, who immediately excused him because of 
 physical disability; finally, by noon, the panel was full. 
 
 Marriott scanned the twelve bearded men. Viewed; 
 as a whole, they seemed well to typify the great insti- 
 tution of the English law, centuries old ; their beards 
 clung to them like the gray moss of a live-oak, hoary 
 with age. But these patriarchal beards could lend little 
 dignity. The old men sat there suggesting the diseases 
 of age — rheumatism, lumbago, palsy — death and decay. 
 Their faces were mere masks of clay ; they were 
 lacking in imagination, in humor, in sympathy, in 
 pity, in mercy, all the high human qualities liaving 
 long ago died within them, leaving their bodies unten- 
 anted. He knew they were ready at that moment to 
 convict Archie. He had sixteen peremptory chal- 
 lenges, and as he reflected that these would soon be 
 exhausted and that the men who were thus excused 
 would be replaced by others just like them, a despair 
 seized him. But it was imperative to get rid of these ; 
 they were, for the most part, professional jurors who 
 would invariably vote for the state. He must begin to 
 use those precious peremptory challenges and compel 
 the court to issue special venires ; in the haste and con- 
 fusion men might be found who would be less profes- 
 sional and more intelligent. In this • case, involving, 
 as it did, the Flanagan case, he needed strong, inde- 
 pendent men, whereas Eades required instead weak, 
 subservient and stupid men — ^men with crystallized 
 minds, dull, orthodox^ inaccessible to ideas. Further- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 447 
 
 more, Marriott recalled that juries are not made up of 
 twelve men, as the law boasts, but of two or three men, 
 or more often, of one man stronger than the rest, who 
 dominates his fellows, lays his masterful will upon 
 them, and bends them to his wishes and his prejudices. 
 Perhaps, in some special venire, quite by accident, when 
 the sheriff's deputies began to scour the town, there 
 might be found one such man, who, for some obscure 
 reason, would incline to Archie's side. On such a 
 caprice of fate hung Archie's life. 
 
 **Mr. Marriott, the court is waiting," said Glassford. 
 
 "If your Honor will indulge us a moment." Then 
 Marriott whispered to Archie. 
 
 "Je's," said Archie. "Looks cheesy to me. Looks to 
 me like a lot o' rummy blokes. They've got it all 
 framed up now. Them old hoosiers would cop the 
 cush all right." Archie whispered with the sneering 
 cynicism of one who holds the belief of the all-power- 
 ful influence of money. "That old harp back there in 
 the corner with the green benny on, he looks like a 
 bull to me. Go after him and knock him off." 
 
 Archie had indicated quite openly an aged Irishman 
 who sat huddled in a faded overcoat in the rear row. 
 He had white chin-whiskers and a long, broad, clean- 
 shaven upper lip. 
 
 "Mr. McGee," said Marriott, rising, "what business 
 are you in ?" 
 
 "Oi'm retired, sor." 
 
 "Were you ever on the police force ?" 
 
 "Well, sor," said McGee uneasily, "Oi wor wance, 
 sor — yes, sor." 
 
 He looked up now with a nonchalant air, 
 
 "How long were you on the force ?" 
 
448 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Twinty-wan years, sor." 
 
 Marriott questioned him at length, finally challenged 
 him for cause; Eades objected, they argued, and Glass- 
 ford overruled the challenge. Then, having certainly 
 offended McGee, there was nothing for Marriott to do 
 but to submit a peremptory challenge. 
 
 By night the venire was exhausted and Glassford 
 ordered a special venire. With the serving of the spe- 
 cial venires, a difference was noted ; whereas the men 
 on the first venire had studied how they should qualify 
 themselves for jury service, the men whom Bentley 
 and his deputies now haled into court, studied how 
 they should disquaUfy themselves. They were all im- 
 patient of the senseless tedium, of the costly interrup- 
 tion, being men with real work to do. They replied 
 like experts ; all had read of the case, all had formed 
 and expressed opinions, and their opinions could not 
 be shaken by any evidence that might be adduced. 
 Glassford plied them with metaphysical questions; 
 drew psychological distinctions ; but in vain. Many of 
 them had scruples against capital punishment ; a score 
 of them, fifty of them swore to this, to the delight but 
 disappointment of Marriott, the discomfiture of Eades, 
 the perplexity of Glassford, and the dull amazement 
 of the men in the jury-box, who had no conscientious 
 scruples against anything. Still others had certificates 
 of various kinds exempting them from jury service, 
 which they exhibited with calm smiles and were ex- 
 cused. 
 
 Marriott eked out his precious peremptory challenges 
 for three days; venire after venire was issued, and 
 Bentley was happy, for all this meant fees. The crowd 
 diminished. The lawyers grew weary and no longer 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 449 
 
 exerted themselves to say clever things. The sky,' 
 which had sparkled a cold, frosty blue for days, was 
 overcast with gray clouds, the atmosphere was satu- 
 rated with a chill and penetrating moisture. This at- 
 mosphere affected men strangely. Eades and Marriott 
 had a dispute, Danner ordered Archie to sit erect/ 
 Glassford sharply rebuked two citizens who did not 
 believe in capital punishment for their lack of a sense 
 of civic duty; then he whirled about in his chair and 
 exclaimed angrily : 
 
 "We'll not adjourn to-night until we Have a jury !" 
 
 Marriott had one peremptory challenge left, and 
 eleven men had been accepted. It was now a matter 
 of luck. 
 
 "George Holden," called the clerk. 
 
 A broad-shouldered man of medium height came 
 promptly forward, took the oath, leaned back in his 
 chair, crossed his legs, folded his strong hands in his 
 lap, and raised a pair of deep blue eyes to Eades. As 
 he sat there, something in the poise of his fine head, 
 with its thick curly hair, claimed attention; interest 
 revived ; every one looked at him. He had a smooth- 
 shaven face and a wide white brow, and the collar of 
 his dark flannel shirt was open, freeing his strong neck 
 and ample throat. Marriott suddenly conceived a lik- 
 ing for the man. 
 
 "What is your occupation, Mr. Holden?" asked 
 Eades. 
 
 "Machinist." 
 
 He had read the newspaper accounts of the murder 
 of Kouka and of the Flanagan tragedy, but he Had not 
 formed any real opinions; he may have formed im- 
 pressions, but he could lay them aside; he didn't go 
 
450 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 much anyway, he said, on what he read in the news- 
 papers. 
 
 The formal questions were put and answered to 
 Eades^s satisfaction ; then came the real question : 
 
 "Are you opposed to capital punishment ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I am." 
 
 "Are your scruples conscientious ones ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And not to be overcome ?" 
 
 "They are not to be overcome." 
 
 Just then Glassford, impatient of all these scruples 
 he was hearing so much about, whirled on Holden with 
 a scowl. Holden turned; his blue eyes met those of 
 Glassford. 
 
 "You don't want to sit on this jury, do you?" de- 
 manded Glassford. 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "It would interfere with your business, wouldn't it ?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "It wouldn't ? You earn good wages, don't you ?" 
 
 "I'm out of a job now, sir." 
 
 "Well, are your scruples such that you can't lay 
 them aside long enough to do your duty as a citizen ?" 
 
 Holden flushed. 
 
 "I can't lay them aside, no ; but it doesn't follow that 
 I can't do my duty as a citizen." 
 
 "But," began Glassford in his tone of legal argu- 
 ment, "assuming that the law as it is should be altered, 
 nevertheless, knowing the law, can you lay aside your 
 private views and perform a public duty by applying 
 this law to a given state of facts as the court instructs 
 you ? — You understand me, do you ?" 
 
 "I understand perfectly, sir," 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 451 
 
 *'Well, what do you say?" 
 
 *T have no private views that are not public ones ; I 
 can't see any distinction. I say that I would not take 
 an oath that might oblige me to vote to kill a man." 
 
 The atmosphere became tense. 
 
 "But assuming you had taken an oath, would you 
 rather break that oath than discharge your duty ?" 
 
 "I wouldn't take such an oath." 
 
 "Then you place your private opinions above the 
 law, do you ?" 
 
 "In this instance, I do. I don^t believe in that law, 
 and I won't help enforce it." 
 
 "You mean," — Glassford was plainly angry — ^"that 
 you wouldn't take an oath to enforce a law you didn't 
 believe in ?" 
 
 "That's just what I mean." 
 
 Glassford looked an instant at Holden as if trying 
 to decide what he had better do with him for these 
 heresies. Holden's blue eyes were steady; they re- 
 turned Glassford's gaze, seeming scarcely to wink. 
 And just then Eades, fearing the effect of the man's 
 scruples on the jury, thought best to relieve the situa- 
 tion. 
 
 "We submit a challenge for cause," he said. 
 
 "Allowed," Glassford snapped. "We don't want 
 such men as you on juries." 
 
 He whirled about in his chair, turned his back on 
 Holden, and as Holden walked directly from the court- 
 room, the eyes of all followed him, with a strange 
 interest in a man who was considered unfit for jury 
 service because he had principles he would not forego, 
 i "Samuel Walker," called Gard. 
 
 An aged, doddering man tottered to the chair. He 
 
452 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 scarcely spoke in answer to Eades's questions; when 
 he did, it was in the weak, quavering voice of senility. 
 He had no occupation, knew none of the lawyers, had 
 no knowledge of the case, had neither formed nor ex- 
 pressed opinions, and had no scruples against capital 
 punishment. 
 
 "You believe that the laws should be executed and 
 upheld ?" said Eades in an insinuating tone. 
 
 "Heh?" said the old man, leaning forward with an 
 open palm behind his hairy ear. 
 
 Eades repeated the question and the fellow nodded. 
 
 Marriott turned in disgust from this stupid, senile 
 man who was qualified, as impatiently as Glassford had 
 turned from the intelligent man who was disqualified. 
 And then, just as Walker was making for the jury- 
 box, Marriott used his last peremptory challenge. 
 
 A moment later he saw his mistake. Gard was call- 
 ing a name he knew. 
 
 "William A. Broadwell." 
 
 The short winter afternoon was closing in. For half 
 an hour shadows had been stealing wearily through 
 the room; the spectators had become a blurred mass, 
 the jurymen lounging in the box had grown indistinct 
 in the gloom. For some time, the green shade of the 
 electric lamp on the clerk's desk had been glowing, but 
 now, as Broadwell came forward, the old bailifiP, shuf- 
 fling across the floor, suddenly switched on the elec- 
 tricity, and group by group, cluster by cluster, the 
 bulbs sprang into light, first in the ceiling, then on the 
 walls, then about the judge's bench. There was a 
 touch of the theatrical in it, for the lights seemed to 
 have been switched on to illuminate the entrance of this 
 important man. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 453 
 
 He was sworn and took the witness-chair, which he 
 completely filled, and clasped his white hands across 
 his round paunch with an air that savored of piety 
 and unction. The few gray hairs glistening at the 
 sides of his round bald head gave it a tonsured appear- 
 ance; fat enfolded his skull, rounding at his temples, 
 swelling on his clean-shaven, monkish cheeks, falling 
 in folds like dewlaps over his linen collar. He sat 
 there with satisfaction, breathing heavily, making no 
 movement, excepting as to his thin lips which he 
 pursed now and then as if to adjust them more and 
 more perfectly to what he considered the proper ex- 
 pression of impeccability. Marriott was utterly sick 
 at heart. For he knew William A. Broadwell, ortho- 
 dox, formal, eminently respectable, a server on com- 
 mittees, a deacon with certain cheap honors of the 
 churchly kind, a Pharisee of the Pharisees. 
 
 In his low solemn voice, pursing his lips nicely after 
 each sentence as if his own words tasted good to him, 
 Broadwell answered Eades's questions; he had no 
 opposition to capital punishment, indeed, he added 
 quite gratuitously, he believed in supporting it ; he had 
 great veneration for the law, and — oh, yes, he had 
 read accounts of the murder; read them merely be- 
 cause he esteemed it a citizen's duty to be conversant 
 with affairs of the day, and he had formed opinions as 
 any intelligent man must necessarily. 
 
 "But you could lay aside those opinions and reach a 
 conclusion based purely on evidence, of course, Mr. 
 Broadwell?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir," said Broadwell, with an unctuous 
 smile that deprecated the idea of his being influenced in 
 an^ but the legitimate way. 
 
454 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "We are thoroughly satisfied with Mr. Broadwell, 
 your Honor," said Eades. 
 
 "One minute, Mr. Broadwell," began Marriott. 
 
 Glassford looked at Marriott the surprise he felt at 
 his presumption, and Marriott felt an opposition in the 
 room. Broadwell shifted slightly, pursed his lips 
 smugly and looked down on Marriott with his wise be- 
 nevolence. 
 
 "Mr. Broadwell, you say you read the accounts of 
 the tragedy ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you read all of them?" 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 "Read the report of the evidence given on the pre- 
 liminary hearing?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Read the editorials in the Courier f" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You respect its opinions ?" 
 
 "I do, yes." 
 
 "Your pastor preached a sermon on this case, did 
 he not?" 
 
 "He made applications of it in an illustrative way." 
 
 "Quite edifying, of course ?" 
 
 Marriott knew he had made a mistake, but the im- 
 pulse to have this fling had been irresistible. Broad- 
 well bowed coldly. 
 
 "And all these things influenced you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Exactly. And on them you have formed an opin- 
 ion respecting the guilt or innocence of this young 
 man ?" 
 
 Broadvi^ell cast a hasty sidelong glance at Glassford, 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 455 
 
 as if this had gone quite far enough, but he said pa- 
 tiently : 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 *'And it would require evidence to remove that opin- 
 ion?" 
 
 "I presume it would." 
 
 "You know it would, don't you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "We submit a challenge for cause, your Honor," 
 said Marriott. 
 
 Glassford turned to Broadwell with an air that told 
 how speedily he would make an end of this business. 
 
 "You have talked with none of the witnesses, Mr. 
 Broadwell?" 
 
 "Oh, no, sir," said Broadwell, smiling at the absurd- 
 ity. 
 
 "The accounts you read were not stenographic re- 
 ports of the evidence ?" 
 
 "No, sir ; abstracts, rather, I should say." 
 
 "Exactly. Were the conclusions you came to opin- 
 ions, or mere impressions ?" 
 
 "Mere impressions I should say, your Honor." 
 
 "They are not to be dignijfied by the name of opin- 
 ions?" 
 
 "Hardly, your Honor." 
 
 "If they were, you could lay them aside and try this 
 case on its merits, basing your judgment on the evi- 
 dence as it is adduced, and on the law as the court shall 
 declare it to you ?" 
 
 "Certainly, your Honor." 
 
 Glassford turned away. 
 
 "If the court," he said, "Had any doubts in this mat- 
 ter, they would be resolved in favor of the defendant^ 
 
456 THE TURN OF! THE BALANCE 
 
 but the court has none. My own knowledge of Mr. 
 Broadwell and of his standing in the community leads 
 me to declare that he is the very man for such impor- 
 tant service, and the court feels that we are to be con- 
 gratulated on having him to assist us in trying this 
 case. The challenge is overruled. You may take your 
 seat in the jury-box, Mr. Broadwell.'* 
 
 Glassford consulted his notes; the peremptory chaU 
 lenges were all exhausted now. 
 
 "The jury will rise and be sworn," he said. 
 
 Marriott had suffered his first defeat. He looked at 
 the jury. A change had taken place ; these twelve men 
 no longer impressed him as an institution grown old 
 and gray with the waste of ages. They no longer held 
 for him any symbolic meaning; little by little, during 
 the long, tedious hours, individualities had developed, 
 the idea of unity had receded. Seen thus closely and 
 with increasing familiarity, the formal disappeared, 
 the man emerged from the mass, and Marriott found 
 himself face to face with the personal equation. He 
 sat with one arm thrown over the back of his chair and 
 looked at them, watching, as it were, this institution 
 disintegrate into men, merely; men without the in- 
 spiration of noble ideals, swayed by primitive impulses, 
 unconsciously responsive to the obscure and mysteri- 
 ous currents of human feeling then flowing through 
 the minds of the people, generating and setting in mo- 
 tion vague, terrible and irresistible powers. He could 
 feel those strange, occult currents moving in him — he 
 must set himself against them that he might stand, 
 though all alone, for the ignorant boy whose soul had 
 strayed so far. 
 
 He studied the faces of the twelve men, trying ta 
 
THE TURN OR THE BALANCE 457 
 
 discover some hope, some means of moving and win- 
 ning them. There was old McGiffert, who alone of 
 all the first venire had withstood the mutations of the 
 last four days, sitting serene and triumphant, sure of 
 his two dollars a day, utterly unconscious of the grave 
 and tragic significance of the responsibilities he had 
 been so anxious to assume. There was Osgood, the 
 contractor, a long row of cigars, a tooth-brush, and a 
 narrow comb sticking out of his waistcoat pocket; 
 Duncan, with his short sandy hair covering sparsely a 
 red scalp that moved curiously when he uttered certain 
 words ; Foley, constantly munching his tobacco, as he 
 had been doing for sixty years, so that when he spoke 
 he did so with closed lips; Slade, the man with the 
 rough red face, who found, as Marriott had at first 
 thought, amusement in everything, for he smiled often, 
 showing his gums and a row of tiny unclean teeth ; 
 there was Grey, constantly moving his false teeth 
 about in his mouth; Church, with thin gray hair, 
 white mustache and one large front tooth that pressed 
 into his lower lip; and then Menard, the grocer's clerk, 
 wearing black clothes that long ago had passed out of 
 fashion; his sallow, thin, unhealthy face wearing an 
 expression of fright. Marriott recalled how uncertain 
 Menard had been in his notions about capital punish- 
 ment ; how, at first, he had said he was opposed to it, 
 and how at last, under Glassford's metaphysical dis- 
 tinctions, the boy had declared that he would do his 
 duty. Marriott had been encouraged, thinking that 
 Menard's natural impulses might reassert themselves, 
 but now, alas, he recognized that Menard in the hands 
 of other men would be but the putty he so much re- 
 sembled. Then there were Reder, the gray old Ger- 
 
458 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 man, and Chisholm and McCann, the aged farm- 
 ers with the unkempt beards, and Broadwell — ah, 
 Broadwell ! For it was Broadwell who held Marriott's 
 gaze at last, as he held his interest ; it was Broadwell, 
 indeed, who was that jury. Naturally stronger than 
 the rest, his reputation, his pomposity, the character 
 Glassford had generously given him — all these marked 
 him as the man who would reach that jury's verdict 
 for it, and then, as foreman, solemnly bear it in. Mar- 
 riott looked at him, smug, sleek, overfed, unctuous, his 
 shining bald head inclined at a meek angle, his little 
 eyes half closed, his pendulous jowls hiding his collar, 
 and realized that this was the man to whom he had to 
 try Archie's case, and he would rather have tried the 
 case to any other man in town. He wished that he had 
 used his challenges differently ; any other twelve of the 
 two hundred men who had been summoned would 
 have served his purpose better; he had a wild, impo- 
 tent regret that he had not allowed the last man to re- 
 main before Broadwell suddenly appeared. Broadwell 
 was standing there now with the others, his hand 
 raised, his head thrown back, stretching the white 
 flabby skin of his throat like a frog's, his eyes closed, 
 as if he were about to pronounce a benediction on 
 Archie before sending him to his doom. 
 
 Gard was repeating the oath : 
 
 " 'You and each of you do solemnly swear that you 
 will well and truly try and true deliverance make in the 
 cause now pending, wherein the State is plaintiff and 
 Archie Koerner is defendant, s'elp you God.' " 
 
 Broadwell bowed, as if for the jury; Marriott almost 
 expected him to say "Amen." 
 
XIV 
 
 The next morning there were the same eager, impa- 
 tient crowds, but there were yet other preliminaries; 
 the case must now be stated to the jury. And Eades, 
 speaking solemnly, told the jury of the pursuit of 
 Archie and the death of Kouka, all of which had been 
 repeated many times. He spoke of the importance of 
 government, of the sacredness of human life, how 
 heinous a sin it is to kill people, and how important 
 it was to put Archie to death immediately in order that 
 this truth might be better understood, how serious 
 were the juror's duties, how disagreeable his own du- 
 ties, and so forth. Then he began to describe the mur- 
 der of Margaret Flanagan, but Marriott objected. 
 They wrangled over this for some time, and, indeed, 
 until Eades, assured that the jurors had been sufficient- 
 ly reminded of the Flanagan murder, felt satisfied. 
 Then Marriott stated the case for the defense, and 
 finally, that afternoon, the trial began in earnest. 
 
 Bentley, following his elaborate system of arrange- 
 ment, bustled about with a deputy at hand so that he 
 could command him, pushed back the crowd, locked 
 the doors, and thereafter admitted no one unless he 
 wished to. The spectators filled the space outside the 
 bar, and encroached on the space within, forming a 
 dense, closely-packed circle in the center of which 
 were the jury, the lawyers at their tables, Archie and 
 Danner, the reporters, the old stenographer, and Glass- 
 
 459 
 
46o THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ford looking down from the bench. The spectators in 
 a strained, nervous silence stared into the pit where 
 the game was to be played, the game for which Eades 
 and Marriott were nerving themselves, the game that 
 had Archie's life for its colossal stake. 
 
 But as the afternoon wore on, expectations were not 
 realized; the interest flagged. It was seen that the 
 sensations would not come for days, the proceedings 
 were to move slowly and with a vast and pompous de- 
 liberation to their unrevealed climax. Eades called as 
 witnesses several laborers who had been of the crowd 
 that pursued Archie and Curly down the tracks that 
 morning. After them came Weber, the coroner, a 
 fleshy man with red face and neck, who described the 
 inquest, then his official physician, Doctor Zimmerman, 
 a young man with a pointed beard, who wore three 
 chains on his breast, one for the eye-glasses he was 
 constantly readjusting, another for his clinical ther- 
 mometer, and another for his watch. He gave the de- 
 tails of the post-mortem examination, described the 
 dissection of Kouka's body, and identified the bullet. 
 
 The crowd pressed forward, trying to find some 
 sensation in the ghastly relic. Eades gave the bullet 
 to the nearest juryman, who examined it carefully 
 and passed it on. It went from hand to hand of the 
 jurymen, each rolled it in his palm, studied it with a 
 look of wisdom ; finally it returned to Eades. And the 
 jurors leaned back in their chairs, convinced that 
 Kouka was dead. 
 
 The next morning there were other laborers, other 
 physicians, then railroad detectives, who identified the 
 revolver. The day wore away, the atmosphere of the 
 court-room became heavy and somnolent. As skilfully 
 
THE TURN. OF THE BALANCE 461 
 
 as he could, Eades drew from his witnesses their 
 stories, avoiding all questions that might disclose facts 
 to Archie's advantage, and Marriott battled with these 
 hostile witnesses in long cross-examinations, seeking 
 in vain for some flaw, some inconsistency. The tedium 
 told on the nerves, — Eades and Marriott had several 
 quarrels, exchanged insults, Glassford was petulant, 
 the stolid jurymen exhaled breaths as heavy as snores. 
 Another day came, and judge and lawyers began with 
 steadier nerves, more impersonal and formal manners ; 
 they were able to maintain a studious courtesy, the 
 proceedings had an institutional character, something 
 above the human, but as the day advanced, as the 
 struggle grew more intense, as the wrangling became 
 more frequent, it was seen that they were but men, 
 breaking down and giving way to those passions their 
 calm and stately institution condemned and punished 
 in other men. 
 
 And through it all Archie sat there silent, and, as 
 the newspaper men scrupulously reported each day, 
 unmoved. But Marriott could hear him breathe, and 
 when occasionally he glanced at him, could see tiny 
 drops of moisture glistening on his brow, could see the 
 cords swelling in his neck, could even hear the gurgle 
 in his throat as he tried to swallow. Archie rarely 
 spoke ; he glanced at the witnesses, now and then at the 
 jurors, but most of all at Eades. Thus far, however, 
 the testimony had been formal ; there was yet no evi- 
 dence of premeditation on Archie's part, and that was 
 the vital thing. 
 
XV 
 
 And yet Marriott knew better than to hope. As he 
 walked to the court-house Monday morning, he won- 
 dered how he was to get through the week. He looked 
 on those he met as the strangely happy and favored 
 beings of another world, and envied them keenly, even 
 the ragged outcasts shoveling the newly-fallen snow 
 from the sidewalks. And there in the upper corridor 
 was that hated crowd, that seemed to be in league with 
 Eades, Glassford, the jury, the police, the whole ma- 
 chinery of the state, to kill Archie, to stamp his identity 
 out of the world. Just then the crowd gyrated in pre- 
 cipitated interest, and he saw Bentley and Banner 
 bringing Archie down the hall, all three stamping the 
 snow from their boots. And he saw another figure, 
 new to him, but one that instantly filled him with 
 strange foreboding. Why, he could not tell, but this 
 was the eflFect of the figure that shambled down the 
 corridor. The man was alone, a tall gaunt form in 
 rough gray clothes, with a long gray face, walking in 
 loose gangling strides, flinging his huge feet one after 
 the other, leaving moist tracks behind him. A hickory 
 cane dangled by its crook from his left arm, he slowly 
 smoked a cigar, taking it from his mouth occasionally 
 with an uncouth gesture. As he swung along in his 
 awkward, spraddling gait, his frame somehow con- 
 veyed paradoxically an impression of strength. It 
 seemed that at any moment this man was in danger of 
 
 462 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 463 
 
 coming apart knd collapsing — until Marriott caught 
 his restless eye. 
 
 Archie had seen him the instant he entered the cor- 
 ridor. Marriott detected Archie's recognition, and he 
 looked intently for some inkling of the meaning. The 
 man, in the same instant, saw Archie, stopped, took 
 his cigar from his lips, spat, and said in a peculiar, 
 soft voice: 
 
 "Why, Archie, my boy." 
 
 This incident deepened Marriott's foreboding. A few 
 moments later, as the bailiff was opening court, the 
 man entered with a familiar and accustomed air, and 
 Bentley got a chair and made him comfortable so that 
 he might enjoy the trial. 
 
 "Who's that man ?" Marriott whispered to Archie. 
 
 "That? That's old Jimmy Ball, the deputy warden 
 at the pen." 
 
 "What do you suppose — " 
 
 "He's here to knock, that's what. He's here to rap 
 ag'in me, the old — " 
 
 Archie applied his ugly epithet with an expression 
 of intensest hatred, and glared at Ball. Now and then 
 Archie repeated the epithet under his breath, trying 
 each time to strengthen it with some new oath. 
 
 But Marriott just then had no time to learn the sig- 
 nificance of this strange presence. Eades was calling 
 a witness. 
 
 "Detective Quinn !" 
 
 Quinn came in after the usual delay, walking with 
 the policeman's swagger even after years on the de- 
 tective force. He came in with his heavy shoulders set 
 well back, and his head held high, but his eyes had the 
 fixed stare of self-consciousness. Taking the oath, he 
 
464 THE TURN, OR THE BALANCE 
 
 ascended the witness-stand, leaned over, placed his hat 
 against the side of the chair, and then, crossing one 
 fat thigh over the other, held it in position with his 
 hand. On his finger flashed a diamond, another dia- 
 mond sparkled on his shirt-front. 
 
 "Pipe the rocks !" whispered Archie. "Know where 
 he got 'em ? Jane nicked a sucker and Quinn made her 
 give 'em to him for not rapping." 
 
 Marrjott impatiently waved Archie into silence ; like 
 all clients he was constantly leaning over at critical 
 moments of the trial to say immaterial things, and, be- 
 sides, his hot moist breath directly in Marriott's ear 
 was very mipleasant. 
 
 Eades led Quinn through the preliminaries of his 
 examination, and then in a tone that indicated an ap- 
 proach to significant parts of the testimony, he said : 
 
 "You may now state, Mr. Quinn, when you next saw 
 the defendant." 
 
 Quinn threw back his head, fingered his close- 
 cropped red mustache, and reflected as if he had not 
 thought of the subject for a long time. He was con- 
 scious that he was thus far the most important witness 
 of the trial. He relished the sensation, and, knowing 
 how damaging his testimony would be, he felt a crude 
 satisfaction. Presently he spoke, his voice vibrating 
 like a guitar string in the tense atmosphere. 
 
 "The Friday morning before the Flanagan murder." 
 
 "Where did you meet him ?" 
 
 "In Kentucky Street near Cherokee." 
 
 "Was he alone, or was some one with him ?" 
 
 "Another man was with him." 
 
 "Who was that other man — if you know ?" 
 
THE TURN. OF THE BAL'ANCE 465 
 
 "He was art old-timer ; they call him Dad." 
 
 "What do you mean by an 'old-timer' ?" 
 
 "An old-time thief — an ex-convict." 
 
 "Very well. Now tell the jury what you did — if 
 anything." 
 
 "Well, I knowed Koerner was just back from the 
 pen, and we got to talking." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't just remember. We chewed the rag a 
 little." 
 
 Eades scowled and hitched up his chair. 
 
 "Did he say anything about Kouka ?" 
 
 "Hold on!" Marriott shouted. "We object! You 
 know perfectly well you can't lead the witness." 
 
 "Well, don't get excited," said Eades, as if he never 
 got excited himself; as he had not, indeed, in that 
 instance, his lawyer's ruse having so well served its 
 purpose. "I'll withdraw the question." He thought a 
 moment and then asked : 
 
 "What further, if anything, was said ?" 
 
 "Oh," said Quinn, who had understood. "Well, he 
 asked me where Kouka was. You see he had it in for 
 Kouka." 
 
 "No!" cried Marriott. "Not that." 
 
 "Just tell what he said about Kouka," Eades con- 
 tinued. 
 
 "I was trying to," said Quinn, as if hurt by Mar- 
 riott's interruption. "Ever since Kouka sent him up 
 for—" 
 
 "Now look here !" Marriott cried, "this has gone far 
 enough. Mr. Eades knows — " 
 
 "Oh, proceed, gentlemen," said Glass ford wearily, 
 
466 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 as if he were far above any such petty differences, and 
 the spectators laughed, relishing these little passages 
 between the lawyers. 
 
 "Mr. Quinn," said Eades in a low, almost confiden- 
 tial tone, "confine yourself to the questions, please. 
 Answer the last question." 
 
 Quinn, flashing surly and reproachful glances at 
 Marriott, replied: 
 
 "Well, he asked about Kouka, where he was and all 
 that, and he said, says he, 'I'm going to get him !' " 
 
 The jury was listening intently. Even Glassford 
 cocked his head. 
 
 "I asked him what he meant, and he said he had it 
 in for Kouka and was going to croak him." 
 
 Archie had been leaning forward, his eyes fixed in 
 an incredulous stare, his face had turned red, then 
 white, and now he said, almost audibly : 
 
 "Well, listen to that, will you !" 
 
 "Sh !" said Marriott. 
 
 Archie dropped back, and Marriott heard him mut- 
 tering under his breath, marveling at Quinn's effront- 
 ery. 
 
 "Tell the jury what further, if anything, was said," 
 Eades was saying. 
 
 "Nothing much," said Quinn ; "that was about all." 
 
 "What did you do after that?" 
 
 "I placed him under arrest." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, I didn*t think it was safe for him to be 
 around — feeling that way." 
 
 "If he ain't the limit!" Marriott heard Archie ex- 
 claim, and he began his whispered curses and objurga- 
 tions again. In his excitement and impotent rage, 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE '^(^y 
 
 Marriott was exceedingly irritable, and again he com- 
 manded Archie to be still. 
 
 Eades paused in his examination, bit his lip, and 
 winked rapidly as he thought. The atmosphere of the 
 trial showed that a critical moment had come. Mar- 
 riott, watching Eades out of the corner of his eye, had 
 quietly, almost surreptitiously moved back from the 
 table, and he sat now on the edge of the chair. The 
 jurymen were glancing from Eades to Marriott, then 
 at Quinn, with curious, puzzled expressions. 
 
 "Mr. Quinn," said Eades, looking up, "when did you 
 next see Koerner — if at all ?" 
 
 "On the next Tuesday after that." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "In the C. and M. railroad yards." 
 
 "Who was with you, if any one?" 
 . "Detectives Kouka, and Officers Delaney and 
 O'Brien, of the railroad, and Officers Flaherty, Nun- 
 nally, O'Toole and Finn — ^besides a lot of citizens. I 
 don't—" 
 
 "That will suffice. And how came you — ^but first — " 
 Eades interrupted himself. Marriott was still watch- 
 ing him narrowly, and Eades, it seemed, was postpon- 
 ing a question he feared to ask. "First, tell me — tell 
 the jury — where Koerner was, and who, if anybody, 
 was with him?" 
 
 "Well, sir, this here fellow they call Curly — Jack- 
 son's his name — he's a thief — a yegg man as they call 
 'em — he was with him ; they was running and we was 
 chasing 'em." 
 
 "And why were you chasing them ?" 
 
 "We had orders." 
 
 "From whom ?" 
 
468 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 "Inspector McFee." 
 
 "What were those orders ?" 
 
 "Well, sir, there had been a report of that Flanagan 
 job—" 
 
 "Stop \" Marriott shouted. "We object." 
 
 "One moment, Mr. Quinn," said Fades, with an ef- 
 fect of quieting Marriott as much as of staying Quinn. 
 Marriott had risen and was leaning over the table. 
 Eades hesitated, realizing that the question on his lips 
 would precipitate one of the great conflicts of the trial. 
 He was in grave doubt of the propriety of this ques- 
 tion ; he had been considering it for weeks, not only in 
 its legal but in its moral aspect. He had been unable 
 to convince himself that Archie had been concerned in 
 the murder of Margaret Flanagan; he had been 
 uncertain of his ability to show premeditation in the 
 killing of Kouka. He knew that he could not legally 
 convict Archie of murdering the woman, and he knew 
 he could not convict him of murdering the detective 
 unless he took advantage of the feeling that had been 
 aroused by the Flanagan tragedy. Furthermore, if he 
 failed to convict Archie, the public would not under- 
 stand, but would doubt and criticize him, and his repu- 
 tation would suffer. And he hesitated, afraid of his 
 case, afraid of himself. The moments were flying, a 
 change even then was taking place, a subtle doubt was 
 being instilled in the minds of the crowd, of the jury- 
 men even. He hesitated another moment, and then to 
 justify himself in his own mind, he said: 
 
 "Mr. Quinn, don't answer the question I am about 
 to ask until the court tells you to do so." He paused, 
 and then: "Fll ask you, Mr. Quinn, to tell the jury 
 
, THE TURN of: THE BAL'ANCE ' 469 
 
 when you first heard the report of the murder of Mar- 
 garet Flanagan." 
 
 "Object!" 
 
 Marriott sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing, his fig- 
 ure tense with protest. 
 
 *'I object! We might as well fight this thing out 
 right here." 
 
 "What is your objection?" asked Glassford. 
 
 "Just this, your Honor," Marriott replied. "The 
 question, if allowed, would involve another homicide, 
 for which this defendant is not on trial. It is not com- 
 petent at this stage of the case to show specifically or 
 generally other offenses with which this defendant has 
 been charged or of which he is suspected. It would be 
 competent, if ever, only as showing reputation, and 
 the reputation of the defendant has not yet been put 
 in evidence. Further, if answered in its present form, 
 the evidence would be hearsay." 
 
 Eades had been idly turning a lead-pencil end for 
 end on the table, and now with a smile he slowly got 
 to his feet. 
 
 "If the Court please," he began, "Mr. Marriott evi- 
 dently does not understand; we are not seeking to 
 show the defendant's reputation, or that he is charged 
 with or suspected of any other crime. What we are 
 trying to show is that these officers, Detective Quinn 
 and the deceased, were merely performing a duty when 
 they attempted to arrest Koerner, that they were act- 
 ing under orders. What we offer to show is this : Mar- 
 garet Flanagan had been murdered and the officers 
 had reasonable grounds to believe that Koerner — " 
 
 "Now see here!" cried Marriott. "That isn't fair. 
 
470 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 and you know it. You are trying to influence the jury, 
 and I'm surprised that a lawyer of your abiHty and 
 standing should resort to tactics so unprofessional — " 
 
 Eades colored and was about to reply, but Marriott 
 would not yield. 
 
 "I say that such tactics are unworthy of counsel; 
 they would be unworthy of the veriest pettifogger !" 
 
 Eades flushed angrily. 
 
 "Do you mean to charge — " he challenged. 
 
 "Gentlemen, gentlemen!'' Glassford warned them. 
 "Address yourselves to the Court." 
 
 Eades and Marriott exchanged angry and menacing 
 glances. The jury looked on with a passivity that 
 passed very well for gravity. At the risk of incurring 
 the jurors' displeasure, Marriott asked that they be ex- 
 cused while the question was debated, and Glassford 
 sent them from the room. 
 
 The legal argument began. Marriott had countless 
 precedents to justify Glassford's ruling in his favor, 
 just as Eades had countless precedents to justify Glass- 
 ford's ruling in his favor, but to the spectators it all 
 seemed useless, tediovis and silly. A murder had been 
 committed, they thought, and hence it was necessary 
 that some one be killed ; and there sat Archie Koerner 
 — why wait and waste all this time? why not proceed 
 at once to the tragic denouement and decree his death ? 
 
 Glassford, maintaining a gravity, and as if he were 
 considering all the cases Marriott and Eades were cit- 
 ing, and weighing them nicely one against the other, 
 listened to the arguments all day, gazing out of the 
 window at the scene so familiar to him. Across the 
 street, in an upper room of a house, was a window he 
 had been interested in for months. A woman now and 
 
THE TURN of: THE BALANCE 471 
 
 then hovered near it, and Glassford had long been tan- 
 talized by his inability to see clearly what she was do- 
 ing. 
 
 The next morning Glassford announced his decision. 
 It was to the effect that the State would be permitted 
 to show only that a felony had been committed, and 
 that the officers had had grounds for believing that 
 Archie had committed it ; but as to details of that mur- 
 der, or whether Archie had committed it, or who had 
 committed it — ^that should all be excluded. This was 
 looked upon as a victory for the defense, and, at Mar- 
 riott's request, Glassford told the jurors that they were 
 not to consider anything that had been said about the 
 Flanagan murder or Archie's connection with it. All 
 this, he told them, they were to dismiss from their 
 minds and not to be influenced by it in the least. The 
 jurymen paid Glassford an exaggerated, almost servile 
 attention, and when he had done, several of them nod- 
 ded. And all were glad that they were to hear noth- 
 ing more of the Flanagan murder, for, during the Idng 
 hours of their exclusion from the court-room, they 
 had talked of nothing but the Flanagan murder, had 
 recalled all of its details, and argued and disputed 
 about it, until they had tired of it, and then had gone 
 on to recall other murders that had been committed in 
 the county, and finally, other murders of which they 
 had heard and read. 
 
 Quinn, in telling again the story the jurors had 
 heard so many times in court, and had read in the 
 newspapers, frequently referred to the Flanagan mur- 
 der, until Marriott wearied of the effort to prevent 
 him. He knew that it was useless to cross-examine 
 Quinn, useless to attempt to impress on the crystallized 
 
472 JHE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 f 
 
 minds of the jurymen the facts as they had occurred. 
 The jurymen were not Hstening; they were looking at 
 the ceiHng, or leaning their heads on their hands, en- 
 during the proceedings as patiently as they could, as 
 patiently as Eades or Quinn or Glassford. And Mar- 
 riott reflected on the inadequacy of every means of 
 communication between human beings. How was he 
 to make them understand ? How was he to get them 
 to assume, if for an instant only, his point of view? 
 Here they were in a court of justice, an institution that 
 had been evolved, by the pressure of economic and so- 
 cial forces, through slow, toiling ages; the witnesses 
 were sworn to tell "the truth, the whole truth, and 
 nothing but the truth," and yet, such was man's pueril- 
 ity and impotence, such was the imperfection of his 
 means of conveying ideas, that the whole truth could 
 not possibly be told — a thousand elements and inci- 
 dents must be omitted; the moods, for instance, of 
 Archie when he talked to Quinn or to Kouka, the ex- 
 pressions on their faces, the light in their eyes, indica- 
 tions far more potent than mere words, words that 
 might be lightly, trivially, innocently spoken one day 
 and under one set of circumstances, but which, on 
 some other day and under other circumstances, would 
 take on a terrible, blasting, tragic significance. Above 
 all, that intangible thing, the atmosphere of the oc- 
 casion — ^this could by no possibility be reproduced even 
 though Quinn made every effort to be honest. And 
 how much greater the impossibility when Quinn was 
 willing to be disingenuous, to allow the prejudices and 
 the passions of his hearers to reflect on his words their 
 own sentiments, so that the hatred in the hearts of this 
 crowd, this jury, these prosecutors, might seem to be 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 473 
 
 a hatred, instead, in Archie's breast ! Realizing the im- 
 possibility, Marriott felt again the strong, occult influ- 
 ences that opposed him, and had scarcely the strength 
 to cross-examine Quinn. And yet he must make the 
 effort, and for two long hours he battled with Quinn, 
 ^et his wits and his will against him, but it was all 
 hopeless. For he was not opposing Quinn's mind 
 alone, he was opposing the collective mind of this 
 crowd behind him, and that larger crowd in the city 
 outside. 
 
 "Anything further, Mr. Marriott ?" asked Glassford. 
 
 Marriott had a momentary rage at this impersona- 
 tion of the vengeful state sitting before him, and ex- 
 claimed with disgust: 
 
 "Oh, I guess not." 
 
XVI 
 
 TKe instant Marriott entered the court-House the 
 next morning he was sensible of a change; it was as 
 palpable as the heavy, overheated atmosphere indoors 
 after the cool air outdoors. He could not account for 
 this change; he knew only that it had come in the 
 night, and that it boded some calamity in the world. 
 Already it seemed to have had its effect on the men he 
 met, clerks, attaches, and loafers ; they glanced at him 
 stealthily, then averted their eyes quickly. Somehow 
 they filled Marriott with loathing and disgust. 
 
 As he went up in the swiftly-ascending elevator, the 
 old man who operated it gave him that same look, and 
 then observed : 
 
 "Something's in the air to-day." 
 
 Yes, thought Marriott, something is in the air. But 
 what? 
 
 '*I reckon it's going to storm," the white-headed 
 veteran of the great war went on. "My rheumatiz 
 hurts like hell this morning." 
 
 What mysterious relation was it, wondered Mar- 
 riott, that bound this old man through his joints — 
 gnarled by the exposure of his service to his country 
 so long before — ^to all nature, foretelling her convul- 
 sions and cataclysms? What mysterious relation was 
 it that bound men's minds to the moral world, foretell- 
 ing as well its catastrophies and tragedies ? 
 
 "I reckon it's the January thaw," the old fellow jab- 
 474 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 475 
 
 bered on, his mind never rising above the mere phys- 
 ical manifestations of nature. 
 
 The crowd was denser than ever, and there in the 
 front row, where she had been every day of the trial, 
 was old Mrs. Koerner, with eyes that every day grew 
 deeper and wider, as more and more tragedy was re- 
 flected in their profound and mysterious depths. 
 
 "Call Henry Griscom," said Eades. 
 
 The crowd, the jury, the lawyers, waited. Marriott 
 wondered ; he felt Archie's breath in his ear and heard 
 his teeth chatter as he whispered : 
 
 "I knew old Jimmy Ball had something framed up. 
 Great God r 
 
 The crowd made way, and the tall, lank form of the 
 deputy warden shambled into the court-room. A man 
 was chained to him. 
 
 "Great God!" Archie was chattering; "he's going 
 to split on me !" 
 
 The man whom Ball had just unshackled took the 
 oath, and looked indecisively into Ball's eyes. Ball 
 motioned with his cane, and with a slow mechanical 
 step, the man walked to the witness-stand and perched 
 himself uneasily on the edge of the chair. 
 
 Archie fixed his eyes on the man in a steady, in- 
 tense blaze ; Marriott heard him cursing horribly. 
 
 "The snitch !" he said finally, and then was silent, as 
 if he had put his whole contempt into that one word. 
 
 The emaciated form of the man in the witness chair 
 was clothed in the gray jacket and trousers of a convict 
 of the first grade. The collar of his jacket stood out 
 from a scrawny neck that had a nude, leathery, rugose 
 appearance, like the neck of a buzzard. If he wore a 
 shirt, it was not visible, either at his neck or at his 
 
476 THE TURN OF THE BAUANCE 
 
 spindling wrists. As he hung his head and tried to 
 shrink from the concentrated gaze of the crowd into his 
 miserable garments, he suggested a skeleton, dressed 
 up in ribald sport. It was not until Eades had spoken 
 twice that the man raised his head, and then he raised 
 it slowly, carefully, as if dreading to look men in the 
 eyes. His shaven face was long and yellow ; the skin 
 at the points of his jaw, at his retreating chin and at 
 his high cheek-bones was tightly stretched, and shone ; 
 he rolled his yellow eye-balls, and winked rapidly in 
 the light of freedom to which he was so unaccustomed. 
 
 "Who is he?" Marriott whispered quickly. 
 
 "An old con. — a lifer," Archie explained. "One o' 
 them false alarms. He's no good. They've promised 
 to put him on the street for this." 
 
 But Eades had begun his examination. 
 
 "And where do you reside, Mr. Griscom?" Eades 
 was asking in a respectful tone, just as if the man 
 might be a resident of Claybourne Avenue. 
 
 "In the penitentiary." 
 
 "How long have you been there ?" 
 
 "Seventeen years." 
 
 "And your sentence is for how long?" Eades con- 
 tinued. 
 
 The man's eyes drooped. 
 
 "Life." The word fell in a hollow silence. 
 
 "And do you know this man here — Archie Koer- 
 ner?" 
 
 The convict, as if by an effort, raised his eyes to 
 Archie, dropped them hastily and nodded. 
 
 "What do you say?" said Eades. "You must speak 
 up." 
 
 *Tes, I know him." 
 
THE TURN OF THE BAUANCE '477 
 
 "Where did you know him ?" 
 
 "In the pen." 
 
 It was all clear now, the presence of Ball, the news- 
 papers' promise of a sensation, the doom that had hung 
 in the atmosphere that morning. Marriott watched the 
 convict first with loathing, then with pity, as he real- 
 ized the fact that when this man had spoken the one 
 word "life" — he had meant "death" — a long, lingering 
 death, drawn out through meaningless days and 
 months and years, blank and barren, a waste in which 
 this one incident, this railroad journey in chains, this 
 temporary reassertion of personality, this brief distinc- 
 tion in the crowded court-room, this hour of change, 
 of contact with free men, were circumstances to occupy 
 his vacant mind during the remaining years of his 
 misery, until his death should end and life once more 
 come to him. 
 
 "And now, Mr. Griscom," Eades was saying with a 
 respect that was a mockery, "tell the jury just what 
 Koerner said to you about Detective Kouka." 
 
 The convict hesitated, his chin sank into the upright 
 collar of his jacket, his eyes roved over the floor, he 
 crossed, uncrossed and recrossed his legs, picked at his 
 cap nervously. 
 
 "Just tell the jury," urged Eades. 
 
 The convict stiffly raised his bony hand to his blue 
 lips to stifle the cough in which lay his only hope of 
 release. 
 
 "I don't just—" He stopped. 
 
 The crowd strained forward. The jury glanced un- 
 easily from Griscom to Eades, and back to Griscom 
 again. And then there was a stir. Ball was sidling over 
 from the clerk's desk to a chair Bentle)^ wheeled for- 
 
478 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ward for him, and as he sank into it, he fixed his eyes 
 on Griscom. The convict shifted uneasily, took down 
 his hand, coughed loosely and swallowed painfully, his 
 protuberant larynx rising and falling. 
 
 "Just give Koerner's exact words," urged Eades. 
 
 **Well, he said he had it in for Kouka, an'd was go- 
 ing to croak him when he got home." 
 
 *'What did he mean by 'croak,* if you know ?" 
 
 "Kill him. He said he was a dead shot — he'd learned 
 it in the army." 
 
 "How many times did you talk with him ?" 
 
 "Oh, lots of times — every time we got a chance. 
 Sometimes in the bolt shop, sometimes in the hall when 
 we had permits." 
 
 "What else, if anything, did he say about Kouka ?" 
 
 "Oh, he said Kouka'd been laggin* him, and he was 
 goin* to get him. He talked about it pretty much all 
 the time." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "That's about all, yes, sir." 
 
 "Take the witness." 
 
 Griscom, evidently relieved, had started to leave the 
 chair, and as he moved he drew his palm across a gray 
 brow that suddenly broke out in repulsive little drops 
 of perspiration. 
 
 "One moment, Griscom," said Marriott, "I'd like to 
 ask you a few questions." 
 
 The court was very still, and every one hung with' an 
 interest equal to Marriott's on the convict's next words. 
 Griscom found all this interest too strong; his pallid 
 lips were parted; he drew his breath with difficulty, 
 his chest was moving with automatic jerks; presently 
 he coughed. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 479 
 
 Marriott began to question the convict about his 
 conversations with Archie. He did this in the belief 
 that while Archie had no doubt breathed his vengeance 
 against Kouka, his words, under the circumstances, 
 were not to be given that dreadful significance which 
 now they were made to assume. He could imagine 
 that they had been uttered idly, and that they bore no 
 real relation to his shooting of Kouka. But the diffi- 
 culty was to make this clear to the crystallized, stupid 
 and formal minds of the jury, or rather to Broad well, 
 who was the jury. He tried to induce Griscom to de- 
 scribe the circumstances under which Archie had made 
 these threats, but Griscom was almost as stupid as the 
 jurors, and the law was more stupid than either, for 
 Griscom in his effort to meet the questions was con- 
 tinually making answers that involved his own con- 
 clusions, and to them Eades always objected, and 
 Glassford always sustained the objections. And Mar- 
 riott experienced the same sensations that he had when 
 Quinn was testifying. There was no way to reproduce 
 Archie's manner — ^his tone, his expression, the look in 
 his eyes. 
 
 To hide his chagrin, Marriott wiped his moutH with 
 his handkerchief, leaned over and consulted his notes. 
 
 "A life is a long time, isn't it, Griscom?'' he re- 
 sumed, gently now. 
 
 "Yes." Griscom's chin fell to his breast. 
 
 "And the penitentiary is not a good place to be ?" 
 
 Griscom looked up with the first flash of real spirit 
 he had displayed. 
 
 "I wouldn't send a dog there, Mr. Marriott !" 
 
 "No," said Marriott, "and you'd like to get out?'* 
 
 "Sure." 
 
48o THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "YouVe applied for a pardon?" 
 
 *'Yes." 
 
 Marriott's heart was beating fast. At last he Had a 
 hope. He could hear the ticking of the big clock on 
 the wall, he could catch the faint echoes of his voice 
 against the high ceiling of the room whose acoustic 
 properties were so poor, he could hear the very breath- 
 ing of the crowd behind him. 
 
 "Mr. Griscom,'* said Marriott, wondering if that 
 were the right question, longing for some inspiration 
 that would be the one infallible test for this situation, 
 "did you report to the authorities these remarks of 
 Koerner's at the time he made them ?" 
 
 Griscom hesitated. 
 
 "No, sir," he answered. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I didn't think it necessary." 
 
 "Why didn't you think it necessary?" 
 
 "Well— I didn't." 
 
 "Was it because you didn't think Archie was in ear- 
 nest — because his words were not serious ?" 
 
 "I didn't think it necessary." 
 
 Marriott wondered whether to press him further — 
 he was on dangerous ground. 
 
 "To whom did you first mention them ?" 
 
 "To the deputy warden." 
 
 "This man here?" Marriott waved his hand at Ball 
 with a contempt he was not at all careful to conceal. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "When was that?" 
 
 "Oh, about a month ago." 
 
 "After Kouka's death?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 481 
 
 f 
 
 "Griscom," said Marriott, risking his whole case on 
 the words, and the silence in the room deepened until 
 it throbbed like a profound pain, "when Ball came to 
 tell you to testify as you have against Archie, he pro- 
 mised to get you a pardon, did he not ?" 
 
 Eades was on his feet. 
 
 "There is no evidence here that Ball went to the wit- 
 ness," he cried. He was angry ; his face was very red. 
 
 Marriott smiled. 
 
 "Let the witness answer," he said. 
 
 "The question is improper," said Glassford. 
 
 "Is it not a fact, Griscom, that Ball made you some 
 promise to induce you to testify as you have ?" 
 
 Griscom hesitated, his eyes were already wavering, 
 and Marriott felt an irresistible impulse to follow 
 them. Slowly the convict's glance turned toward Ball, 
 sitting low in his chair, one leg hung over the other, a 
 big foot dangling above the floor. His arm was thrust 
 straight out before him, his hand grasped his cane, his 
 attitude was apparently careless and indifferent, but 
 the knuckles of the hand that held the cane were white, 
 and his eyes, peering from their narrow slits, were 
 fastened in a steady, compelling stare on Griscom. 
 The convict looked an instant and then he said, still 
 looking at Ball : 
 
 "No, it isn't." 
 
 The convict had a sudden fit of coughing. He 
 fumbled frantically in the breast of his jacket, then 
 clapped his hand to his mouth ; his face was blue, his 
 eyes were staring; presently between his fingers there 
 trickled a thin bright stream of blood. Ball got up and 
 tenderly helped the convict from the chair and the 
 court-room. And Marriott knew that he had lost. 
 
482 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Yes, Marriott knew that he had lost and he felt him- 
 self sinking into the lethargy of despair. The atmos- 
 phere of the trial had become more inimical ; he found 
 it hard to contain himself, hard to maintain that air of 
 unconcern a lawyer must constantly affect. He found 
 it hard to look at Eades, who seemed suddenly to have 
 a new buoyancy of voice and manner. In truth, Eades 
 had been uncertain about Griscom, but now that the 
 convict had given his testimony and all had gone well 
 for Eades and his side, Eades was immensely relieved. 
 He felt that the turning point in the great game had 
 been passed. But it would not do to display any ela- 
 tion; he must take it all quite impersonally, and in 
 every way conduct himself as a fearless, disinterested 
 official, and not as a human being at all. Eades felt, 
 of course, that this result was due to his own sagacity, 
 his own skill as a lawyer, his generalship in marshal- 
 ing his evidence ; he felt the crowd behind him to be 
 mere spectators, whose part it was to look on and ap- 
 plaud; he did not know that this result was attribu- 
 table to those mysterious, transcendental impulses of 
 the human passions, moving in an irresistible current, 
 sweeping him along and the jury and the judge, and 
 bearing Archie to his doom. But Eades was so en- 
 couraged that he decided to call another witness he had 
 been uncertainly holding in reserve. He had had his 
 doubts about this witness as he had had them about 
 Griscom, but now these doubts were swept away by 
 that same occult force. 
 
 "Swear Uri Marsh." 
 
 There was the usual wait, the stillness, the suspend- 
 ed curiosity, and then Bentley came in, leading an old 
 man. This old man was cleanly shaven, his hair was 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 483 
 
 white, and he wore a new suit of ready-made clothes. 
 The cheap and paltry garments seemed to shrink away 
 from the wasted form they fitted so imperfectly, 
 grudgingly lending themselves, as for this occasion 
 only, to the purpose of restoring and disguising their 
 disreputable wearer. Beneath them it was quite easy 
 to detect the figure of dishonorable poverty that in an- 
 other hour or another day would step out of them and 
 resume its appropriate rags and tatters, to flutter on 
 and lose itself in the squalid streets of the city where 
 it would wander alone, abandoned by all, even by the 
 police. 
 
 As Archie recognized this man, his face went white 
 even to the lips. Marriott looked at him, but the only 
 other sign of feeling Archie gave was in the swelling 
 and tightening of the cords of his neck. He swallowed 
 as if in pain, and seemed about to choke.- Marriott 
 spoke, but he did not hear. Strangely enough, it did 
 not seem to Marriott to matter. 
 
 This witness, like Griscom, had been a convict, like 
 Griscom he had known Archie in prison ; he and Archie 
 had been released the same day, and he had come back 
 to town with Archie. 
 
 "What did he say?" the old man was repeating 
 Eades's question ; he always repeated each question be- 
 fore he answered it — "what did he say? Well, sir, he 
 said, so he did, he said he was going to kill a detective 
 here. That's what he said, sir. I wouldn^t lie to you, 
 no, sir, not me — I wouldn't lie — ^no, sir." 
 
 "That will do," said Eades. "Now tell us, Mr. 
 Marsh, what, if anything, Koerner said to Detective 
 Quinn in your presence?" 
 
 "What'd he say to Detective Quinn? What'd he 
 
484 'I'HE TURN OF THE BALANCfi 
 
 say to Detective Quinn? Well, sir," the old man 
 paused and spat out his saliva, **he said the same 
 thing." 
 
 *7ust give his words." 
 
 "His words ? Well, sir, he said he was going to kill 
 that fellow — that detective — what's his name? You 
 know his name." 
 
 The garrulous old fellow ran on. There was some- 
 thing ludicrous in it all; the crowd became suddenly 
 merry; it seemed to feel such a gloating sense of tri- 
 umph that it could afford amusement. The old man in 
 the witness-chair enjoyed it immensely, he laughed 
 too, and spat and laughed again. 
 
 It was with difficulty that Marriott and Eades and 
 Glassford got him to recognize Marriott's right to 
 cross-examine him, and when at last the idea pierced its 
 way to his benumbed and aged mind, he hesitated, as 
 the old do before a new impressioil, and then sank back 
 in his chair. His face all at once became impassive, 
 almost imbecile. And he utterly refused to answer any 
 of Marriott's questions. Marriott put them to him 
 again and again, in the same form and in different 
 forms, but the old man sat there and stared at him 
 blankly. Glassford took the witness in hand, finally 
 threatened him with imprisonment for contempt. 
 
 "Now you answer or go to jail," said Glassford, with 
 the most impressive sternness he could command. 
 
 Then Marriott said again : 
 
 "I asked you where you had been staying since you 
 came to town and who provided for you ?" 
 
 The old man looked at him an instant, a peculiar 
 cunning stole gradually into his swimming eyes, and 
 then slowly he lifted his right hand to his face. His 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 485 
 
 middle finger was missing, and thrusting the stump 
 beneath his nose, he placed his Index finger to his 
 right eye, his third finger to his left, drew down the 
 lower lids until their red linings were revealed, and 
 then he wiggled his thumb and little finger. 
 
 The court-room burst Into a roar, the laughter 
 pealed and echoed In the high-ceiled room, even the 
 jurymen, save Broad well, permitted themselves wary 
 smiles. The bailiff sprang up and pounded with his 
 gavel, and Glassford, his face red with fury, shouted : 
 
 *'Mr. Sheriff, take the witness to jail! And if this 
 demonstration does not Instantly cease, clear the court- 
 room !" 
 
 The contretemps completed Marriott's sense of utter 
 humiliation and defeat. As if it were not enough to be 
 beaten, he now suffered the chagrin of having been 
 made ridiculous. He was oblivious to everything but 
 his own misery and discomfiture; he forgot even 
 Archie. Bentley and a deputy were hustling the of- 
 fending old man from the court-room, and he shambled 
 between them loosely, grotesquely, presenting the mis- 
 erable, demoralizing and pathetic spectacle that age 
 always presents when it has dishonored itself. 
 
 As they were dragging the old man past Archie, his 
 feet scuffling and dragging like those of a paralytic, 
 Archie spoke : 
 
 "Why, Dad!" he said. 
 
 In his tone were all disappointment and reproach. 
 
 The Incident was over, but try as they would, Glass- 
 ford, Eades, Lamborn, Marriott, all the attaches and 
 officials of the court could not restore to the tribunal 
 its lost dignity. This awesome and imposing structure 
 mankind has been ^ges in rearing, this institution men 
 
486 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 had thought to make something more than themselves, 
 at the grotesque gesture of one of its poorest, meanest, 
 oldest and most miserable victims, had suddenly col- 
 lapsed, disintegrated into its mere human entities. Un- 
 consciously this aged imbecile had taken a supreme 
 and mighty revenge on the institution that had bereft 
 him of his reason and his life; it could not resist the 
 shock; it must pause to reconstruct itself, to resume 
 its lost prestige, and men were glad when Glassford, 
 with what solemnity he could command, told the bailiff 
 to adjourn court. 
 
XVII 
 
 At six o'clock on the evening of the day the State 
 rested, Marriott found himself once more at the jail. 
 He passed the series of grated cells from which their 
 inmates peered with the wistful look common to pris- 
 oners, and paused before Archie's door. He could see 
 only the boy's muscular back bowed over the tiny table, 
 slowly dipping chunks of bread into his pan of mo- 
 lasses, eating his supper silently and humbly. The fig- 
 ure was intensely pathetic to Marriott. He gazed a 
 moment in the regret with which one gazes on the dead, 
 struck down in an instant by some useless accident. 
 "And yet," he thought, "it is not done, there is still 
 hope. He must be saved !" 
 
 "Hello, Archie !" he said, forcing a cheerful tone. 
 
 Archie started, pushed back his chair, drew his hand 
 across his mouth to wipe away the crumbs, and thrust 
 it through the bars. 
 
 "Don't let me keep you from your supper," said 
 Marriott. 
 
 Archie smiled a wan smile. 
 
 "That's all right," he said. "It isn't much of a sup- 
 per, and I ain't exactly hungry." 
 
 Archie grasped the bars above his head and leaned 
 his breast against the door. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of it, Mr. Marriott ?" 
 
 "I don't know, Archie." 
 
 "Looks as if I was the fall guy all right," 
 487. 
 
488 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Marriott bit his lip. 
 
 "We have to put in our evidence in the morning, you 
 know." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And we must decide whether you're going on the 
 stand or not." 
 
 "I'll leave it to you, Mr. Marriott." 
 
 Marriott thought a moment. 
 
 "What do you think about it ?" he asked presently. 
 
 "I don't know. You see, I've got a record." 
 
 "Yes, but they already know you've been in prison." 
 
 "Sure, but my taking the stand would make the rap 
 harder. That fellow Eades would tear me to pieces." 
 
 Marriott was silent. 
 
 "And then that old hixer on the jury, that wise guy 
 up there in the corner." Archie shook his head in de- 
 spair. "Every time he pikes me off, I know he's ready 
 to hand it all to me." 
 
 "You mean Broadwell?" 
 
 "Yes. He's one of those church-members. That's 
 a bad sign, a bad sign." Archie shook his head sadly. 
 "No, it's a kangaroo all right, they're going to job 
 me." Archie hung his head. "Of course, Mr. Mar- 
 riott, I know you've done your best. You're the only 
 friend I got, and I wish — I wish there was some way 
 for me to pay you. I can't promise you, like some of 
 these guys, that I'll work and pay you when I get — " 
 He looked up with a sadly humorous and appreciative 
 smile. "Of course, I—" 
 
 "Don't, Archie!" said Marriott. "Don't talk that 
 way. That part of it's all right. Cheer up, my boy, 
 cheer up!" Marriott was trying so hard to cheer up 
 himself. "We haven't played our hand yet ; we'll give 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE ^ 489 
 
 'em a fight. There are higher courts, and there's al- 
 ways the governor." 
 
 ArQhie shook his head. 
 
 "Maybe you won't beheve me, Mr. Marriott, but I'd 
 rather go to the chair than take Hfe down there. You 
 don't know what that place is, Mr. Marriott." 
 
 "No," said Marriott, "but I can imagine." 
 
 Then he changed his tone. 
 
 "We-'ve plenty of time to talk about all that," he went 
 on. "Now we must talk about to-morrow. Look here, 
 Archie. Why can't you go on the stand and tell your 
 whole story — ^just as you've told it to me a hundred 
 times ? It convinced me the first time I heard it ; may- 
 be it would convince the jury. They'd see that you had 
 cause to kill Kouka !" 
 
 "Cause!" exclaimed the boy. "Great God! After 
 the way he hounded me — I should say so ! Why, Mr. 
 Marriott, he made me do it, he made me what I am. 
 Don't you see that ?" 
 
 "Of course I do. And why can't you tell them so ?" 
 Marriott was enthusiastic with his new hope. 
 
 "Oh, well," said Archie with no enthusiasm at all, 
 "with you it's different. You look at things different ; 
 you can see things ; you know there's some good in me, 
 don't you?" 
 
 It was an appeal that touched Marriott, and yet he 
 felt powerless to make the boy see how deeply it 
 touched him. 
 
 "And then," Archie went on — he talked with an in- 
 tense earnestness and he leaned so close that Marriott 
 could smell the odor of coffee on his breath — "when I 
 talk to you, I know somehow that — well — you believe 
 me, and we're sitting down, just talking together with 
 
490 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 no one else around. But there in that court-room, with 
 all those people ready to tear my heart out and eat it, 
 and the beak — Glassford, I mean — ^and the blokes in 
 the box, and Eades ready to twist everything I say; 
 well, what show have I got ? You can see for yourself, 
 Mr. Marriott." 
 
 Archie spread his hands wide to show the hopeless- 
 ness of it all. 
 
 "Well, I think you'd better try, anyhow. Will you 
 think it over ?" 
 
XVIII 
 
 Marriott heard the commotion as he entered the ele- 
 vator the next morning, and as the cage ascended, the 
 noise increased. He heard the chck of heels, the scuff 
 of damp soles on the marble, and then the growl of 
 many men, angry, beside themselves, possessed by their 
 lower natures. The chorus of rough voices had lost 
 its human note and sunk to the ugly register of the 
 brutish. Drawing nearer, he distinguished curses and 
 desperate cries. And there in the half-light at the end 
 of the long corridor, the crowd swayed this way and 
 that, struggling, scrambling, fighting. Hats were 
 knocked off and spun in the air ; now and then an arm 
 was lifted out of the mass ; now and then a white fist 
 was shaken above the huddle of heads. Two deputy 
 sheriffs, Hersch and Cumrow, were flattened against 
 the doors of the criminal court, their faces trickling 
 with sweat, their waistcoats torn open; and they 
 strained mightily. The crowd surged against them, 
 threatening to press the breath out of their bodies. 
 They paused, panting from their efforts, then tried 
 again to force back the crowd, shouting : 
 "Get back there, damn you ! Get back !" 
 Marriott slipped through a side door into the judge's 
 chamber. The room was filled. Glassford, Eades, 
 Lamborn, all the attaches of the court were there. 
 Bentley, the sheriff, had flung up a window, and stood 
 there fanning himself with his broad-brimmed hat, dis- 
 
 491 
 
492 THE TURN, OF THE BALANCE 
 
 regardlngf exposure, his breatH floating in vapor out o£ 
 the window. On the low leather lounge where Glass- 
 ford took his naps sat Archie close beside Danner. 
 When he saw Marriott a wan smile came to his white 
 face. 
 
 "They tried to get at me !" The phrase seemed suf- 
 ficient to him to explain it all, and at the same time to 
 express his own surprise and consternation in it all. 
 
 "They tried to get at me!" Archie repeated in an- 
 other tone, expressing another meaning, another sen- 
 sation, a wholly different thought. The boy's lips were 
 drawn tightly across his teeth ; he shook with fear. 
 
 "They tried to get at me!" he repeated, in yet an- 
 other tone. 
 
 Old Doctor Bitner, the jail physician, had come 
 with a tumbler half-full of whisky and water. 
 
 "Here, Archie," he said, "try a sip of this. You'll 
 he all right in a minute." 
 
 "He's collapsed," the physician whispered to Mar- 
 riott, as Archie snatched the glass and gulped down the 
 whisky, making a wry face, and shuddering as if the 
 stuff sickened him. 
 
 "I'm all in, Mr. Marriott," said Archie. "I've gone 
 to pieces. I'm down and out. It's no use." He hung 
 his head, as if ashamed of his weakness. 
 
 "Well, you know, my boy, that we must begin. It's 
 up to us now. Can you take the stand ?" 
 
 "No ! No !" Archie shook his head with emphasis. 
 "I can't! I can't! That fellow Eades would tear me 
 to pieces !" 
 
 Marriott argued, expostulated, pleaded, but in vain. 
 The boy only shook his head and said over and over, 
 each time with a new access of terror : 
 
• THE TURN of: THE BALANCE 493 
 
 "No, Eades would tear me to pieces." 
 "Come on, Gordon," called Glassford, who had fin- 
 ished his cigar, "we can't wait any longer." 
 
 The following morning, the defense having put in its 
 evidence and rested, Lamborn began the opening argu- 
 ment for the State. It had long been Lamborn's ambi- 
 tion to make a speech that would last a whole day. He 
 had made copious notes, and when he succeeded in 
 speaking a full half-hour without referring to them, 
 he was greatly encouraged. When he was compelled 
 finally to succumb, and consult his notes, he began to 
 review the evidence, that is, he repeated what the wit- 
 nesses had already told. After that he began to fail no- 
 ticeably in ideas and frequently glanced at the clock, but 
 he thought of the statutes, and he read to the jury the 
 laws defining murder in the first degree, murder in the 
 second degree, and manslaughter, and then declaring 
 that the crime Archie had committed was clearly mur- 
 der in the first degree, he closed by urging the jury to 
 find him guilty of this crime. 
 
 In the afternoon Pennell opened the arguments for 
 the defense. Having won the oratorical contest at col- 
 lege, and having once been spoken of in print as the 
 silver-tongued, Pennell pitched his voice in the highest 
 key, and soon filled the court-room with a prodigious 
 noise ; he had not spoken fifteen minutes before he had 
 lashed himself into a fury, and with each new, fresh 
 burst of enthusiasm, he raised his hoarse voice higher 
 and higher, until the throats of his hearers ached in 
 sympathy. But at the end of two hours he ceased to 
 wave his arms, no longer struck the bar of the jury- 
 box with his fist, the strain died away, and he sank into 
 
494 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 his chair, his hair disheveled, his brow and neck and 
 wrists ghstening with perspiration, utterly exhausted, 
 but still wearing the oratorical scowl. 
 
 All this time Eades and Marriott were lying back in 
 their chairs, in the attitudes of counsel who are reserv- 
 ing themselves for the great and telling efforts of the 
 trial, that is, the closing arguments. When Marriott 
 arose the next morning to begin his address, the si- 
 lence was profound. He looked about him, at Glass- 
 ford, at Eades, at the crowd, straining with curious, 
 gleaming eyes. In the overflowing line of men within 
 the bar on either side of the jury-box he recognized 
 several lawyers ; their faces were white against the 
 wall; they seemed strange, unnatural, out of place. 
 The jury were uneasy and glanced away, and though 
 Broadwell lifted his small eyes to him, it was without 
 response or sympathy. Marriott was chilled by the 
 patent opposition. Then, somehow, he detected old 
 man Reder stealing a glance at Archie ; he kept his eye 
 on Reder. What was Reder thinking of ? "Thinking, 
 I suppose," thought Marriott, "that this settles it, and 
 that there is nothing to do now but to send Archie to 
 the chair." 
 
 Reder, however, in that moment was really think- 
 ing of his boyhood in Germany, where his father had 
 been a judge like Glassford; one day he had found 
 among the papers on his father's desk the statement 
 of a case. An old peasant had accidentally set fire to 
 a forest on an estate and burned up wood to the value 
 of forty marks, for this he was being tried. He felt 
 sorry for the peasant and had begged his father to let 
 him go. When he came home at night he asked his 
 father — 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 495 
 
 Marriott made an effort, mastered himself; he 
 thought of Archie, leaning forward eagerly, his eyes 
 fixed on him with their last hope. He had a vision of 
 Archie as he had seen him in the jail — he saw again 
 the supple play of his muscles under the white skin of 
 his breast, full of health, of strength, of life — ^kill him ? 
 It was monstrous ! A passion swelled within him ; he 
 would speak for him, he would speak for old man 
 Koerner, for Gusta, for all the voiceless, submerged 
 poor in the world. . . . He began. . . . Some one 
 was sobbing. ... He glanced about. It was old 
 Mrs. Koerner, in tears, the first she had shed during the 
 trial. . . . Archie was looking at her. . , . He 
 was making an effort, but tears were glistening in the 
 corners of his eyes. . . . 
 
 It was over at last. He had done all he could. Men 
 were crowding about him, congratulating him — Pen- 
 nell, Bentley, his friends among the lawyers, Gfass- 
 ford, and, yes, even Eades. 
 
 "I never heard you do better, Gordon," said Eades. 
 
 Marriott thanked him. But then Eades could al- 
 ways be depended on to do the correct thing. 
 
 All that afternoon Archie sat there and listened to 
 Eades denouncing him. When Marriott had finished 
 his speech, Archie had felt a happiness and a hope — 
 but now there was no hope. Eades was, indeed, tear- 
 ing him to pieces. How long must he sit there and be 
 game, and endure this thing? Would it never end? 
 Could Eades speak on for ever and for ever and never 
 cease his abuse and denunciation? Would it end with 
 evening — if evening ever came? No; evening came, 
 but Eades had not finished. Morning came, and Eades 
 
496 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 spoke on and on. He was speaking some strange 
 words; they sounded like the words the mission stiffs 
 used ; they must be out of the Bible. He noticed that 
 Broadwell was very attentive. 
 
 "He'll soon be done now, Archie," whispered Mar- 
 riott, giving him a little pat on the knee ; ''when they 
 quote Scripture, that's a sign — " 
 
 Yes, he had finished ; this was all ; soon it would be 
 over and he would know. 
 
 The jurymen were moving in their seats; but there 
 was yet more to be done. The judge must deliver his 
 charge, and the jurors settled down again to listen to 
 Glassford with even greater respect than they had 
 shown Eades. 
 
 During the closing sentences of Eades's speech 
 Glassford had drawn some papers from a drawer and 
 arranged them on his desk. These papers contained 
 portions of charges he had made in other criminal cases. 
 Glassford motioned to the bailiff, who bore him a glass 
 of iced water, from which Glassford took a sip and 
 set it before him, as if he would need it and find it 
 useful in making his charge. Then he took off his 
 gold eye-glasses, raised his eyebrows two or three 
 times, drew out a large handkerchief and began polish- 
 ing his glasses as if that were the most important busi- 
 ness of his life. He breathed on the lenses, then pol- 
 ished them, then breathed again, and polished again. 
 
 Glassford had selected those portions of the charges 
 he kept in stock, which assured the jury of the great- 
 ness of the English law, told how they must consider 
 a man innocent until he had been proved guilty beyond 
 a reasonable doubt, that they must not draw any con- 
 clusions unfavorable to the prisoner at the bar from 
 
JHE TURN, of: JHE BALANCE 497 
 
 the fact that he had not taken the witness-stand, and 
 so on. These instructions were written in long, in- 
 volved sentences, composed as nearly as possible of 
 words of Latin derivation. Glassford read them slow- 
 ly, but so as to give the impression that it was an ex- 
 temporaneous production. 
 
 The jurymen, though many of them did not know 
 the meaning of the words Glassford used, thought they 
 all sounded ominous and portentous, and seemed to 
 suggest Archie's guilt very strongly. For half an hour 
 Glassford read from his instructions, from the indict- 
 ment and from the statutes, then suddenly recalling 
 the fact that the public was greatly interested in this 
 case, he began to talk of the heinousness of this form 
 of crime and the sacredness of human life. In im- 
 agination he could already see the editorials that would 
 be printed in the newspapers, praising him for his 
 stand, and this, he reflected, would be beneficial to him 
 in his campaign for renomination and reelection. 
 Finally he told the jurymen that they must not be af- 
 fected by motives of sympathy or compassion or pity 
 for the prisoner at the bar or his family, for they had 
 nothing to do with the punishment that would be in- 
 flicted upon him. Then he read the various verdicts 
 to them, casually mentioning the verdict of "not 
 guilty" in the tone of an after-thought and as a con- 
 tingency not likely to occur, and then told them, at 
 last, that they could retire. 
 
 At five o'clock the jury stumbled out of the box and 
 entered the little room to the left. 
 
It was four o'clock ir* the morning, and the twelve 
 men who were to decide Archie's fate were still hud- 
 dled in the jury room. For eleven hours they had 
 been there, balloting, arguing, disputing, quarreling, 
 and then balloting again. Time after time young Men- 
 ard had passed around his hat for the little scraps of 
 paper, and always the result was the same, eleven for 
 conviction, one for acquittal. For a while after the 
 jury assembled there had been three votes for convic- 
 tion of murder in the second degree, but long ago, as 
 it seemed at that hour, these three votes had been won 
 over for conviction of murder in the first degree, which 
 meant death. At two o'clock Broadwell had declared 
 that there was no use in wasting more time in voting, 
 and for two hours no ballot had been taken. The elec- 
 tric lamps had glowed all night, filling the room with 
 a fierce light, which, at this hour of the winter morn- 
 ing, had taken on an unnatural glare. The air was 
 vitiated, and would have sickened one coming from 
 outside, but these men, whose lungs had been gradu- 
 ally accustomed to it, were not aware how foiil it was. 
 Once or twice in the night some one had thrown up a 
 window, but the older men had complained of the cold, 
 and the window had to be closed down again. In that 
 air hung the dead odor of tobacco smoke, for in the 
 earlier hours of the night most of the men — aU, indeed, 
 save Broadwell — had smoked, some of them cigars, 
 
 498 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 499 
 
 some pipes. But now they were so steeped in bodily 
 weariness and in physical discomfort and misery that 
 none of them smoked any longer. On the big oaken ta- 
 ble in the middle of the room Menard's hat lay tilted 
 on its side, and all about lay the ballots. Ballots, too, 
 strewed the floor and filled the cuspidors, little scraps 
 of paper on which was scribbled for the most part the 
 one word, "Guilty," the same word on all of them, 
 though not always spelled the same. One man wrote 
 it "Gildy," another "Gilty," still another "Gility." But 
 among all those scattered scraps there was a series of 
 ballots, the sight of which angered eleven of the men, 
 and drove them to profanity ; on this series of ballots 
 was written "Not guilty." The words were written in 
 an invariable, beautiful script, plainly the chirography 
 of some German. 
 
 It was evident that in this barren room, with its 
 table and twelve chairs, its high blank walls and lofty 
 ceiling, a mighty conflict had been waged. But now 
 at the mystic hour when the tide of human forces is 
 at its farthest ebb, the men had become exhausted, and 
 they sat about in dejected attitudes of lassitude and 
 weariness, their brains and souls benumbed. Young 
 Menard had drawn his chair up to the table and 
 thrown his head forward on his arms. He was wholly 
 spent, his brow was bathed with clammy perspiration, 
 and a nausea had seized him. His mind was too tired 
 to work longer, and he was only irritably conscious of 
 some unpleasant interruption when any one spoke. 
 The old men had suffered greatly from the confine- 
 ment; the long night in that miserable little room, 
 without comforts, had accentuated their various dis- 
 eases, all the latent pains and aches of age had beea 
 
'500 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 awakened, and now, at this low hour, they had lost 
 the sense of time and place, the trial seemed far away 
 in the past, there was no future, and they could but 
 sit there and suffer dumbly. In one corner Osgood 
 had tilted back a chair and fallen asleep. He sprawled 
 there, his head fallen to one side, his wide-open mouth 
 revealing his throat ; his face was bathed in sweat, and 
 he snored horribly. 
 
 In another corner sat Broadwell, his hands folded 
 across his paunch. The flesh on his fat face had dark- 
 ened, beneath his eyes were deep blue circles and he 
 looked very old. He had been elected foreman, of 
 course, and early in the evening had made long and 
 solemn addresses to the jury, the same kind of ad- 
 dresses he delivered to his Bible-class — instructive, pat- 
 ronizing, every one of his arguments based on some 
 hackneyed and obvious moral premise. Particularly 
 was this the case, when, as had befallen early in the 
 evening, they had discussed the death penalty. This 
 subject roused him to a high degree of anger, and he 
 raged about it, defended the practice of capital punish- 
 ment, then, growing calm, spoke of it reverently and 
 as if, indeed, it were a sacrament like baptism, or the 
 Lord's Supper, quoting from the ninth chapter of Gen- 
 esis. Old Reder had opposed him, and Broadwell had 
 demanded of him to know what he would wish to have 
 done to a man who killed his wife, for instance. Reder, 
 quite insensible to the tribute implied in the sugges- 
 tion that his action would furnish the standard for all 
 action in such an emergency, had for a while main- 
 tained that he would not wish to have the man put to 
 death, but Broadwell had insisted that he would, had 
 
THE TURN of: THE BALANCE 501 
 
 quoted the ninth chapter of Genesis again, shaken his ' 
 head, puffed, and angrily turned away from Reder. 
 One by one he had beaten down the wills of the other 
 jurors. He was tenacious and stubborn, and he had 
 conquered them all — all but old Reder, who paced the 
 floor, his hands in the side pockets of his short jacket. 
 His shaggy white brows were knit in a permanent 
 scowl, and now and then he gathered portions of his 
 gray beard into his mouth and chewed savagely. He 
 was the one, of course, who had been voting for ac- 
 quittal ; his was the hand that had written in that Con- 
 tinental script those dissenting words, "Not guilty." 
 
 When this became known, the others had gathered 
 round him, trying to beat him down, and finally, giving 
 way to anger, had shaken their fists in his face, reviled 
 him, and called him ugly names. But all the while he 
 had shaken his head and shouted : 
 
 "No! no! no! nor 
 
 For a while he had argued against Archie's guilt, 
 then against the methods of the police, at last, had 
 begged for mercy on the boy. But this last appeal only 
 made them angry. 
 
 "Mercy !" they said. "Did he show that old woman 
 any mercy ?" 
 
 "He isn't being triedt for der old woman," said Re- 
 der. "Dot's what the chudge saidt." 
 
 "Well, then. Did he show Kouka any mercy ?" 
 
 "Bah!" shouted Reder. "Did Kouka show him 
 any?" 
 
 "But Kouka"— they insisted. 
 
 "Ach! To hell mit all 0' you !" cried Reder, and be- 
 gan to stalk the floor. 
 
502 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "The Dutch dog I" said one. 
 
 'The stubborn brute !" grumbled another. "Keeping 
 us all up here, and making us lose our sleep !" 
 
 "I tell you," said another, "the jury system ought to 
 be changed, so's a majority would rule !" 
 
 "It's no use, it's no use," Reder said in a higK petu- 
 lant voice; "you only make me vorse; you only make 
 me vorse!" He held his hands up and shook them 
 loosely, his fingers vibrating with great rapidity. 
 
 Then it was still for a long while — but in the dark and 
 empty court-room, where the bailiff slept on one of the 
 seats, sharp, unnatural, cracking noises were heard now 
 and then ; and from it emanated the strange weird in- 
 fluence of the night and darkness. Through the win- 
 dow they looked on the court-house yard lying cold and 
 white under the blaze of the electric lamps. The wind 
 swept down the bleak deserted street. Once they heard 
 a policeman's whistle. Osgood was snoring loudly. 
 
 "Great God!" shouted Duncan irritably. "Can't 
 some of you make him stop that ?" 
 
 Church got up and gave Osgood's chair a rude kick. 
 
 "Huh?" Osgood started up, staring about wildly. 
 Then he came to his senses, looked around, understood, 
 fell back and went to sleep again. 
 
 And Reder tramped up and down, and Broadwell 
 sat and glared at him, and the others waited. Reder 
 was thinking of that time of his boyhood in Germany 
 when the old peasant had been tried for setting the 
 wood afire. The whole scene had come back to him, 
 and he found a fascination in recalling one by one 
 every detail, until each stood out vividly and distinctly 
 in his mind. He paced on, until, after a while. Broad- 
 well spoke again. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 503 
 
 "Mr. Recler/' he said, "I don*t see how you can as- 
 sume the position you do." 
 
 "It's no use, I tol' you ; no use !" 
 
 "But look here," Broadwell insisted, getting up and 
 trying to stop Reder. He took him by the lapel of his 
 coat, forced him to stand an instant, and when Reder 
 yielded, and stood still, the other jurors looked up with 
 some hope. 
 
 "Tell me why—" 
 
 "I don't vant to have him killedt, I tol' you," 
 
 "But it isn't killing ; it isn't the same." 
 
 "Bah ! Nonsense !" roared Reder. 
 
 "It's the law." 
 
 "I don't gare for der law. We say he don't die — he 
 don't die den, ain't it?" 
 
 "But it's the law!" protested Broadwell, thinking to 
 add new stress to his argument by placing new stress 
 on the word. "How can we do otherwise ?" 
 
 "How ? Chust by saying not guildy, dot's how." 
 
 "But how can we do that ?" 
 
 "Chust do it, dot's how !" 
 
 "But it's the /aw,— the lawT 
 
 "Damn der lawT roared Reder, resuming his walk. 
 And Broadwell stood looking at him, in horror, as if 
 he had blasphemed. 
 
 There was silence again, save for Osgood's snoring. 
 Then suddenly, no one knew how, the argument broke 
 out anew. 
 
 "How do we know ?" some one was saying. It was 
 Grey ; his conviction was shaken again. 
 
 "Know?" said Church. "Don't we know?" 
 
 "How do we?" 
 
 "Well— I don't know, only—" 
 
504 THE TURN OF! THE BALANCE' 
 
 "Yes, only." 
 
 "You ain't going back on us now, I Hope?"^ 
 
 "No, but — " Grey shook his head. 
 
 "Well, you heard what the judge said." 
 
 They could always appeal to what the judge had 
 said, as if he spoke with some authority that was above 
 all others. 
 
 "What'd he say?" asked Grey. 
 
 "Why — ^he said — what was that there word now ?" 
 
 "What word?" 
 
 "That word he used — refer — no that wasn't it, let's 
 see." 
 
 "Infer ?" suggested Broadwell. 
 
 "Sure! That's it! Infer! He said infer." ^ 
 
 "By God ! I guess that's right ! He did say that." ' 
 
 "Course," Church went on triumphantly. "Infer! 
 He said infer, and that means we can infer it, don't it ?" 
 
 Just at that minute a pain, sharp and piercing, shot 
 through Reder's back. He winced, made a wry face, 
 stopped, stooped to a senile posture and clapped his 
 hand to his back. His heart suddenly sank — ^there it 
 was again, his old trouble. That meant bad things for 
 him ; now, as likely as not, he'd be laid up all winter ; 
 probably he couldn't sit on the jury any more ; surely 
 not if that old trouble came back on him. And how 
 would he and his old wife get through the winter? 
 Instantly he forgot everything else. What time was 
 it, he wondered? This being up all night; he could 
 not stand that. 
 
 As from a distance he heard the argument going on. 
 At first he felt no relation to it, but this question must 
 be settled some way. The pain had ceased, but it 
 .would come back again. He straightened up slowly, 
 'graduall;)^, with extreme care, his hand poised in readi- 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE T505 
 
 ness to clap to his back again ; He turned about by mi- 
 nute degrees and said : 
 
 "What's dot you saidt?" 
 
 "Why," began Church, but just then Reder winced 
 again; clapped his hand to his back, doubled up, his 
 face was contorted. He was evidently suffering tor- 
 tures, but he made no outcry. Church sprang toward 
 him. 
 
 "Get him some water, — here !" 
 
 Chisholm punched young Menard; he got up, and 
 pushed the big white porcelain water pitcher across 
 the table. But Reder waved it aside. 
 
 "Nefer mind," he said. "What was dot you vas 
 sayin' a minute back ?" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Reder, we said the judge said we could 
 infer. Don't you remember ?" 
 
 Church looked into his face Hopefully, and waited. 
 
 Broadwell got slowly to his feet, and moved toward 
 the little group deliberately, importantly, as if he alone 
 could explain. 
 
 "Here, have my chair, Mr. Reder," said Broadwell 
 with intense politeness. 
 
 "No, nefer mind," said Reder^ afraid to move. 
 
 "What the judge said," Broadwell began, "was sim- 
 ply this. He said that if it was to be inferred from all 
 the facts and circumstances adduced in evidence — " 
 
 "Besides," Church broke in, "that old woman said 
 he was the fellow, down at the police station — it was 
 in the paper, don't you remember ?" 
 
 "Oh, but the judge said we wasn't to pay attention 
 to anything like that," said Grey. 
 
 "Well, but he said we could infer, didn't he ?" 
 
 "Just let me speak, please," insisted Broadwell. 
 "His Honor went on to say — " he had just recalled 
 
5o6 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 that that was the proper way to speak of a judge, and 
 then, the next instant, he remembered that it was also 
 proper to call the judge "the Court," and he was anx- 
 ious to use both of these phrases. "That is, the Court 
 said — " And he explained the meaning of the word 
 "infer." 
 
 Reder was listening attentively, his head bent, his 
 hand resting on his hip. Broadwell talked on, in his 
 low insinuating tone. Reder made no reply. After a 
 while, Broadwell, his eyes narrowing, said softly, gen- 
 tly: 
 
 "Gentlemen, shall we not try another ballot?" 
 Menard got up wearily, his hat in readiness again. 
 The jurors began rummaging among the scraps for 
 ballots. 
 
 A street-car was just scraping around the curve at 
 the corner, its wheels sending out a shrill, grinding 
 noise. 
 
 "Great heavens !" exclaimed McCann, taking out his 
 watch, "it's five thirty! Morning! WeVe been here 
 all night!" 
 
 Outside the city was still wrapped in a soft thick 
 darkness. Eades was sleeping soundly; his mother, 
 when she kissed him good night, had patted his head, 
 saying, "My dear, brave boy." Marriott had just sunk 
 into a troubled doze. Glassford was snoring loudly in 
 his warm chamber; Koerner and his wife were kneel- 
 ing on their bed, their hands clasped, saying a prayer 
 in German, and over in the jail, Archie was standing 
 with his face pressed against the cold bars of his cell, 
 looking out across the corridor, watching for the first 
 streak of dawn. 
 
XX 
 
 Marriott awoke with a start when the summons 
 came. The jury had agreed ; his heart leaped into his 
 throat. What was the verdict? He had a confused 
 sense of the time, the world outside was dark; he 
 could have slept but a few minutes, surely it was not 
 much later than midnight. He switched on the elec- 
 tric light, and looked at his watch. It was half-past 
 six — ^morning. He dressed hurriedly, and went out. 
 
 The clammy air smote him coldly. The day was 
 just breaking, a yellow haze above the roofs toward 
 the east. He hurried along the damp pavement, an 
 eager lonely figure in the silent streets ; the light spread 
 gradually, creeping as it were through the heavy air ; 
 a fog rolled over the pavements and the world was 
 cold and gray. An early street-car went clanging past, 
 filled with working-men. These working-men were 
 happy; they smoked their pipes and joked — Marriott 
 could hear them, and he thought it strange that men 
 could be happy anywhere in the world that morning. 
 But these fancies were not to be indulged with the 
 leisurely sense in which he usually philosophized 
 on that life of which he was so conscious; for 
 the court-house loomed huge and portentous in the 
 dawn. And suddenly the light that was slowly suffus- 
 ing the ether seemed to pause ; there was a hesitation 
 almost perceptible to the eye in the descent of morning 
 on the world ; it was, to Marriott's imagination, exactly 
 
 507 
 
5o8 THE TURN OF, THE BALANCE 
 
 as if the sun had suddenly concluded to shine no longer 
 on the just and the unjust alike, but would await the 
 issue then yeaning beneath that brooding dome, and 
 see whether men would do justice in the world. Some- 
 where, Marriott knew, in that gray and smoky pile, the 
 fate was waiting, biding its time. What would it be ? 
 
 He had remained at the court-house the night before 
 with Pennell and Lamborn, several of the court offi- 
 cials and attaches, and a dwindling group of the mor- 
 bid and the curious. An immediate agreement had 
 been expected, allowing, of course, for the delay neces- 
 sary to a preservation of the decencies, but as the hours 
 dragged by, Marriott's hopes had risen ; each moment 
 increased the chance of an acquittal, of a disagreement, 
 or of some verdict not so tragic as the one the State 
 had striven for. His heart had grown lighter. But by 
 midnight he was wholly exhausted. Intelligence, 
 which knows no walls, had somehow stolen out from 
 the jury room; there was some eccentricity in this 
 mighty machine of man, and no immediate agreement 
 was to be expected. And then Marriott had left, trust- 
 ing Pennell to remain and represent the defendant at 
 the announcement of the verdict. It was about the 
 only duty he felt he could trust to Pennell. And now, 
 hurrying into the court-house, his hopes rose once 
 more. 
 
 Something after all of the effect of custom was ap- 
 parent in the atmosphere of the court-room, where the 
 tribunal was convened thus so much earlier than its 
 wonted hour. The room was strange and unreal, 
 haunted in this early morning gloom by the ghosts of 
 the protagonists who had stalked through it. Glass* 
 ford was already on the bench, his eyes swollen, his 
 
THE TURN OE THE BALANCE §09 
 
 cheeks puffed. Lamborn was there, in the same clothes 
 he had worn the day before, — it was plain that he had 
 not had them off at all. And there, already in the box, 
 sat the jury, blear-eyed, unkempt, disheveled, demoral- 
 ized, with traces yet of anger, hatred and the fury of 
 their combat in their faces, a caricature of that majesty 
 with which it is to be presumed this institution 
 reaches the solemn conclusions of the law. And there, 
 at the table, still strewn with the papers that were the 
 debris of the conflict, sat Archie, the sorry subject 
 over which men had been for days quarreling and hag- 
 gling, harrying and worrying him like a hunted thing. 
 He sat immobile, gazing through the eastern windows 
 at the waiting and inscrutable dawn of a day ^swollen 
 with such tragic possibilities for him. 
 
 Glassford looked sleepily at Marriott as he burst 
 through the doors. His glance indicated relief ; he was 
 glad the conclusion had been reached at this early 
 hour, even if it had haled him from his warm bed ; he 
 was glad to be able thus to trick the crowd and have 
 the law discharge its solemn function before the crowd 
 came to view it. 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "have you agreed 
 upon a verdict ?" 
 
 "We have, your Honor." Broadwell was rising in 
 his place. 
 
 Glassford nodded to the clerk, who walked across 
 the floor, his heels striking out sharp sounds. Marriott 
 had paused at the little gate in the railing. He clutched 
 at it, and supported himself in the weakness that sud- 
 denly overwhelmed him. It seemed to him that the 
 clerk took a whole age in crossing that floor. He 
 waited. Broadwell had handed the clerk a folded doc- 
 
Jio THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ument. The clerk took it and opened it ; it fluttered in 
 his fingers. Now he hastily cast his eye over it, and 
 Marriott thought: "There still is hope — hope in each 
 infinitesimal portion of a second as he reads it — " for 
 he was reading now : 
 
 " *We, the jury, impaneled and sworn well and truly 
 to try and true deliverance make in the cause wherein 
 the State is plaintiff and Archie Koerner is defendant, 
 for verdict do find and say that we find the defend- 
 ant — ' " Marriott gasped. The clerk read on : 
 
 " ' — guilty as charged in the indictment'.'* 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury," said the clerk, folding the 
 paper in his formal manner, "is this your verdict?" 
 
 "It is," said Broadwell. 
 
 "So say you all." 
 
 There was silence. After a while Marriott controlled 
 himself and said : 
 
 "Your Honor, we demand a poll of the jury." 
 
 Slowly, one after another, the clerk called the names, 
 and one after another the jurors rose. 
 
 "Is this your verdict ?" asked the clerk. 
 
 "Perhaps," thought Marriott as each one rose, "per- 
 haps even now, one will relent, one will change — 
 one—" 
 
 "It is," each man answered. 
 
 Then Glassford was speaking again — the everlasting 
 formalities, mocking the very sense of things, thanking 
 the jury, congratulating them, discharging them. 
 
 And Archie Koerner sat there, never moving, look- 
 ing through the eastern window — but now at the 
 dawn no more, for the window was black to his eyes 
 and the light had gone out of the world. 
 
XXI 
 
 Archie sat by the trial table and looked out the win- 
 dow toward the east. The window from being black 
 became gray again — gray clouds, a scumbled atmos- 
 phere of gray. When the jury came out of the box, 
 after it was all over, a young clerk in the court-house 
 rushed up to Menard and wrung his hand in enthusi- 
 astic, hysterical congratulation, as if Menard in the 
 face of heavy opposition had done some brave and no- 
 ble deed. And Archie wondered what he had ever 
 done to this young clerk that he should so have it in 
 for him. Then Marriott was at his side again, but he 
 said nothing ; he only took his hand. 
 
 *'Well," thought Archie, "there is one man left in 
 the world who hasn't got it in for me." And yet there 
 actually seemed to be Danner. For Banner bent over 
 and whispered : 
 
 "Whenever you're ready, Dutch, we'll go back. Of 
 course — no particular hurry, but when you're ready." 
 
 Archie wondered what Danner was up to now ; usu- 
 ally he ordered them about Hke brutes, with curses. 
 
 "You'll be wanting a bite of breakfast," Danner was 
 saying. 
 
 Breakfast! The word was strange. Were people 
 still eating breakfast in this world, just as if nothing 
 had happened, just as if things were as they used to 
 be — ^before — before — what? Before he shot Kouka? 
 No, there was nothing unusual about that; he didn't 
 
 511 
 
512 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 care anything about Kouka. Before the penitentiary 
 and the bull rings ? Before the first time in the work- 
 house, when that break, that lapse, came into his life? 
 But breakfast — they would be carrying the little pans 
 about in the jail just now, and that brought the odor 
 of coffee to his memory. Coffee would not be a bad 
 thing. 
 
 "Any time," he said to Banner. 
 
 Then they got up and walked away, through the 
 gray morning. 
 
 In the jail, Danner instantly unlocked the handcuffs, 
 and as he jostled Archie a little in opening the door, he 
 said: 
 
 "Oh, excuse me, Dutch." 
 
 What had got into Danner, anyway ? Inside he won- 
 dered more. Danner said : 
 
 "You needn't lock this morning ; you can stay in the 
 corridor, and I'll have your breakfast sent in to you in 
 a moment." 
 
 Then Danner put up his big hand and whispered in 
 Archie's ear : 
 
 "I'll see the cook and get her to sneak in a little 
 cream and sugar for your coffee." 
 
 Archie could not understand this, nor had he then 
 time to wonder about it, for he was being turned into 
 the prison, and there, he knew, his companions were 
 waiting to know the news. Most of them were in their 
 cells. Two of them, the English thief and Mosey — he 
 could tell it was Mosey by the striped sweater — were 
 standing in the far end of the corridor, but they did 
 not even look. He caught a snatch of their conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 "What was the rap, the dip ?" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 513 
 
 "No, penny welghtin'." 
 
 They appeared to be talking indifferently and were 
 no more curious — so one would say — than they would 
 have been if some dinge had been vagged. And yet 
 Archie knew that every motion, every word, every 
 gesture of his was important. He tried to walk just 
 as he had always walked. They waited till Archie was 
 at his cell door, and then some one called in a tone of 
 suspense that could be withheld no longer : 
 
 *' What's the word, Archie ?" 
 
 "Touched off," he called, loud enough for them all 
 to hear. He spoke the words carelessly, almost casu- 
 ally, with great nonchalance. There was silence, sin- 
 ister and profound. Then gradually the conversation 
 was resumed between cell and cell ; they were all call- 
 ing out to him, all straining to be cheerful and encour- 
 aging. 
 
 "That mouthpiece of yours '11 spring you yet,"^ some 
 one said, "down below." 
 
 Archie listened to their attempts to cheer him, all 
 pathetic enough, until presently the English thief 
 passed his door, and said in a low voice : 
 
 "Be gime, me boy." 
 
 That was it 1 Be game ! From this on, that must be 
 his ideal of conduct. He knew how they would in- 
 quire, how some day Mason and old Dillon, how Gibbs 
 and all the guns and yeggs would ask about this, how 
 the old gang would ask about it — he must be game. 
 He had made, he thought, a fair beginning. 
 
 Danner brought the breakfast himself, and good as 
 his word he had got the cook to put some cream and 
 sugar in his coffee. Not only this, but the cook had 
 boiled him two eggs — and he hadn't eaten eggs in 
 
514 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 months. The last time, he recalled, was when Curly 
 had boiled some in a can — had Curly, over in another 
 part of the prison, been told ? 
 
 Archie thanked Danner and told him to thank the 
 cook. And yet a wonder possessed him. He had 
 never known kindness in a prison before, save among 
 the prisoners themselves, and often they were cruel 
 and mean to each other — like the rats and mission- 
 stiffs who were always snitching and having them 
 chalked and stood out. Here in this jail, he had never 
 beheld any kindness, for notwithstanding the fact 
 that nearly every one there was detained for a trial 
 which was to establish his guilt or innocence, and the 
 law had a theory that every one was to be presumed 
 innocent until proved guilty, the sheriff and the jailers 
 treated them all as if they were guilty, and as if it was 
 their duty to assist in the punishment. But here was a 
 man who had been declared guilty of a heinous crime, 
 and was to receive the worst punishment man could be- 
 stow, and yet, suddenly, he was receiving every kind- 
 ness, almost the first he had ever known, at least since 
 he had grown up. Having done all they could to 
 hurry him out of the world, men suddenly apologized 
 by showering him with attention while he remained. 
 
 When he ate his breakfast Archie felt better, — Mr. 
 Marriott would do something, he was sure ; it was not 
 possible that this thing could happen to him. 
 
 "Any of youse got the makin's 1" he called. 
 
 Instantly, all down the corridor on both sides, the 
 cells' voices rang : 
 
 "Here ! Here ! Archie ! Here, have mine !" 
 
 "Mr. Marriott gave me a whole box yesterday, but 
 I smoked 'em all up in the night J" he said. 
 
xxn 
 
 Those persons in the community who called them- 
 selves the good were gratified by Archie's conviction, 
 and there were at once editorials and even sermons to 
 express this gratification. Lorenzo Edwards of the 
 Courier, who hated Marriott because he had borrowed 
 ten- dollars of Marriott some years before and had 
 never paid it back, wrote an unctuous and hypo- 
 critical editorial in which he condemned Marriott for 
 carrying the case up, and deprecated the law's delay. 
 The Post — although Archie had not talked to a re- 
 porter — ^printed interviews with him, and as a final 
 stroke of enterprise, engaged Doctor Tyler Tilson, 
 the specialist, to examine Archie for stigmata of de- 
 generacy. Tilson went to jail, taking with him tape 
 and calipers and other instruments, and after measur- 
 ing Archie and percussing him, and lighting matches 
 before his eyes, and having him walk blindfolded, 
 and pricking him with pins, wrote a profound article 
 for the Post from the standpoint of criminology, in 
 which he repeated many scientific phrases, and used 
 the word "environment," many times, and concluded 
 that Archie had the homicidal tendency strongly de- 
 veloped. 
 
 The Reverend Doctor Hole, who had his degree 
 from a small college in Dakota, had taken lessons of an 
 elocutionist, and advertised the sensational sermons in 
 which he preached against those vices the refinements 
 
 5^5 
 
5t6 the turn of THE BALANCE 
 
 and wealth of his own congregation did not tempt 
 them to commit, spoke on "Crime" ; even Modderwell 
 referred to it with complacency. 
 
 In all of these expressions, of course, Eades was 
 flattered, and this produced in him a sensation of the 
 greatest comfort and justification. He felt repaid for 
 all he had suffered in trying the case. But Marriott 
 felt that an injustice had been done, and, such is the 
 quality of injustice, that one suspicion of it may tinc- 
 ture every thought until the complexion of the world 
 is changed and everything appears unjust. As Marri- 
 ott read these editorials, the reports of these sermons, 
 and the conclusions of a heartless science that had 
 thumped Archie as if he were but a piece of rock for 
 the geologist's hammer, he was filled with anger, and 
 resolved that Archie should not be put to death until he 
 had had the advantage of every technicality of the law. 
 He determined to carry the case up at his own expense. 
 Though he could not afford to do this, and was stag- 
 gered when he ran over in his mind the cost of the 
 transcript of evidence, the transcript of the record, the 
 printing of the briefs, the railroad and hotel bills, and 
 all that, — he felt it would be a satisfaction to see one 
 poor man, at least, receive in the courts all that a rich 
 man may demand. 
 
 Within the three days provided by law, Marriott 
 filed his motion for a new trial and then he was con- 
 tent to wait, and let the proceedings drag along. But 
 Eades insisted on an immediate hearing. 
 
 When Glassford had announced his decision deny- 
 ing a new trial, he hesitated a moment and then, with 
 an effect of gathering himself for an ordeal, he dropped 
 Jiis judicial manner, called Eades and Marriott to the 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 517 
 
 bencH, leaned over informally, whispered with them, 
 and finally, as if justifying a decision he had just com- 
 municated to them, observed : 
 
 *We might as well do it now and have it over with." 
 
 Then he sent the sheriff for Archie, and the bailiff 
 for a calendar. 
 
 There were few persons in the court-room besides 
 the clerk and the bailiff, Marriott and Pennell, Eades 
 and Lamborn. It was a bleak day; outside a mean 
 wind that had been blowing for three days off the lake 
 swept the streets bare of their refuse and swirled it 
 everywhere in clouds of filth. The sky was gray, and 
 the cold penetrated to the marrow ; men hurried along 
 with their heads huddled in the collars of their over- 
 coats — if they had overcoats ; they winced and screwed 
 their faces in the stinging cold, longing for sunshine, 
 for snow, for rain, for anything to break the monotony 
 of this weather. Within the court-room the gloom was 
 intensified by the doom that was about to be pro- 
 nounced. While they waited, Eades and Lamborn sat 
 at a table, uneasily moving now and then; Marriott 
 walked up and down ; no one spoke. Glassford was 
 scowling over his calendar, pausing now and then, 
 lifting his eyes and looking off, evidently making a 
 calculation. 
 
 When Bentley and Danner came at last with Archie, 
 and unshackled him, Glassford did not look up. He 
 kept his head bowed over his docket ; now and then he 
 looked at his calendar, the leaves of which rattled and 
 trembled as he turned them over. Then they waited, 
 every one there, in silence. After a while, Glassford 
 spoke. He spoke in a low voice, into which at first he 
 \ (Ji4 not succeed in putting much strength : 
 
5i8 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Koerner, you may stand up." 
 
 Archie rose promptly, his heels clicked together, his 
 hands dropped stiffly to his side; he held his head 
 erect, as he came to the military attitude of attention. 
 But Glassford did not look at him. He was gazing 
 out of the window again toward that mysterious win- 
 dow across the street. 
 
 "Have you anything to say why the sentence of this 
 court should not be passed upon you ?" he asked pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "No, sir," said Archie. He was looking directly at 
 Glassford, but Glassford did not look at him. Glass- 
 ford waited, studying how he should begin. The re- 
 porters were poising their pencils nervously. 
 
 "Koerner," Glassford began, still looking away, 
 "after a fair and impartial trial before a jury of twelve 
 sworn men you have been found guilty of the crime of 
 murder in the first degree. The trial was conducted 
 carefully and deliberately; the jury was composed of 
 honest and representative men, and you were defended, 
 and all your rights conserved by able counsel. You 
 have had the benefit of every immunity known to our 
 law, and yet, after calm deliberation, as the court has 
 said, you have been found guilty. We have, in addi- 
 tion to that, here to-day heard a motion for a new 
 trial; we have very carefully reviewed the evidence 
 and the law in this case, and the court is convinced 
 that no errors were committed on the trial detrimental 
 to your rights in the premises or prejudicial to your 
 interests. It now becomes the duty of the court to pass 
 sentence upon you." 
 
 Glassford paused, removed his glasses, put them on 
 again^ and looked out of the window a$ before. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 519 
 
 "Fortunately — I say fortunately, for so I feel about 
 it" — he nodded — "fortunately for me, I have no dis- 
 cretion as to what your punishment shall be. The law 
 has fixed that ; it leaves nothing to me but to announce 
 its determination. My duty is clear; in a measure, 
 simple." 
 
 Glassford paused again, sighed faintly, and settled 
 in his chair with some relief, as if he had succeeded 
 in detaching himself personally from the situation, and 
 remained now only in his representative judicial ca- 
 pacity. 
 
 "Still," he went on, speaking in an apologetic tone 
 that betokened a lingering of his personal identity, 
 "that duty, while clear, is none the less painful. I 
 would that it had not fallen to my lot." He paused 
 again, still looking away. "It is a sad and melancholy 
 spectacle — a young man of your strength and native 
 ability, with your opportunities for living a good and 
 useful life, standing here to hear the extreme penalty 
 of the law pronounced upon you. You might have 
 been an honorable, upright man; you seem, so far as 
 I am able to ascertain, to have come from a good home, 
 and to have had honest, frugal, industrious parents. 
 You have had the opportunity of serving your coun- 
 try, you have had the benefit of the training and dis- 
 cipline of the regular army. You might have put to 
 some good use the lessons you learned in those places. 
 And yet, you seem to have wilfully abandoned your- 
 self to a life of crime. You have shown an utter dis- 
 regard for the sacred right of property; you have been 
 ready to steal, to live on the usufruct of the labor of 
 others; and now, as is inevitable" — Glassford shook 
 his head emphatically as he pronounced the word "in- 
 
520 ^THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 evitable" — "yo^ ^^ve gone on until nothing Is sacred 
 in your eyes — not even human Hfe itself/* 
 
 Glassford, who found it easy to talk in this moral 
 strain, especially. when reporters were present to take 
 down his words, went on repeating phrases he em- 
 ployed on the occasions when he pronounced sentence, 
 until, as it seemed to him, having worked himself up 
 to the proper pitch, he said, with one last tone of 
 regret : 
 
 "It is a painful duty," and then feeling there was no 
 way out of the duty, unless he resigned his position, 
 which, of course, was out of the question, he straight- 
 ened in his seat, turned, looked up at the ceiling and 
 said, speaking more rapidly, "and yet I can not shirk 
 a duty because it is disagreeable." 
 
 He clasped the desk before him tightly with his 
 hands ; his lips were pale. Then he said : 
 
 "The sentence of the court is that you be taken by 
 the sheriff to the penitentiary, and there delivered over 
 into the custody of the warden of the said penitentiary, 
 by him to be guarded and safely kept until the four- 
 teenth day of May next ensuing, on which day tho 
 said warden of the said penitentiary shall cause a cur- 
 rent of electricity to be passed through your body, and 
 to cause the said current to continue to be passed 
 through your body — until you are dead." 
 
 Glassford paused ; no one in the court-room moved. 
 Archie still kept his eyes on Glassford, and Glassford 
 kept his eyes on the wall. Glassford had remembered 
 that in olden days the judge, when he donned the black 
 cap, at some such time as this used to pray that God 
 would have mercy on the soul of the man for whom 
 he himself could find no mercy ; but Glassford did not 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 521 
 
 like to say this; it seemed too old-fashioned and he 
 would have felt silly and self-conscious in it. And yet, 
 he felt that the proprieties demanded that something 
 be said in the tone of piety, and, thinking a moment, 
 he added : 
 
 "And I hope, Koerner, that you will employ the few 
 remaining days of life left to you in preparing your 
 soul to meet its Maker." 
 
 With an air of relief, Glassford turned, and wrote 
 in his docket. On his broad, shining forehead drops 
 of perspiration were glistening. 
 
 **The prisoner will be remanded," he said. 
 
 Archie faced about and held out his left wrist to- 
 ward Danner. The handcuffs clicked, Marriott turned, 
 glanced at Archie, but he could not bear to look in his 
 white face. Then he heard Banner's feet and Archie's 
 feet falling in unison as they passed out of the court- 
 room. 
 
XXIII 
 
 Danny Gibbs, having recovered from the debauch 
 into which Archie's fate had plunged him, sat in his 
 back room reading the evening paper. His spree had 
 lasted for a week, and the whole tenderloin had 
 seethed with the excitement of his escapades. Now 
 that it was all over and reason had returned, he had 
 made new resolutions, and a certain moral rehabilita- 
 tion was expressed in his solemn demeanor and in the 
 utter neatness of his attire. He was clean-shaven, his 
 skin glowed pink from Turkish baths, his gray hair 
 was closely trimmed and soberly parted, his linen was 
 scrupulously clean; he wore new clothes of gray, his 
 shoes were polished and without a fleck of dust. His 
 meditations that evening might have been profoundly 
 pious, or they might have been dim, foggy recollec- 
 tions of the satisfaction he had felt in heaping scathing 
 curses on the head of Quinn, whom he had met in 
 Eva Clason's while on his rampage. He had cursed 
 the detective as a representative of the entire race of 
 policemen, whom he hated, and Quinn had apparently 
 taken it in this impersonal sense, for he had stood qui- 
 etly by without resenting Gibbs's profane denuncia- 
 tion. But whatever Gibbs's meditations, they were 
 broken by the entrance of a woman. 
 
 She was dressed just as she had always been in the 
 long years Gibbs had known her, soberly and in taste ; 
 
 522 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 523 
 
 she wore a dark tailor suit, the jacket of which dis- 
 closed at her full bosom a fresh white waist. She was 
 gloved and carried a small hand-bag ; the bow of black 
 ribbon on her hat trembled with her agitation ; she was 
 not tall, but she was heavy, with the tendency to the 
 corpulence of middle years. Her reddish hair was 
 touched with gray here and there, and, as Gibbs looked 
 at her, he could see in her flushed face traces of the 
 beauty that had been the fatal fortune of the girlhood 
 of Jane the Gun. 
 
 *'Howdy, Dan," she said, holding out her gloved 
 hand. 
 
 "Hello, Jane," he said. "When'd you come?" 
 
 "I got in last night," she said, laying her hand-bag 
 on the table. "Give me a little whisky, Dan." She 
 tugged at her gloves, which came from her moist Hands 
 reluctantly. Gibbs was looking at her hands, — they 
 were as white, as soft and as beautiful as they had 
 ever been. One thing in the world, he reflected in the 
 saddened philosophy that had come to him with so- 
 briety, had held unchanged, anyway. 
 
 "I said a little whisky, Dan !" she spoke with some 
 of her old imperiousness. 
 
 "No," he said resolutely, "you don't need any. 
 There's nothing in it." He was speaking out of his 
 moral rehabilitation. She glanced at him angrily; he 
 saw that her brown eyes, the brown eyes that went 
 with her reddish hair and her warm complexion, were 
 flaming and almost red. He remembered to have seen 
 them flame that dangerous red before. Still, it would 
 be best to mollify her. 
 
 "There ain't any more whisky in town," he said, 
 "I've drunk it all up." 
 
524! THE TURN OF THE BALANCE' 
 
 She laugKed as the second glove came off witfi S 
 final jerk. 
 
 "I heard you'd been hitting the pots. Isn't it a 
 shame ! The poor kid ! I heard it's a kangaroo." 
 
 Gibbs made no comment. 
 
 "He was a raw one, too, wasn't he ?" 
 
 "Well, he's a young Dutchman — he filled in with 
 the mob several moons back." 
 
 "What was the rap ?" 
 
 "He boosted a rod, and they settled him for that ; he 
 got a stretch. Then he was in when they knocked off 
 the peter in that P. O. down in Indiana." 
 
 "That's what I couldn't get hip to ; Mason wasn't — " 
 
 "No, not that time; they had him wrong; but you 
 know what them elbows are." 
 
 "They must have rapped hard." 
 
 "Yes, they gave them a five spot. But the Dutch 
 wasn't in on that Flanagan job, neither was Curly. 
 That was rough work — the cat, I s'pose." 
 
 Jane, her chin in her hands, suddenly became intent, 
 looking straight into Gibbs's eyes. 
 
 "Dan, that's what I want to get wise to." 
 
 Her cheeks flamed to her white temples, her breast 
 rose tumultuously, and as she looked at Gibbs her eyes 
 contracted, the wrinkles about them became deeper 
 and older, and they wore the hard ugly look of jealous 
 suspicion. But presently her lip quivered, then slowly 
 along the lower lashes of her eyes the tears gathered. 
 
 "What's the matter, Jane?" 
 
 "You don't know what I've stood for that man !" she 
 blazed out. "I could settle him. I could send him to 
 the stir. I could have him touched off!" She had 
 clenched her fist, and, at these last words, with their 
 
THE TURN of: THE BALANCE 525 
 
 horrible possibility, she smote it down on the table. 
 "But he knew I wouldn't be a copper!" She ended 
 with this, and fumbling among a woman's trinkets in 
 her hand-bag, she snatched out a handkerchief and 
 hastily brushed away the tears. Gibbs, appealed to in 
 all sorts of exigencies, was at a loss when a woman 
 wept. She shook with weeping, until her hatred was 
 lost in the pity she felt for herself. 
 
 "I never said a word when you flew me the kite to 
 keep under cover that time he plugged Moon." 
 
 "No, you were good then." 
 
 "Yes," she said, looking up for approval, "I was, 
 wasn't I ? But this time — I won't stand for it !" 
 
 "I'm out o' this," said Gibbs. 
 
 "Well," she went on, "his mouthpiece wrote me not 
 to show here. But I was on at once. Curly knew I 
 was hip from the start" — her anger was rising again. 
 "It was all framed up ; he got that mouthpiece to hand 
 me that bull con, and he's even got McFee to — " 
 
 "McFee !" said Gibbs, starting at the name of the in- 
 spector. "McFee ! Have you been to him ?" 
 
 "Yes, I've been to him!" she said, repeating his 
 words with a satirical curl of the lip. "I've been to 
 him; the mouthpiece sent me word to lay low till he 
 sprung him; Curly sent me word that McFee said I 
 wasn't to come to this town. Think I couldn't see 
 through all that? I was wise in a minute and I just 
 come, that's what I did, right away. I did the grand 
 over here." 
 
 "What was it you thought they had framed up?" 
 asked Gibbs innocently. "I can't follow you." 
 
 "Aw, now, Dan," she said, drawing away from the 
 table with a sneer, "don't you try to whip-saw me." 
 
526 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "No, on the dead r 
 
 "What was it? Why, some moll, of course; some 
 tommy." 
 
 Gibbs leaned back and laughed ; he laughed because 
 he saw that this was simply woman's jealousy. 
 
 "Look here, Jane," he said, "you know I don't like 
 to referee these domestic scraps — I know I'll be the 
 fall guy if I do — but you're wrong, that's all; you've 
 got it wrong." 
 
 She looked at him, intently trying to prove his sin- 
 cerity, and anxious to be convinced that her suspicions 
 were unfounded, and yet by habit and by her long life 
 of crime she was so suspicious and so distrustful — like 
 all thieves, she thought there were no honest people in 
 the world — that her suspicions soon gained their usual 
 mastery over her, and she broke out : 
 
 "You know I'm not wrong. I went to see McFee." 
 
 "What did he say?" asked Gibbs, with the interest 
 in anything this lord that stood between him and the 
 upper world might say. 
 
 "Why, he said he wouldn't say nothing." 
 
 "Did he say you could stay ?" 
 
 "Well," she hesitated an instant, "he said he didn't 
 want me doing any work in town ; he said he wouldn't 
 stand for it." 
 
 "No, you mustn't do any work Here." Gibbs spoke 
 now with his own authority, reinforcing that of the 
 detective. 
 
 "Oh, sin not leery !" she sneered at him. "I'm cov- 
 ered all right, and strong. You're missing the num- 
 ber, that's all, I'm g^ing to camp here, and when I 
 cp^ h»tr VU Clout her on the kurb ; I'll slam a rod to her 
 urst, if I croak for it !" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALx\NCE 527 
 
 "Jane," said Gibbs, when he had looked his stupe- 
 faction at her, "you've certainly gone off your nut. 
 Who in hell's this woman you're talking about ?" 
 
 "As if you don't know ! What do you want to string 
 me for?" 
 
 Gibbs looked at her with a perfectly blank face. 1 
 
 "All right, have it your way." 
 
 "Well," she said presently, with some doubt in her 
 mind, "if you don't know and just to prove to you 
 that I do know, it's the sister of that young Koerner !" 
 
 Gibbs looked at her a long time in a kind of silent 
 contempt. Then he said in a tone that dismissed the 
 subject as an absurdity: 
 
 "You've passed ; the nut college for you." 
 
 Jane fingered the metal snake that made the handle 
 of her bag; now and then she sighed, and after a 
 while she was forced to speak — the silence oppressed 
 her: 
 
 "Well, I'll stay and see, anyway." 
 
 "Jane, you're bug house," said Gibbs quietly. 
 
 Somehow, at the words, she bowed her head on her 
 hands and wept; the black ribbon on her hat shook 
 with her sobbing. 
 
 "Oh, Dan, I am bug house," she sobhed; "that's 
 what I've been leery of. I haven't slept for a month ; 
 I've laid awake night after night; for four days now 
 I've been going down the line — hunting her every- 
 where, and I can't find her !" 
 
 She gave way utterly and cried. And Gibbs waited 
 with a certain aspect of stolid patience, but in reality 
 with a distrust of himself; he was a sentimental man, 
 who was moved by any suffering that revealed itself 
 to him concretely, or any grief or hardship that lay be- 
 
S28 .THE TURN OF- THE BALANCE 
 
 fore his own eyes, though he lacked the cultured imag- 
 ination that could reveal the sorrows and the suffering 
 that are hidden in the world beyond immediate vision. 
 But she ceased her weeping as suddenly as she had 
 begun it. 
 
 *'Dan," she said, looking up, "you don't know what 
 I've done for that man. I was getting along all right 
 when I doubled with him; I was doing well — copping 
 the cush right along. I was working under protection 
 in Chi. ; I gave it all up for him — " 
 
 She broke off suddenly and exclaimed irrelevantly: 
 
 "The tommy buster !" 
 
 Gibbs started. 
 
 "No," he protested, "not Curly !" 
 
 "Sure !" she sneered, turning away in disgust of his 
 doubt. 
 
 "What made you stand for it ?" 
 
 "Well," she temporized, forced to be just, "it was 
 only once. I had rousted a goose for his poke — all 
 alone too — " She spoke with the pride she had always 
 had in her dexterity, and Gibbs suddenly recalled the 
 fact that she had been the first person in all their tra- 
 ditions who could take a pocketbook from a man, 
 "weed" and replace it without his being aware; the 
 remembrance pleased him and his eyes lighted up. 
 
 "What's the matter ?" she demanded suddenly. 
 
 "I was thinking of the time you turned the old trick, 
 and at the come-back, when the bulls found the suck- 
 er's leather on him with the put-back, they booted him 
 down the street ; remember ?" 
 
 Jane looked modest and smiled, but she was too full 
 of her troubles now for compliments, though she had 
 a woman's love for them. 
 
' THE TURN OF THE BAUANCE 529 
 
 "I saw the sucker was fanning and I — well, Curly 
 comes up just then and he goes off his nut and he — 
 gives me a beating — in the street." 
 
 She saw that the circumstances altered the case in 
 Gibbs's eyes, and she rather repented having told. 
 
 *'He said he didn't want me working; he said he 
 could support me." 
 
 Gibbs plainly thought well of Curly's wish to be the 
 sole head and support of his nomadic family, but he 
 recognized certain disadvantages in Curly's attitude 
 when he said : 
 
 *'You could get more than he could." 
 
 "Course, that's what I told him, but he said no, he 
 wouldn't let me, and, Dan, you know what I did? 
 Why, I helped him; he used to bust tags on the rat- 
 tlers, and he hoisted express-wagons — I knew where 
 to dispose of the stuff — furs and that sort, and we did 
 do pretty well. I used to fill out for him, and then I'd 
 go with him to the plant at night and wait with the 
 drag holding the horses — God! I've sat out in the 
 jungle when it was freezing, sat out for hours ; some- 
 times the plant had been sprung by the bulls or the 
 hoosiers ; it made no difference — that's how I spent my 
 nights for two winters. I know every road and every 
 field and every fence corner around that town. It gave 
 me the rheumatism, and I hurt my back helping him 
 load the swag. You see he didn't have a gager and 
 didn't have to bit up with any one, but he never appre- 
 ciated that ! And now he's lammed, he's pigged, that's 
 what he's done; he's thrown me down — ^but you bet 
 I'll have my hunk !" 
 
 'That won't get you anything," Gibbs argued. 
 "Anyway," he added, as if he had suddenly discov- 
 
530 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ered a solution, "wHy don't you go back on the gun 
 now?" 
 
 She was silent a moment, and, as she sat there, the 
 tears that were constantly filling her eyes welled up 
 again, and she said, though reluctantly and with a 
 kind of self-consciousness: 
 
 "I don't want to, Dan. I'm getting old. To tell the 
 truth, since I've been out of it, I'm sick of the busi- 
 ness — I — I've got a notion to square it." 
 
 Gibbs was so used to this talk of reform that it 
 passed him idly by, and he only laughed. She leaned 
 her cheek against her hand; with the other hand she 
 twisted and untwisted the metal snake. Presently she 
 sighed unconsciously. 
 
 "What are you going to do now ?" Gibbs asked pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "I'm going to stay here in town till I see this wom- 
 an, 
 
 "But you can't do any work here." 
 
 "I don't want to do any work, I tell you." 
 
 "How'll you live?" 
 
 "Live!" she said scornfully. "I don't care how; I 
 don't care if I have to carry the banner — I'll get a bowl 
 of sky-blue once in a while — and I'll wash dishes — 
 anything!" She struck the table, and Gibbs's eyes 
 fastened on her white, plump little fist as it lay there; 
 then he laughed, thinking of it in a dish-pan, where it 
 had never been. 
 
 "Well, I'll do it !" she persisted, reading his thought 
 and hastily withdrawing the fist. "I'm going to get 
 him !" She looked at Gibbs for emphasis. 
 
 "Jane," he said quietly, "you want to cut that out. 
 This is no place for you now — ^this town's getting on 
 
iTHE TURN OF THE BALANCE 531 
 
 I 
 
 the bum ; they Ve put it to the bad. It's time to rip it. 
 This rapper — " 
 
 "Oh, yes, I've heard — ^what's this his name is now?" 
 
 "Eades." 
 
 "What kind is he?" 
 
 "Oh, he's a swell lobster." 
 
 "They tell me he's strong." 
 
 "He's the limit." 
 
 Her eyes lighted up suddenly and she sat upright. 
 
 "Then I'll go see him!" 
 
 "Jane !" Gibbs exclaimed with as much feeling as he 
 ever showed. He saw by the flashes of her eyes that 
 her mind was working rapidly, though he could not 
 follow the quick and surprising turns her intentions 
 would take. He had a sudden vision, however, of her 
 sitting in Eades's office, talking to him, passing her- 
 self off, doubtless, for the respectable and devoted 
 wife of Jackson; he knew how easily she could im- 
 pose on Eades; he knew how Eades would be im- 
 pressed by a woman who wore the good clothes Jane 
 knew how to wear so well, and he felt, too, that in his 
 utter ignorance of the world from which Jane came, 
 in his utter ignorance of life in general, Eades would 
 believe anything she told himj and becoming thus 
 prejudiced in the very beginning, make untold work 
 for him to do in order to save his friend. 
 
 "Jane," he said severely, "you let him alone; you 
 hear?" 
 
 She had risen and was drawing on her gloves. She 
 stood there an instant, smiling as if her new notion 
 pleased her, while she pressed down the fingers of her 
 glove on her left hand. Then she said pleasantly: 
 
 "Good-by, Dan. Give my love to Kate." 
 
 And she turned and yv^as gone. 
 
xxiy 
 
 Elizabeth' had heard her father enter and she im- 
 agined him sitting in the Hbrary, musing by the fire, 
 finding a tired man's comfort in that quiet httle hour 
 before dinner. Sensitive as ever to atmospheres, 
 EHzabeth felt the coziness of the hour, and looked for- 
 (vard to dinner v^ith pleasure. For days she had been 
 under the gloom of Archie's conviction ; she had never 
 followed a murder case before, but she had special rea- 
 son for an interest in this. She had helped Marriott 
 all she could by wishing for his success; she had felt 
 his failure as a blow, and this, with the thought of 
 Gusta, had caused her inexpressible depression. But 
 by an effort she had put these thoughts from her mind, 
 and now in her youth, her health, her wholesomeness, 
 the effect of so much sorrow and despair was leaving 
 her. She had finished her toilet, which, answering her 
 mood, was bright that evening, when she heard Dick 
 enter. Half the time of late he had not come home at 
 all, sometimes days went by without her seeing him. 
 She glanced at the Httle watch on her dressing-table; 
 it was not yet six and Dick was home in time for din- 
 ner; perhaps he would spend the evening at home. 
 She hoped he had not come to dress for some engage- 
 ment that would take him away. Her father, she 
 knew, would be happy in the thought of the boy's 
 spending an evening with him ; almost pathetic in his 
 
 532 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 533 
 
 happiness. Of late, more and more, as she noted, the 
 father had yearned toward the son ; the Hghtest word, 
 a look, a smile from Dick was sufficient to make him 
 glow with pleasure. It made Elizabeth sad to see it, 
 and it made her angry to see how her mother fon- 
 dled and caressed him, excusing him for, if not abet- 
 ting him in, all his excesses. But these thoughts were 
 interrupted just then by Dick's voice. He was in the 
 hall outside, and he spoke her name : 
 
 "Bessr 
 
 The tone of the voice struck her oddly. He had 
 pushed open the door and hesitated on the threshold, 
 peering in cautiously. Then he entered and carefully 
 closed the door behind him. She scented the odor of 
 Scotch whisky, of cigarettes, in short, the odor of the 
 club man. His face, which she had thought ruddy with 
 the health, the exuberance, the inexhaustible vitality 
 of youth, she saw now to be really unhealthy, its ruddy 
 tints but the flush of his dissipations. Now, his face 
 went white suddenly, as if a mask had been snatched 
 from it; she saw the weakness and sensuousness that 
 marred it. 
 
 "Dick!" she said, for some reason speaking in a 
 whisper. "What's the matter? Tell me!" 
 
 At first a great fear came to her, a fear that he was 
 intoxicated. She knew by intuition that Dick must 
 frequently have been intoxicated; but she had never 
 seen him so, and she dreaded it ; she could have borne 
 anything better than that, she felt. He sank on to the 
 edge of her bed and sat there, rocking miserably to and 
 fro, his overcoat bundled about him, his hat toppling 
 on the side of his head, a figure of utter demoraliza- 
 tion. , 
 
534 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Dick!" she said, going to him, "what is it? Tell 
 me!" 
 
 She took him by the shoulders and gave him a little 
 shake. He continued to rock back and forth and to 
 moan. 
 
 "Oh, my God !" he said presently. "What am I go- 
 ing to do !" 
 
 Elizabeth gathered herself for one of those ordeals 
 which, in all families, there is one stronger than the 
 rest to meet and deal with. 
 
 "Here, sit up." She shook him. "Sit up and tell 
 me what ails you." The fear that he was intoxicated 
 had left her, and there was relief in this. "And take 
 off your hat." She seized the hat from his head and 
 laid it on the little mahogany stand beside her bed. 
 "If you knew how ridiculous you look !" 
 
 He sat up at this and weakly began drawing off his 
 gloves. When he had them off, he drew them through 
 his hand, slapped them in his palm, and then with a 
 weary sigh, said : 
 
 "Well, Fm ruined!" 
 
 "Oh, don't be dramatic!" She was herself now. 
 "Tell me what scrape you're in, and we'll see how to 
 get you out of it." She was quite composed. She 
 drew up a chair for him and one for herself. Some 
 silly escapade, no doubt, she thought, which in his 
 weakness he was half glad to make the most of. He 
 had removed his overcoat and taken the chair she had 
 placed for him. Then he raised his face, and when she 
 saw the expression, she felt the blood leave her cheeks ; 
 she knew that the trouble was real. She struggled an 
 instant against a sickness that assailed her, and then, 
 calming herself, prepared to meet it. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 535 
 
 "Well?" she said. 
 
 "Bess," he began fearfully, and his head dropped 
 again. "Bess" — ^his voice was very strange — "it's — 
 the— bank." 
 
 She shivered as if a dead cold blast had struck her. 
 In the moment before there had swept through her 
 mind a thousand possibilities, but never this one. She 
 closed her eyes. There was a sharp pain in her heart, 
 exactly as if she had suddenly crushed a finger. 
 
 "The bank!" she exclaimed in a whisper. "Oh, 
 Dick!" 
 
 He hung his head and began to moan again, and to 
 rock back and forth, and then suddenly he leaned over, 
 seized his head in his two hands and began to weep 
 violently, like a child. Strangely enough, to her own 
 surprise, she found herself calmly and coolly watch- 
 ing him. She could see the convulsive movements of 
 his back as he sobbed ; she could see his fingers vicious- 
 ly tearing at the roots of his hair. She sat and watched 
 him ; how long she did not know. Then she said : 
 
 "Don't cry, Dick; they'll hear you down-stairs." 
 
 He made an effort to control himself, and Elizabeth 
 suddenly remembered that he had told her nothing at 
 all. 
 
 "What do you mean," she asked, "by the bank ?" 
 
 "I mean," he said without uncovering his face, and 
 his hands muffled his words, "that I'm — into it." 
 
 Ah, yes ! This was the dim, unposited thought, the 
 numb, aching dread, the half-formed, unnamed, unad- 
 mitted fear that had lurked beneath the thought of all 
 these months — underneath the father's thought and 
 hers; this was what they had meant when they ex- 
 changed glances, when now and then with dread they 
 
'536 THE .TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 approached the subject in obscure, mystic words, 
 meaningless of themselves, yet pregnant with a dread- 
 ful and terrible import. And now — it had come ! 
 
 "How much ?" she forced herself to ask. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "It^s big. Several—" 
 
 'What?" 
 
 "Hundreds." 
 
 "Hundreds?" 
 
 He hesitated, and then, 
 
 "Thousands," he said, tearing the word from him. 
 
 "How many thousands ?" she asked, when she could 
 find the courage. 
 
 Again he cowered before the truth. She grew im- 
 patient. 
 
 "Tell me!" she commanded. "Don't be a coward." 
 He winced. "Sit up and face this thing and tell me. 
 How many thousands have you stolen ?" 
 
 She said it in a hard, cold voice. He suddenly looked 
 up, his eyes flashed an instant. He saw his sister sit- 
 ting there, her hands held calmly in her lap, her head 
 inclined a little, her chin thrust out, her lips tightly 
 compressed, and he could not meet her; he collapsed 
 again, and she heard him say pitifully, "Don't use that 
 word." Then he began to weep, and as he sobbed, he 
 repeated : 
 
 "Oh, they'll send me to the penitentiary — the peni- 
 tentiary — the penitentiary !" 
 
 The word struck Elizabeth ; her gray eyes began to 
 fill. 
 
 "How much, Dick ?" she asked gently. 
 
 "Five— a—" 
 
 "More?" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 537 
 
 He nodded 
 
 "How much more?" 
 
 "Twice as much." 
 
 "Ten, then?" 
 
 He said nothing; he ceased sobbing. Then sudden- 
 ly he looked up and met her glance. 
 
 "Bess," he said, "it's twenty-three thousand !" 
 
 She stared at him until her tears had dried. In the 
 silence she could hear her little watch ticking away on 
 the dressing-table. The lights in the room blazed with 
 a fierce glare. 
 
 "Does Mr. Hunter know?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When did he find out?" 
 
 "This morning. He called me in this afternoon." 
 
 "Does any one else know?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 Dick hung his head and began to fumble his watcH- 
 chain. 
 
 "Who, Dick?" 
 , ;"One other man." 
 
 "Who? Tell me." 
 
 "Eades." 
 
 She closed her eyes and leaned back; she dropped 
 her arms to her sides and clutched her chair for sup- 
 port. For a long while they did not speak. It was 
 Dick at last who spoke. He seemed to have regained 
 his faculties and his command. 
 
 "Bess," he said, "Eades will have no mercy on me. 
 You know that." 
 
 She admitted it with a slow nod of her head, her 
 eyes still closed. 
 
538 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Something must be done. Father — he must be told. 
 Will— will you tell him?" 
 
 She sat a moment — it seemed a long moment — with- 
 out moving, without opening her eyes; and Dick sat 
 there and watched her. Some of the color had come 
 to his face. His eyes were contracting; his face was 
 lined with new scheming. 
 . "Willyou tell him, Bess?" 
 
 She moved, opened her eyes slowly, wearily, and 
 sighed : 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She got up. 
 
 "You're not going to tell him now ?" 
 
 He stretched out a hand as if to detain her. 
 
 "Yes, now. Why not?" She rose with difficulty, 
 paused, swayed a little and then went toward the door. 
 Dick watched her without a word. His hand was in 
 the pocket of his coat. He drew out a cigarette. 
 
 She went down the stairs holding the baluster tight- 
 ly ; her palm, moist from her nervousness, squeaked on 
 the rail as she slid it along. She paused in the library 
 door. Her father was lounging in his chair under the 
 reading-lamp, his legs stretched toward the fire. She 
 could just see the top of his head over the chair, the 
 light falling on his gray hair. 
 
 "That you, Betsy?" 
 
 The cheer and warmth of his tone smote Her ; again 
 her eyes closed in pain. 
 
 "Yes, it's I," she said, trying for a natural tone, and 
 succeeding, at least, in putting into her voice a great 
 love — and a great pity. She bent over the back of the 
 chair, and laid her hands on his head, gazing into the 
 fire. The touch of her hands sent a delicious thrill 
 
THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 539 
 
 through Ward ; he did not move or speak, wishing to 
 prolong the sensation. 
 
 "Dear," she said, "I have something to tell you/* 
 
 The delicious sensation left him instantly. 
 
 "Can you bear some bad news — some bad, bad 
 news ?" 
 
 His heart sank. He had expected something like 
 this — the day would come, he knew, when she would 
 leave him. But was it not unusual ? Should not Eades 
 have spoken — should not he have asked him first ? Her 
 arms were stealing about his neck. 
 
 "Some bad news — some evil news. Something 
 very — " 
 
 She had slipped around beside him and leaned over 
 as if to protect him from the blow she was about to de- 
 liver. Her voice suddenly grew unnatural, tragic, 
 sending a shudder through him as she finished her sen- 
 tence with the one word : 
 
 "Horrible!" 
 
 "What is it ?" he whispered. 
 
 "Be strong, dear, and brave ; it's going to hurt you.** 
 
 "Tell me, Bess,** he said, sitting up now, his man's 
 armor on. 
 
 "It's about Dick.** 
 
 "Dick!" 
 
 "Yes, Dick— and the bank!" 
 
 "Oh-h!" he groaned, and, in his knowledge of his 
 own world, he knew it all. 
 
xxy 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Ward, ah! Heh! Won't you sit down, 
 sir, won't you sit down?" 
 
 Hunter had risen from his low hollow chair, and 
 now stood bowing, or rather stooping automatically to a 
 posture lower than was customary with him. The 
 day before or that afternoon, Ward would have 
 noticed Hunter's advancing senility. The old banker 
 stood bent before his deep, well-worn green chair, its 
 bottom sagging almost to the floor. He had on large, 
 loose slippers and a long faded gown. The light glis- 
 tened on his head, entirely bald, and fell in bright 
 patches on the lean, yellow face that was wrinkled in a 
 smile, — but a smile that expressed nothing, not even 
 mirth. He stood there, uncertainly, almost apologetic- 
 ally, making some strange noise in his throat like a 
 chuckle, or like a cough. His tongue moved restlessly 
 along his thin lips. In his left hand he held a cigar, 
 stuck on a toothpick. 
 
 ''Won't you sit down, Mr. Ward, won't you sit 
 down, sir?" 
 
 The old banker, after striving for this effect of hos- 
 pitality, lowered himself carefully into his own deep 
 chair. Ward se^ed himself across the hearth, and 
 looked at the shabby figure, huddled in its shabby chair, 
 in the midst of all the richness and luxury of that im- 
 posing library. About the walls were magnificent 
 bookcases in mahogany, and behind their little leaded 
 
 540 
 
THE TURN of; THE BALANCE 541. 
 
 panes of glass were rows of morocco bindings. On the 
 walls were paintings, and all about, in the furniture, 
 the rugs, the bric-a-brac, was the display of wealth 
 that had learned to refine itself. And yet, in the whole 
 room nothing expressed the character of that aged and 
 withered man, save the shabby green chair he sat in,' 
 the shabby gown and slippers he wore, and the eco- 
 nomical toothpick to make his cigar last longer. Ward 
 remembereH to have heard Elizabeth and her mother 
 — in some far removed and happy day before this 
 thing had come upon him — speak of the difficulty Mrs. 
 Hunter and Agnes Hunter had with the old man ; he 
 must have been intractable, he had resisted to the end 
 and evidently come off victorious, for here he sat with' 
 the trophies of his victory, determined to have his own 
 way. And yet Ward, who was not given to specula- 
 tions of the mental kind, did not think of these things. 
 At another time Hunter might have impressed him 
 sadly as an old man ; but not now ; this night he was 
 feeling very old himself. 
 
 "I presume, Mr. Hunter," Ward began, "that you 
 imagined the object of my visit when I telephoned you 
 an hour ago." 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir, yes, Mr. Ward. You came to see me 
 about that boy of yours !" 
 
 "Exactly," said Ward, and he felt his cheek flush. 
 
 "Bad boy, that, Mr. Ward," said Hunter in his 
 squeaking voice, grinning toothlessly. 
 
 "We needn't discuss that," said Ward, lifting his 
 hand. "The situation is already sufficiently embarrass- 
 ing. I came to talk the matter over as a simple busi- 
 ness proposition." 
 
 **yes ?" squeaked Hunter with a rising inflectioiiy 
 
542 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "What does the shortage amount to ?" Ward leaned 
 toward him. 
 
 "In round numbers ?" 
 
 "No/' Ward was abrupt. "In dollars and cents." 
 
 Hunter pursed his lips. Ward's last words seemed 
 to stimulate his thought. 
 
 "Let us see," he said, "let us see. If I remember 
 rightly" — and Ward knew that he remembered it to 
 the last decimal point — "it amounts to twenty-four 
 thousand, six hundred and seventy-eight dollars and 
 twenty-nine cents." 
 
 Ward made no reply; he was leaning forward, his 
 elbows on his knees, gazing into the fire. He did not 
 move, and yet he knew that the old banker was 
 shrewdly eying him. 
 
 "That, of course," said Hunter with the effect of an 
 afterthought, "is the principal sum. The interest — " 
 
 "Yes, that's all right," said Ward. Hunter's last 
 words, which at any other time would have infuriated 
 him, in this instance made him happy ; they reassured 
 him, gave him hope. He knew now that the old 
 banker was ready to compromise. Then suddenly he 
 remembered that he had not smoked that evening, and 
 he drew his cigar-case from his pocket. 
 
 "Do you mind, sir, if I smoke?" 
   "Not in the least, Mr. Ward, not in the least, sir; 
 delighted to have you. Make yourself perfectly at 
 home, sir." 
 
 He waved his long, thin, transparent hand grandly 
 and hospitably at Ward, and smiled his toothless smile. 
 
 "Perhaps you'd smoke, Mr. Hunter." 
 
 Ward proffered him the case and reflected instantly 
 with delight that the cigar was a large^ strong Havana, 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 543 
 
 rich and heavy, much heavier than the old man was ac- 
 customed to, for from its odor Ward knew that the 
 cigar Hunter was consuming to the last whiff was of 
 cheap domestic tobacco, if it was of tobacco at all. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Hunter, delighted, leaning 
 out of his chair and selecting a cigar with care. "I 
 usually limit myself to one cigar of an evening — ^but 
 with you — '* 
 
 "Yes," thought Ward, "I know why you limit your- 
 self to one, and I hope this one will make you sick." 
 
 When Ward had smoked a moment, he said : 
 
 "Mr. Hunter, if I reimburse you, what assurance 
 can I have that there will be no prosecution ?" 
 
 "Heh, hell." The old man made that queer noise in 
 his throat again. "Heh, heh. Well, Mr. Ward, you 
 know you are already on your son's bond." 
 
 "For ten thousand, yes — not for twenty-four." 
 
 "Quite right!" said Hunter, taken somewhat aback. 
 Then they were silent. 
 
 "What assurance can you give me, Mr. Hunter?" 
 He took the cigar from his lips and looked directly at 
 Hunter. 
 
 "Well, Fm afraid, Mr. Ward, that that has passed 
 out of my hands. You see — " 
 
 "You told Fades ; yes, I know !" Ward was angry, 
 but he realized the necessity for holding his temper. 
 
 "Why did you do that, Mr. Hunter, if I may ask? 
 What did you expect to gain?" 
 
 Hunter made the queer noise in his throat and then 
 he stammered : 
 
 "Well, Mr. Ward, you must understand that — heh-— 
 our Trust Company is a state institution — and I felt it 
 to \k my duty, a§ ^ citizen, 70U know, to report anj^ 
 
'544 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 irregularities to the proper official. Merely my duty, 
 as a citizen, Mr. Ward, you understand, as a citizen. 
 Painful, to be sure, but my duty." 
 
 Ward might nQt have been able to conceal the dis- 
 gust he felt for this old man if he had not, for the 
 first time that evening, been reminded by Hunter's own 
 words that the affair was not one to come within the 
 federal statutes. What Hunter's motive had been in 
 reporting the matter to Eades so promptly, he could 
 not imagine. It would seem that he could have dealt 
 better by keeping the situation in his own hands ; that 
 he could have held the threat of prosecution over his 
 head as a weapon quite as menacing as this, and cer- 
 tainly one he could more easily control. But Hunter 
 was mysterious; he waded in the water, and Ward 
 could not follow his tracks. He was sure of but one 
 thing, and that was that the reason Hunter had given 
 was not the real reason. 
 
 "You might have waited, it seems to me, Mr. Hun- 
 ter," he said. "You might have had some mercy on 
 the boy." 
 
 Ward did not see the peculiar smile that played on 
 Hunter's face. 
 
 "If I remember, Mr. Ward, you had a young man in 
 your employ once, who — " 
 
 Ward could scarcely repress a groan. 
 . "I know, I know," he hastened to confess. 
 
 "Yes, exactly," said Hunter, his chuckle now indi- 
 cating a dry satisfaction. "You did it as a duty — as I 
 did — our duties as citizens, Mr. Ward, our duties as 
 citizens, and our duties to the others in our employ — 
 we must make examples for them." 
 
 "Yes. Well, it's different when your own boy is se- 
 lected tQ affgrd the example," Ward ^aid this with a 
 
THE TURN of: THE BALANCE 545 
 
 toucH of his humor, but became serious and sober 
 ^again as he added : 
 
 "And I hope, Mr. Hunter, that this affair will never 
 cause you the sorrow and regret — yes, the remorse — 
 that that has caused me." 
 
 Hunter looked at Ward furtively, as if he could not 
 understand how such things could cause any one re- 
 gret. Out of this want of understanding, however, he 
 could but repeat his former observation : 
 
 "But our duty, Mr. Ward. We must do our duty— 
 heh — ^heh — as citizens, remember." 
 
 He was examining the little gilt-and-red band on the 
 cigar Ward had given him. He had left it on the 
 cigar, and now picked at it with a long, corrugated 
 finger-nail, as if he found a pleasure and a novelty in 
 it. Ward was willing to let the subject drop. He 
 knew that Hunter had been moved by no civic im- 
 pulse in reporting the fact to Eades ; he did not know 
 what his motive had been; perhaps he never would 
 know. It was enough now that the harm had been 
 done, and in his practical way he was wondering what 
 could be done next. He suddenly made a movement 
 as if he would go, a movement that caused Hunter to 
 glance at him in some concern. 
 
 "Well," said Ward, "of course, if it has gone that 
 far, if it is really out of your hands, I presume the 
 only thing is to let matters take their course. To be 
 sure, I had hoped — " 
 
 "Keep your seat, Mr. Ward, keep your seat. It is a 
 long time since I have had the pleasure of entertaining 
 you in my home." 
 
 Entertaining ! Ward could have seized the wizened 
 pipe of the old man and throttled him there in his 
 shabby green-baize chair. 
 
546 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 "Have you anything to suggest ?" asked Ward. 
 
 "Would not the suggestion better emanate from 
 you ?^* The old banker waved a withered hand toward 
 Ward with a gesture of invitation. Ward remembered 
 that gesture and understood it. He knew that now 
 they were getting down to business. 
 
 "I have no proposition," said Ward. "I am anxious 
 to save my son — and my family." A shade of pain 
 darkened his countenance. "I am willing to make 
 good the — er — shortage." How all such words hurt 
 and stung just now ! "Provided, of course, the matter 
 could be dropped there." 
 
 The old banker pondered. 
 
 "I should like to help you in your difficulty, Mr. 
 Ward," he said. "I—" 
 
 Ward waited. 
 
 "I should be willing to recommend to Mr. Eades a 
 discontinuance of any action. What his attitude would 
 be, I am not, of course, able to say. You understand 
 my position." 
 
 "Very well," said Ward in the brisk business way 
 habitual with him. "You see Eades, have him agree 
 to drop the whole thing, and I'll give you my check to 
 cover the — deficiency." 
 
 The banker thought a moment and said finally : 
 
 "I shall have an interview with Mr. Eades in the 
 morning, communicating the result to you at eleven 
 o'clock." 
 
 Ward rose. 
 
 "Must you go?" asked Hunter in surprise, as if the 
 visit had been but a social one. He rose tremblingly, 
 and stood looking about him with his mirthless grin, 
 and Ward departed without ceremony. 
 
XXVI 
 
 All the way to the court-house Elizabeth's heart 
 failed her more and more. She had often been in fear 
 of Eades, but never had she so feared him as she did 
 to-day ; the fear became almost an acute terror. And, 
 once in the big building, the fear increased. Though 
 the court-house, doubtless, was meant for her as much 
 as for any one, she felt that alien sense that women 
 still must feel in public places. Curiosity and in- 
 credulity were shown in the glances the loafers of the 
 corridors bestowed on this young woman, who, in her 
 suit of dark green, with gray furs and muff, attracted 
 such unusual attention. Elizabeth detected the looks 
 that were exchanged, and, because of her sensitiveness, 
 imagined them to be of more significance than they 
 were. She saw the sign "Marriage Licenses" down 
 one gloomy hallway ; then in some way she thought of 
 the divorce court; then she thought of the criminal 
 court, with its shadow now creeping toward her own 
 home, and when she reflected how much cause for this 
 staring curiosity there might be if the curious ones but 
 knew all she knew, her heart grew heavier. But she 
 hurried along, found Eades's office, and, sending in her 
 card, sat down in the outer room to wait. 
 
 She had chosen the most obscure corner and she sat 
 there, hoping that no one would recognize her, filled 
 with confusion whenever any one looked at her, or she 
 suspected any one of looking at her, and imagining all 
 
 547 
 
548 THE TURN OF] THE BALANCE 
 
 the dreadful significances that might attach to her 
 visit. While she waited, she had time to think over the 
 last eighteen hours. They had found it necessary to 
 tell her mother, and that lady had spent the whole 
 morning in hysteria, alternately wondering what peo- 
 ple would say when the disgrace became known, and 
 caressing and leaning on Dick, who bravely remained 
 at home and assumed the manly task of comforting and 
 reassuring his mother. Elizabeth had awaited in sus- 
 pense the conclusion of Hunter's visit to Eades, and 
 she had gone down town to hear from her father the 
 result of Hunter's effort. She was not surprised when 
 her father told her that Hunter reported failure; 
 neither of them had had much faith in Hunter and 
 less in Eades. But when they had discussed it at the 
 luncheon they had in a private room at the club, and 
 after the discussion had proved so inconclusive, she 
 broached the plan that had come to her in the wakeful 
 night, — the plan she had been revolving in her mind 
 all the morning. 
 
 "My lawyer?" her father had said. "He could do 
 nothing — in a case like this." 
 
 "I suppose not," Elizabeth had said. "Besides, it 
 would only place the facts in the possession of one 
 more person." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "We might consult Gordon Marriott. He would 
 sympathize — and help." 
 
 "Yes, that might do." 
 
 "But not yet," she had said, "Not till Fve tried my 
 plan." 
 
 "Your plan? What is it?" 
 
 "To see John Eades — for me to see John Eades." 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE '549 
 
 She had hung her head — she could not help it, and 
 her father had shown some indignation. 
 
 "Not for worlds !" he had said. "Not for worlds !" 
 
 "But I'm going." 
 
 "No ! It wouldn't be fitting !" 
 
 "But I'm going." 
 
 "Then I'll go along." 
 
 "No, I'll go alone." 
 
 He had protested, of course, but his very next words 
 showed that he was ready to give in. 
 
 "When shall you go?" he asked. 
 
 "Now. There isn't much time. The grand jury — 
 what is it the grand jury does?" 
 
 "It sits next week, and Eades will lay the case be- 
 fore it then — unless — " 
 
 "Unless I can stop him." 
 
 There had been a little intense, dramatic moment 
 when the waiter was out of the room and she had risen, 
 buttoning her jacket and drawing on her gloves, and 
 her father had stood before her. 
 
 "Bess," he said, "tell me, are you contemplating some 
 — ^horrible sacrifice ?" He had put his finger under her 
 chin and elevated it, in the eifort to make her look him 
 in the eyes. She had paled slightly and then smiled — 
 and kissed him. 
 
 "Never mind about me, papa." 
 
 And then she had hastened away — and here she was. 
 
 The tall door lettered "The Prosecuting Attorney" 
 was closed, but she did not have to wait long before it 
 opened and three men came out, evidently hurried 
 away by Eades, who hastened to Elizabeth's side and 
 said : 
 
 "Pardon me if I kept you waiting," 
 
550 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 They entered the private office, and, at her sign, he 
 closed the door. She toolc the chair beside his desk, 
 and he sat down and lool<ed at her expectantly. He 
 was plainly ill at ease, and this encouraged her. She 
 was alive to the strangeness of this visit, to the 
 strangeness of the place and the situation; her heart 
 was in her throat ; she feared she could not speak, but 
 she made a great effort and plunged at once into the 
 subject. 
 
 "You know what brings me here.'* 
 
 "I presume — " 
 
 "Yes," she said before he could finish. He inclined 
 his head in an understanding that would spare painful 
 explanation. His heart was going rapidly. He would 
 have gloried in having her near him in any other 
 place ; but here in this place, on this subject ! He must 
 not forget his position ; he must assume his official per- 
 sonality; the separation of his relations had become a 
 veritable passion with him. 
 
 "I came," she said, "to ask a favor — a very great 
 favor. Will you grant it ?" 
 
 She leaned forward slightly, but with a latent in- 
 tensity that showed all her eagerness and concern. He 
 was deeply troubled. 
 
 "You know I would do anything in my power for 
 you," he said. His heart was sincere and glowing — 
 but his mind instantly noted the qualification implied 
 in the words, "my power." 
 
 And Elizabeth, with her quick intelligence, caught 
 the significance of those words. She closed her eyes 
 an instant. How hard he made it ! Still, he was cer- 
 tainly within his rights. 
 
 "I want you to let my brother go," she said. 
 
,ff7 
 
 " I want you to let my brother go," she said Page ^^o 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITV 
 
 OF 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 551 
 
 He compressed his lips, and she noted how very thin, 
 how resolute they were. 
 
 "It does not altogether rest with me." 
 
 "You evade," she said. "Don't treat me — as if I 
 were some politician." She was surprised at her own 
 temerity. With some Httle fear that he might mistake 
 her meaning, she, nevertheless, kept her gray eyes 
 fixed on him, and went on : 
 
 "I came to ask you not to lay his case before the 
 grand jury. I believe that is the extent of your power. 
 I really don't know about such things." Her eyes fell, 
 and she gently stroked the soft gray fur of her mufif, 
 as she permitted herself this woman's privilege of 
 pleading weakness. "No one need be the loser — my 
 father will make good the — shortage. All will be as 
 if it never had been — all save this horrible thing that 
 has come to us — that must remain, of course, for ever/* 
 
 Then she let the silence fall between them. 
 
 "You are asking me to do a great deal." 
 
 "It seems a very little thing to me, so far as you are 
 concerned ; to us — to me — of course, it is a great thing ; 
 it means our family, our name, my father, my mother, 
 myself — leaving Dick out of it altogether." 
 
 Eades turned away in pain. It was evident that she 
 had said her all, and that he must speak. 
 
 "You forget one other thing," he said presently. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The rights of society." He was conscious of a cer- 
 tain inadequacy in his words; they sounded to him 
 weak, and not at all as it seemed they should have 
 sounded. She did not reply at once, but he knew that 
 she was looking at him, Was that look of hers a look 
 of scorn ? 
 
552 THE TURN OF, THE BALANCE 
 
 ''I do not care one bit for the rights of society," she 
 said. He knew that she spoke with all her spirit. But 
 she softened almost instantly and added, ''I do care, of 
 course, for its opinion." 
 
 Hades was not introspective enough to realize his 
 own superlative regard for society's opinion; it was 
 easier to cover this regard with words about its rights. 
 
 *'But society has rights," he said, "and society has 
 placed me here to see those rights conserved." 
 
 "What rights ?" she asked. 
 
 "To have the wrong-doer punished." 
 
 "And the innocent as well? You would punisH my 
 mother, my father and me, although, of course, we al- 
 ready have our punishment." She waited a moment 
 and then the cry was torn from her. 
 
 "Can't you see that merely having to come here on 
 such an errand is punishment enough for me ?" 
 
 She was bending forward, and her eyes blinked back 
 the tears. He had never loved her so; he could not 
 bear to look at her sitting there in such anguish. 
 
 "My God, yes!" he exclaimed. He got up hastily, 
 plunging his hands in his pockets, and walking away 
 to his window, looked out a moment, then turned ; and 
 as he spoke his voice vibrated : 
 
 "Don't you know how this makes me suffer? Don't 
 you know that nothing I ever had to face troubles me 
 as this does?" 
 
 She did not reply. 
 
 "If you don't," he added, coming near and speaking 
 in a low, guarded tone, "you don't know how — I love 
 you." 
 
 She raised her hand to protest, but she did not look 
 Up. He checked himself, She lowered her gloy^d 
 
THE TURN OR THE BALANCE 553 
 
 Hand, and he wondered in a second of great agitation 
 if that gesture meant the withdrawal of the protest. 
 
 "Then — then," she said very deliberately, "do this 
 for me." 
 
 She raised her muff to hide the face that flamed 
 scarlet. He took one step toward her, paused, strug- 
 gled for mastery of himself. He remembered now that 
 the principle — ^the principle that had guided him in the 
 conduct of his office, required that he must make his 
 decisions slowly, calmly, impersonally, with the cold 
 deliberation of the law he was there to impersonate. 
 And here was the woman he loved, the woman whom 
 he had longed to make his wife, the wife who could 
 crown his success — here, at last, ready to say the word 
 she had so long refused to say — the word he had so 
 long wished to hear. 
 
 "Elizabeth," he said simply, "you know how I have 
 loved you, how I love you now. This may not be the 
 time or the place for that — I do not wish to take an 
 advantage of you — ^but you do not know some other 
 things. I have never felt at all worthy of you. I do 
 not now, but I have felt that I could at least offer you 
 a clean hand and a clean heart. I have tried in this 
 office, with all its responsibilities, to do my duty with- 
 out fear or favor ; thus far I have done so. It has been 
 my pride that nothing has swerved me from the path 
 of that plain duty. I have consoled myself ever since 
 I knew I loved you — and that was long before I dared 
 to tell you — that I could at least go to you with that 
 record. And now you ask me to stultify myself, to give 
 all that up ! It is hard — too hard !" He turned away. 
 "I don't suppose I make it clear. Perhaps it seems a 
 little thing to you. To me it is a big thing ; it is all I 
 have," 
 
554 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Elizabeth was conscious for an instant of nothing 
 but a gratitude to him for turning away. She pressed 
 her muff against her face; the soft fur, a Httle cold, 
 was comforting to her hot cheeks. She felt a humilia- 
 tion now that she feared she never could survive ; she 
 felt a regret, too, that she had ever let the situation 
 take this personal and intimate turn. For an instant 
 she was disposed to blame Fades, but she was too just 
 for that; she knew that she alone was to blame; she 
 remembered that it was this very appeal she had come 
 to make, and she contemned herself — despised herself. 
 And then in a desperate effort to regain her self-re- 
 spect, she tried to change the trend of the argument, 
 to restore it to the academic, the impersonal, to strug- 
 gle back to the other plane with him, and she said : 
 
 "If it could do any good ! If I could see what good 
 it does !" 
 
 "What!" he exclaimed, turning to her. "What 
 good ? What good does any of my work do?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know." As she said this, she 
 looked up at him, met his eye with a boldness she de- 
 spised in herself. Down in her heart she was conscious 
 of a self-abasement that was almost complete ; she real- 
 ized the histrionic in her attitude, and in this feeling, 
 determined now to brave it out; she added bitterly: 
 "None, I should say." 
 
 "None !" He repeated the word, aghast. "None ! Do 
 you say that all this work I have been doing for the 
 betterment, the purification of society does no good?" 
 
 "No good," she said ; "it does no good ; it only makes 
 more suffering in the world." And she thought of all 
 she was just then suffering. 
 
 "Where — " he could not catch his breath — "where 
 did you get that idea?"* 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 555 
 
 "In the night — in tHe long, horrible night." Though 
 she was alive to the dramatic import of her words and 
 this scene, she was speaking with sincerity, and she 
 shuddered. 
 
 Eades stood and looked at her. He could do noth- 
 ing else ; he could say nothing, think nothing. 
 
 In Elizabeth's heart there was now but one desire, 
 and that was to get away, to bring this horror to an 
 end. She had come to save her brother ; now she was 
 conscious that she must save herself; she felt that she 
 had hopelessly involved the situation; it was beyond 
 remedy now, and she must get away. She rose. 
 
 *T have come here, I have humiliated myself to ask 
 you to do a favor for me," she said. "You are not 
 ready to do it, I see." She was glad ; she felt now the 
 dreadful anxiety of one who is about to escape an aw- 
 ful dilemma. "To me it seems a very simple little 
 thing, but—" 
 
 She was going. 
 
 "Elizabeth!" he said, "let me think it over. I can 
 not think straight just now. You know how I want to 
 help you. You know I would do anything — anything 
 for you !" 
 
 "Anything but this," she said. "This little thing 
 that hurts no one, a thing that can bring nothing but 
 happiness to the world, that can save my father and 
 my mother and me — a thing, perhaps the only thing 
 that can save my poor, weak, erring brother — who 
 knows ?" 
 
 "Let me think it over," he pleaded. "I'll think it 
 over to-night — Ell send you word in the morning." 
 
 She turned then and went away. 
 
XXVII 
 
 Elizabeth let the note fall in her lap. A new happi- 
 ness suddenly enveloped her. She felt the relief of an 
 escape. The note ran : 
 
 Dear Elizabeth: 
 
 I have thought it all over. I did not sleep all night, thinking 
 of it, and of you. But — I can not do what you ask ; I could not 
 love you as I do if I were false to my duty. You know how 
 hard it is for me to come to this conclusion, how hard it is for 
 me to write thus. It sounds harsh and brutal and cold, I know. 
 It is not meant to be. I know how you have suffered ; I wish 
 you could know how I have suffered and how I shall suffer. 
 I can promise you one thing, however : that I shall do only my 
 duty, my plain, simple duty, as lightly as I can, and nothing 
 now can give me such joy as to find the outcome one perhaps 
 I ought not to wish — one which in any other case would be 
 considered a defeat for me. But I ask you to think of me, 
 whatever may come to pass, as 
 
 Your sincere 
 
 John Eades. 
 
 She leaned back in her chair, and closed Her eyes; 
 a sense of rest and comfort came to her. She was con- 
 tent for a while simply to realize that rest and comfort. 
 She opened her eyes and looked out of the window 
 over the little triangular park with its bare trees; the 
 sky was solid gray; there was a gray tone in the at- 
 mosphere, and the soft light was grateful and rest- 
 ful to her eyes, tired and sensitive as they were from 
 the loss of so much sleep. She felt that she could lie 
 back then and sleep profoundly. Yet she did not wish 
 to sleep — she wished to be awake and enjoy this sensa- 
 
 556 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 55; 
 
 tion of relief, of escape. After that night and that day 
 and this last night of suspense, it was like a reprieve — 
 she started and her face darkened, — the thought of 
 reprieve made her somehow think of Archie Koerner. 
 This event had quite driven him out of her mind, com- 
 ing as it had just at the climax. She had not thought 
 of him for — ^how long? And Gusta! It brought the 
 thought of her, too. Suddenly she remembered, with a 
 dim sense of confusion that, at some time long ago, 
 she and Gusta had talked of Archie's first trouble. 
 Had they mentioned Dick? No, but she had thought 
 of him! How strange! And then her thoughts re- 
 turned to Eades, and she lifted the note, and glanced 
 at it. She recalled the night at the Fords', and his pro- 
 posal, her hesitation and his waiting. She let the note 
 fall again and sighed audibly — a sigh that expressed 
 her content. Then suddenly she started up ! She had 
 forgotten Dick — the trouble — ^her father! 
 
 Marriott knew what she had to say almost before 
 the first sentence had fallen from her lips. 
 
 "I'll not pretend to be surprised, Elizabeth," he said. 
 "I haven't expected it, but now I can see that it was 
 inevitable." 
 
 He looked away from her. 
 
 "Poor boy !" he said. "How I pity him ! He has 
 done nothing more than to adopt the common stan- 
 dard; he has accepted the common ideal. He has be- 
 lieved them when they told him by word and deed 
 that possession — money — could bring happiness and^ 
 that nothing else can ! Well — it's too bad." 
 
 EHzabeth's head was drooping and the tears were 
 streaming down her cheeks. He pretended not to see. 
 
558 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE . 
 
 "Poor boy !" he went on. "Well, we must save him, 
 that's all." 
 
 She looked up at him, her gray eyes wide and their 
 lashes drenched in their tears. 
 
 "How, Gordon?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know, but some way." He studied a 
 moment. "Eades — well, of course, he's hopeless." 
 
 She could never tell him of her visit to Eades ; she 
 had told him merely of Hunter's interview with the 
 prosecutor. But she was surprised to see how Marriott, 
 instantly, could tell just what Eades would do. 
 
 "Eades is just a prosecutor, that's all," Marriott 
 went on. "Heavens ! How the business has hardened 
 him ! How it does pull character to shreds ! And yet 
 — ^he's like Dick — he's pursuing another ideal that's 
 very popular. They'll elect Eades congressman or 
 governor or something for his severity. But let's not 
 waste time on him. Let's think." He sat there, his 
 brows knit, and Elizabeth watched him. 
 
 "I wish I could fathom old Hunter. He had some 
 motive in reporting it to Eades so soon. Of course, 
 if it wasn't for that it would be easy. Hm — " He 
 thought. "We'll have to work through Hunter. He's 
 our only chance. I must find out all there is to know 
 about Hunter. Now, Elizabeth, I'll have to shut my- 
 self up and do some thinking. The grand jury doesn't 
 meet for ten days — we have time — " 
 
 "They won't arrest Dick?" 
 
 "Oh, it's not likely now. Tell him to stay close at 
 home — don't let him skip out, whatever he does. That 
 would be fatal. And one thing more — let me do the 
 worrying." He smiled. 
 
 Marriott had hoped, when the murder trial was over. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 559 
 
 tHat he could rest ; he had set In motion the machinery 
 that was to take the case up on error ; he had ordered 
 his transcripts and prepared the petition in error and 
 the motions, and he was going to have them all ready 
 and file them at the last moment, so that he might be 
 sure of delay. Archie had been taken to the peniten- 
 tiary, and Marriott was glad of that, for it relieved him 
 of the necessity of going to the jail so often; that was 
 always an ordeal. He had but one more visit to make 
 there, — Curly had sent for him; but Curly never de- 
 manded much. But now — here was a task more diffi- 
 cult than ever. It provoked him almost to anger; he 
 resented it. It was always so, he told himself; every- 
 thing comes at once — and then he thought of Eliza- 
 beth. It was for her ! 
 
 He thought of nothing else all that day. He in- 
 quired about Hunter of every one he met. He went 
 to his friends, trying to learn all he could. He picked 
 up much, of course, for there was much to be told of 
 such a wealthy and prominent man as Amos Hunter, 
 especially one with such striking personal character- 
 istics. But he found no clue, no hint that he felt was 
 promising. Then he suddenly remembered Curly. 
 
 He found him in another part of the jail, where he 
 had been immured away from Archie in order that they 
 might not communicate with each other. With his 
 wide knowledge and deeper nature Curly was a more 
 interesting personality than Archie. He took his pre- 
 dicament with that philosophy Marriott had observed 
 and was beginning to admire in these fellows ; he had 
 no complaints to make. 
 
 "Fm not worried," he said. "I'll come out all right. 
 Eades has nothing on me, and he knows it. They're 
 
56o THE TURN OB THE BALANCE 
 
 holding me for a bluff. They'll keep me, of course, 
 until they get Archie out of the way, then they'll put 
 me on the street. It wouldn't do to drop my case now. 
 They'll just stall along with it until then. Of course — 
 there's one danger — " he looked up and smiled curi- 
 ously, and to the question in Marriott's eyes, he an- 
 swered : 
 
 "You see they can't settle me for this ; but they might 
 dig up something somewhere else and put me away on 
 that. You see the danger." 
 
 Marriott nodded, not knowing just what to say. 
 
 "But we must take the bitter with the sweet, as Ed- 
 die Dean used to say." Curly spoke as if the observa- 
 tion were original with Dean. "But, Mr. Marriott, 
 there's one or two things I want you to attend to for 
 me." 
 
 "Well," consented Marriott helplessly, already over- 
 burdened with others' cares. 
 
 "I don't like to trouble you, but there's no one I like 
 to trust, and they won't let me see any one." 
 
 He hesitated a moment. 
 
 "It's this way," he presently went on. "I've got a 
 woman — Jane, they call her. She's a good woman, 
 you see, though she has some bad tricks. She's sore 
 now, and hanging around here, and I want her to 
 leave. She's even threatened to see Eades, but she 
 wouldn't do that; she's too square. But she has a 
 stand-in with McFee, and while he's all right in his 
 way, still he's a copper, and you can't be sure of a 
 copper. She can't help me any here, and she might 
 queer me ; the flatties might pry something out of her 
 that could hurt me — they'll do anything. If you'll see 
 
;jHE TURN DR iTHE BALANCE 561 
 
 Danny Gibb's and have him ship her, I'll be much 
 obliged. And say, Mr. Marriott, when you're seeing 
 him, tell him to get that thing fixed up and send me 
 my bit. He'll understand. I don't mind telling you, 
 at that. There's a man here, a swell guy, a banker, 
 who does business with Dan. He's handled some of 
 our paper — and that sort of thing, you know, and I've 
 got a draw coming there. It ain't much, about twenty- 
 five case, I guess, but it'd come in handy. Tell Dan to 
 give the woman a piece of it and send the rest to me 
 here. I can use it just now buying tobacco and milk 
 and some little things I need. Dan'll understand all 
 about it." 
 
 'Who is this swell guy you speak of — this banker ?" 
 Curly looked at Marriott with the suspicion that was 
 necessarily habitual with him, but his glance softened 
 and he said : 
 
 "I don't know him myself. I never saw him — ^his 
 name's Hunt, no, Hunter, or some such thing. Know 
 him?" 
 
 Marriott's heart leaped ; he struggled to control him- 
 self. 
 
 "Course, you understand, Mr. Marriott," said Curly, 
 fearing he had been indiscreet, "this is all between 
 ourselves." 
 
 "Oh, of course, you can depend on me." 
 He was anxious now to get away ; he could scarcely 
 observe the few decencies of decorum that the place 
 demanded. And when he was once out of the prison, 
 he called a cab and drove with all speed to Gibbs's 
 place. On the way his mind worked rapidly, splendid- 
 ly, under its concentration. When he reached the well- 
 
562 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 known quiet little saloon in Kentucky Street, Gibbs 
 took him into the back room, and there, where Gibbs 
 had been told of the desperate plights of so many men, 
 Marriott told him of the plight of Dick Ward. When 
 he had done, he leaned across the table and said : 
 
 "And you'll help me, Dan ?" 
 
 Gibbs made no reply, but instead smoked and blinked 
 at Marriott curiously. Just as Marriott's hopes were 
 falling, Gibbs broke the silence : 
 
 "It's the girl you're interested in," he said gruffly, 
 "not the kid." He looked at Marriott shrewdly, and 
 when Marriott saw that he looked not at all unkindly 
 or in any sense with that cynical contempt of the sen- 
 timental that might have been expected of such a man, 
 Marriott smiled. 
 
 "Well, yes, you're right. I am interested in her." 
 
 Gibbs threw him one look and then tilted back, 
 gazed upward to the ceiling, puffed meditatively at his 
 cigar, and presently said, as if throwing out a mere 
 tentative suggestion: 
 
 "I wonder if it wouldn't do that old geezer good to 
 take a sea- voyage?" 
 
 Marriott's heart came into his throat with a little 
 impulse of fear. He felt uneasy — this was dangerous 
 ground for a lawyer who respected the ethics of his 
 profession, and here he was, plotting with this go-be- 
 tween of criminals. Criminals — and yet who were the 
 criminals he went between ? These relations, after all, 
 seemed to have a high as well as a low range — was 
 there any so-called class of society whom Gibbs could 
 not, at times, serve ? 
 
 "Let's see," Gibbs was saying, "where is this now? 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 563 
 
 Canada used to do, but that's been put on the bum. 
 Mexico ain't so bad, they say, and some of them South 
 American countries does pretty well, though they com- 
 plain of the eatin', and there's nothing doing anyway. 
 A couple of friends of mine down in New York went 
 to a place somewhere called — let's see — called Algiers, 
 ain't it?" 
 
 Marriott did not like to speak, but he nodded. 
 
 "Is that a warm country ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 "It's on the shores of the Mediterranean." 
 
 "Now that don't tell me any more than I knew be- 
 fore," said Gibbs, "but if the climate's good for old 
 guys with the coin, that's about all we want. It'll 
 make the front all right, especially at this time o' year." 
 
 Marriott nodded again. 
 
 "All right, that'll do. An old banker goes there for 
 his health — just as if it was Hot Springs." 
 
 Gibbs thought a moment longer. 
 
 "Now, of course, the kid's father'U make it good, 
 won't he? He'll put up?" 
 
 "Yes," said Marriott. He was rather faint and sick 
 about it all — and yet it was working beautifully, and 
 it must be done. Even then Ward was pacing the 
 floor somewhere — and Elizabeth, she was waiting and 
 depending on him. "Shall I bring you his check ?" 
 
 "Hell, no !" exclaimed Gibbs. "We'll want the cash. 
 I'll get It of him. The fewer hands, the better." 
 
 Marriott was wild to get away; he could scarcely 
 wait, but he remembered suddenly Curly's commis- 
 sions, and he must attend to them, of course. He felt 
 a great gratitude just now to Curly, 
 
564 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 When Marriott told Gibbs of Curly's request, Gibbs 
 shook his head decidedly and said: 
 
 "No, I draw the Hne at refereeing domestic scraps. 
 If Curly wants to go frame in with a moll, it's his 
 business; I can't do anything." And then he dryly 
 added : "Nobody can, with Jane ; she's hell !" 
 
XXVIII 
 
 One morning, a week later, as they sat at breakfast^ 
 Ward handed his newspaper across to Elizabeth, indi* 
 eating an item in the social column, and Elizabeth 
 read : 
 
 "Mr. Amos Hunter, accompanied by his daughter, Miss 
 Agnes Hunter, sailed from New York yesterday on the steamer 
 King Emanuel for Naples. Mr. Hunter goes abroad for his 
 health, and will spend the winter in Italy." 
 
 Elizabeth looked up. 
 
 "That means— ?" 
 
 "That it's settled,'' Ward replied. 
 
 She grew suddenly weak, in the sense of relief that 
 seemed to dissolve her. 
 
 "Unless," Ward added, and Elizabeth caught her- 
 self and looked at her father fearfully, "Hunter should 
 come back." 
 
 "But will he?" 
 
 "Some time, doubtless." 
 
 "Oh, dear ! Then the suspense isn't over at all !" 
 
 "Well, it's over for the present, anyway. Eades can 
 do nothing, so Marriott says, as long as Hunter is 
 away, and even if he were to return, the fact that Hun- 
 ter accepted the money and credited it on his books — 
 in some fashion — would make it exceedingly difficult 
 to prove anything, and of course, under any circum- 
 stances, Hunter wouldn't dare — now." 
 
 565 
 
S66 THE TUkN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 Elizabeth sat a moment idly playing with a fork, 
 and her father studied the varying expressions of her 
 face as the shades came and went in her sensitive 
 countenance. Her brow clouded in some little per- 
 plexity, then cleared again, and at last she sighed. 
 
 "I feel a hundred years old," she said. "Hasn't it 
 been horrible ?" 
 
 "I feel like a criminal myself," said Ward. 
 
 "We are criminals — all of us," she said, dealing 
 bluntly, cruelly with herself. "We ought all of us to 
 be in the penitentiary, if anybody ought." 
 
 "Yes," he acquiesced. 
 ' "Only," she said, "nobody ought. IVe learned that, 
 anyway." 
 
 "What would you do with them?" he asked, in the 
 comfort of entering the realm of the abstract. 
 
 "With us?" 
 
 "Well — with the criminals." 
 
 "Send us to the penitentiary, I suppose." 
 
 "You are delightfully illogical, Betsy," he said, try- 
 ing to laugh. 
 
 "That's all we can be," she said. "It's the only log- 
 ical way." 
 
 Then they were silent, for the maid entered. 
 
 "Have we really committed a crime?" she asked, 
 when the door swung on the maid, who came and went 
 so unconsciously in the midst of these tragic currents. 
 "Don't tell me— if we have." 
 
 "I don't know," said Ward. "I presume I'd rather 
 not know. I know I've gone through enough to make 
 me miserable the rest of my life. I know that we have 
 settled nothing — that we have escaped nothing — ex- 
 cept what people will say." 
 
THE TURN OP THE BALANCE 567 
 
 "Yes, mama, after all, was the only one wise enough 
 to understand and appreciate the real significance." 
 
 "Well, there's nothing more we can do now," he 
 replied. 
 
 "No, we must go on living some way." She got up, 
 went around the table and kissed him on the forehead. 
 "We'll just lock our little skeleton in the family closet, 
 papa, and once in a while go and take a peep at him. 
 There may be some good in that — ^he'U keep us from 
 growing proud, anyway." 
 
 Ward and Marriott had decided to say as little to 
 Elizabeth as possible of their transaction. Ward had 
 gone through a week of agony. In a day or two he 
 had raised the little fortune, and kept it ready, and he 
 had been surprised and a bit perturbed when Gibbs 
 had come and in quite a matter-of-fact way asked for 
 the amount in cash. Ward had helplessly turned it 
 over to him with many doubts and suspicions ; but he 
 knew no other way. Afterward, when Gibbs returned 
 and gave him Hunter's receipt, he had felt ashamed 
 of these doubts and had hoped Gibbs had not noticed 
 them, but Gibbs had gone away without a word, save 
 a gruff : 
 
 "Well, that's fixed, Mr. Ward." 
 
 And yet Elizabeth had wondered about it all. Her 
 conscience troubled her acutely, so acutely that when 
 Marriott came over that evening for the praise he 
 could not forego, and perhaps for a little spiritual cor- 
 roboration and comfort, she said : 
 
 "Gordon, you have done wonders. I can't thank 
 you." 
 
 "Don't try," he said. "It's nothing." 
 
 She looked troubled. Her brows darkened, and 
 
568 THE TURN OR THE BALANCE 
 
 tfien, unable to resist tHe impulse any longer, she 
 asked : 
 
 **But, Gordon, was it right?" 
 
 "What?" he asked, quite needlessly, as they both 
 knew. 
 
 "What you— what we— did ?" 
 
 "Yes, it was right." 
 
 "Was it legal?" 
 
 "N-no." 
 
 "Ah!" She was silent a moment. "What is it 
 called?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "You know very well — our crime. I must know the 
 worst. I must know just how bad I am." 
 
 "You wish to have it labeled, classified, as Doctor 
 Tilson would have it ?" 
 , "Yes, tell me." 
 
 "I believe," said Marriott looking away and biting 
 his upper lip, "that it's called compounding a felony, or 
 something of that sort." 
 
 He was silent and she was silent. Then he spoke 
 again. 
 
 "They disbarred poor old Billy Gale for less than 
 that." 
 
 She looked at him, her gray eyes winking rapidly 
 as they did when she was interested and her mind 
 concentrated on some absorbing problem. Then she 
 impulsively clasped her white hands in her lap, and, 
 leaning over, she asked out of the psychological inter- 
 est the situation must soon or late have for her : 
 
 "Tell me, Gordon, just how you felt when you 
 were — " 
 
 "Committing it?" 
 
THE TURN OK THE BALANCE 569 
 
 She nodded her head rapidly, almost impatiently. 
 
 "Well," he said with a far-away expression, "I ex- 
 perienced, especially when I was in Danny Gibbs's sa- 
 loon, that pleasant feeling of going to hell." 
 
 "You just won't reassure me," she said, relaxing in- 
 to a hopeless attitude. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I will," he replied. "Don't you remember 
 what Emerson says ?" He looked up at the portrait of 
 the beautiful, spiritual face above the mantel. 
 
 She looked up in her vivid literary interest. 
 
 "No ; tell me. He said everything." 
 
 "Yes, everything there is to say. He said, 'Good 
 men must not obey the laws too well.* " 
 
XXIX 
 
 When Eades read the announcement of Hunter*s 
 departure for Italy he was first surprised, then indig- 
 nant, then reHeved. Hunter had reported Dick^s crime 
 in anger, the state of mind in which most criminal 
 prosecutions are begun. The old man had trembled 
 until Eades feared for him ; as he sat there with pallid 
 lips relating the circumstances, he was not at all the 
 contained, mild and shrewd old financier Eades so long 
 had known. 
 
 "We must be protected, Mr. Eades," — ^he could hear 
 the shrill cry for days — "we must be protected from 
 these thieves ! They are the worst of all, sir ; the worst 
 of all ! I want this young scoundrel arrested and sent 
 to the penitentiary right away, sir, right away !'* 
 
 Eades had seen that the old man was in fear, and 
 that in his fear he had turned to him as toward that 
 ancient corner-stone of society, the criminal statute. 
 And now he had fled ! 
 
 Eades knew, of course, that some one had tampered 
 with him; and, of course, the defalcation had been 
 made good, and now Hunter would be an impossible 
 witness. Even Eades could imagine Hunter on the 
 stand, not as he had been in his office that day, angry, 
 frightened, keenly conscious of his wrong and recalling 
 minutely all the details ; but senile, a little deaf, leaning 
 forward with a hand behind his ear, a grin on his 
 withered face, remembering nothing, not cognizant of 
 the details of his bookkeeping — sitting there, with 
 
 570 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 571 
 
 his money safe in his pocket, while the case collapsecl, 
 Dick was acquitted in triumph — and he, John Eades, 
 made ridiculous. 
 
 But what was he to do ? After all, in the eye of the 
 law, Hunter was not a witness; and, besides, it was 
 possible that, technically, the felony might not have 
 been compounded. At any rate, if it had been he could 
 not prove it, and as for proceeding now against Ward, 
 that was too much to expect, too much even for him 
 to exact of himself. When a definite case was laid 
 before him with the evidence to support it, his duty 
 was plain, but he was not required to go tilting after 
 wind-mills, to investigate mere suspicions. It was a 
 relief to resign himself to this conclusion. Now he 
 could only wait for Hunter's return, and have him 
 brought in when he came, but probably, in the end, it 
 would come to nothing. Yes, it was a relief, and he 
 could think hopefully once more of Elizabeth. 
 
 The fourteenth of May — ^the date for the execution 
 of the sentence of death against Archie — was almost 
 on him before Marriott filed his petition in error in the 
 Appellate Court and a motion for suspension of sen- 
 tence. He had calculated nicely. As the court could 
 not hear and determine the case before the day of ex- 
 ecution, the motion was granted, and the execution 
 postponed. Marriott's relief was exquisite ; he hastened 
 to send a telegram to Archie, and was happy, so happy 
 that he could laugh at the editorial which Edwards 
 printed, the next morning, calling for reforms in the 
 criminal code which would prevent "such travesties as 
 were evidently to be expected in the Koerner case." 
 
 Marriott could laugh, because he knew how hypo- 
 
572 THE TURN OF; THE BALANCE 
 
 critical Edwards was, but Edwards's editorials had in- 
 fluence in other quarters, and Marriott more and more 
 regretted his simple little act of kindness — or of weak- 
 ness — in loaning Edwards the ten dollars. If the 
 newspapers would desist, he felt sure that in time, 
 when public sentiment had undergone its inevitable re- 
 action, he might secure a commutation of Archie's sen- 
 tence; but if Edwards, in order to vent his spleen, 
 continued to keep alive the spirit of the mob, then 
 there was little hope. 
 
 "If he could only be sent to prison for life!" said 
 Elizabeth, as they discussed this aspect of the case. 
 "No," — she hastened to correct herself — ^*'for twenty 
 years ; that would do.'* 
 
 "It would be the same thing," said Marriott. 
 
 "What do you mean?" Elizabeth leaned forward 
 with a puzzled expression in her gray eyes. 
 
 "All sentences to the penitentiary are sentences for 
 life. We pretend they're not, but if a man lives to get 
 out — do we treat him as if he had paid the debt ? No, 
 he's a convict still. Look at Archie, for instance." 
 
 "Look at Harry Graves ! Oh, Gordon," — Elizabeth 
 suddenly sat up and made an impatient gesture — "I 
 can't forget him ! And Gusta ! And those men I saw 
 as they were taken from the jail !" 
 
 "You mustn't worry about it ; you can't help it." 
 
 "Oh, that's what they all tell me! 'Don't worry 
 about it — you can't help it!' No! But you worried 
 about Archie — and about" — she closed her eyes, and 
 he watched their white Hds droop in pain — "and about 
 Dick." 
 
 "I knew them." 
 
 "Yes," she said, nodding her head, "you knew them 
 
THE TURN OE THE BACANCE 573 
 
 — ^that explains it all. We don't know the others, and 
 so we don't care. Some one knows them, of course, or 
 did, once, in the beginning. It makes me so unhappy ! 
 Don't, please, ever any more tell me not to worry, or 
 that I can't help it. Try to think out some way in 
 which I can help it, won't you ?" 
 
 Meanwhile, Edwards's editorials were doing their 
 work. They had an effect on Eades, of course, because 
 the Courier was the organ of his party, to which he 
 had to look for renomination. And they produced their 
 effect on the judges of the Appellate Court, who also 
 belonged to that party, but, not knowing Edwards, 
 thought his anonymous utterances the voice of the peo- 
 ple, which, at times, in the ears of politicians sounds 
 like the voice of God. The court heard the case early 
 in June ; in two weeks it was decided. When Marriott 
 entered the court-room on the morning the decision 
 was tol)e rendered, his heart sank. On the left of the 
 bench were piled some law-books, and behind them, 
 peeping surreptitiously, he recognized the transcript 
 in the Koerner case. It was much like other tran- 
 scripts, to be sure, but to Marriott it was as familiar 
 as the features of a friend with whom one has gone 
 through trouble. The transcript lay on the desk be- 
 fore Judge Gardner's empty chair and therefore he 
 knew that the decision was to be delivered by Gardner, 
 and he feared that it was adverse, for Gardner had 
 been severe with him and had asked him questions dur- 
 ing the argument. 
 
 The bailiff had stood up, rapped on his desk, and 
 Marriott, Eades and the other lawyers in the court- 
 room rose to simulate a respect for the court enter- 
 tained only by those who felt that they were likely to 
 
574 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 win their cases. The three judges paced solemnly in, 
 and when they were seated and the presiding judge 
 had made a few announcements, Gardner leaned for- 
 ward, pulled the transcript toward him, balanced his 
 gold glasses on his nose, cleared his throat, and in a 
 deep bass voice and in a manner somewhat strained, 
 began to announce the decision. Before he had uttered 
 half a dozen sentences, Marriott knew that he had lost 
 again. The decision of the lower court was affirmed 
 in what was inevitably called by the newspapers an able 
 opinion, and the day of Archie's death was once more 
 fixed — this time for the twenty-first of October. 
 
 A few weeks later, Marriott saw Archie at the peni- 
 tentiary. He had gone to the state capital to argue to 
 the Supreme Court old man Koerner's case against the 
 railroad company. Several weeks before he had tried 
 the case in the Appellate Court, and had won, the court 
 affirming the judgment. This case seemed now to be 
 the only hope of the family, and Marriott was anxious 
 to have it heard by the Supreme Court before the 
 learned justices knew of Archie's case, lest the relation 
 of the old man and the boy prejudice them. He felt 
 somehow that if he failed in Archie's case, a victory in 
 the father's case would go far to dress the balance of 
 the scales of justice and preserve the equilibrium of 
 tjiings. It was noon when Marriott was at the peni- 
 tentiary, and he was glad that the men who were wait- 
 ing to be killed were then taking their exercise, for he 
 was spared the depression of the death-chamber. He 
 met Archie under the blackened locust tree in the quad- 
 rangle. Archie was hopeful that day. 
 
 "I feel lucky," said Archie. "I'll not have to pun- 
 ish,— -think so, Mr, Marriotti" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 575 
 
 "We've got lots of time," Marriott replied, not know- 
 ing what else to say, "the Supreme Court doesn't sit 
 till fall." 
 
 Pritchard, the poisoner, laid his slender white hand 
 on Archie's shoulder. 
 
 "Good boy you've got here, Mr. Marriott," he said 
 jokingly, "but a trifle wild." 
 
 Marriott laughed, and wondered how he could laugh. 
 
 Just then a whistle blew, and the convicts in close- 
 formed ranks filed by on their way to dinner. As they 
 went by, one of them glanced at him with a smile of 
 recognition ; a smile which, as Marriott saw, the man 
 at once repressed, as the convict is compelled to repress 
 all signs of human feeling. Marriott stared, then sud- 
 denly remembered ; it was a man named Brill, whom he 
 had known years before. And he, like the rest of the 
 world, had forgotten Brill ! He had not even cast him 
 a glance of sympathy! He felt like running after the 
 company — ^but it was too late; Brill must go without 
 the one little kindness that might have made one day, 
 at least, happier, or if not that, shorter for him. 
 
 The last gray-garbed company marched by, the 
 guard with his club at his shoulder. The rear of this 
 company was brought up by a convict, plainly of the 
 fourth grade, for he was in stripes and his head was 
 shaved. He walked painfully, with the aid of a crook- 
 ed cane, lifting one foot after the other, flinging it be- 
 fore him and then slapping it down imcertainly with a 
 disagreeable sound to the pavement. 
 
 "What's the matter with that man ?" asked Marriott. 
 
 "They say he has locomotor ataxia," said Beck, the 
 death-watch, "but he's only shamming. He's no good." 
 
XXX 
 
 Archie had lived in the death-chamber at the peni- 
 tentiary for nine months. Three times had the day of 
 his death been fixed; the first time, by Glassford for 
 the fourteenth of May, the second time by the Appel- 
 late Court for the twenty-first of October. Then, the 
 third time the seven justices of the Supreme Court, sit- 
 ting in their black and solemn gowns, sustained the 
 lower court, and set the day anew, this time for the 
 twenty-third of November. Then came the race to the 
 Pardon Board; where Marriott and Eades again 
 fought over Archie's life. The Pardon Board refused 
 to recommend clemency. But one hope remained — 
 the governor. It was now the twenty-second of No- 
 vember — one day more. Archie waited that long after- 
 noon in the death-chamber, while Marriott at the state 
 house pleaded with the governor for a commutation of 
 his sentence to imprisonment for life. 
 
 Already the prison authorities had begun the ar- 
 rangements. That afternoon Archie had heard them 
 testing the electric chair ; he had listened to the thrum- 
 ming of its current; twice, thrice, half a dozen times, 
 they had turned it on. Then Jimmy Ball had come in, 
 peered an instant, without a word, then shambled 
 away, his stick hooked over his arm. It was very still 
 in the death-chamber that afternoon. The eight other 
 men confined there, like Archie, spent their days in 
 reviving hope within their breasts ; like him, they had 
 
 576 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 577 
 
 experienced the sensation of having the day of their 
 death fixed, and then lived to see it postponed, changed, 
 postponed and fixed again. They had known the long 
 suspense, the alternate rise and fall of hope, as in the 
 courts the state had wrangled with their lawyers for 
 their lives. Not once had Burns, the negro, twanged 
 his guitar. Lowrie, who was writing a history of his 
 wasted life, had allowed his labor to languish, and sat 
 now moodily gazing at the pieces of paper he had cov- 
 ered with his illiterate writing. Old man Stewart, who 
 had strangled his young wife in a jealous rage, lay on 
 his iron cot, his long white beard spread on his breast, 
 strangely suggestive of the appearance he soon would 
 present in death. Kulaski, the Slav, who had slain a 
 saloon-keeper for selling beer to his son, and never re- 
 pented, was moody and morose; Belden and Waller 
 had consented to an intermission of their quarrelsome 
 argument about religion. The intermission had the 
 effect of a deference to Archie ; the argument was not 
 to be resumed until after Archie's death, when he 
 might, indeed, be supposed to have solved the problem 
 they constantly debated, and to have no further interest 
 in it. Pritchard, the poisoner, a quiet fellow, and Mul- 
 ler had ceased their interminable game of cribbage, the 
 cards lay scattered on the table, the little pins stuck in 
 the board where they had left them, to resume their 
 count another time. The gloom of Archie's nearing 
 fate hung over these men, yet none of them was think- 
 ing of Archie; each was thinking of an evening which 
 .would be to him as this evening was to Archie, unless 
 I — there was always that word "unless" ; it made their 
 hearts leap painfully. 
 
 Just outside the iron grating which separated from 
 
578 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 the antechamber the great apartment where they ex- 
 isted in the hope of living again, Beck, the guard, sat 
 in his well-worn splint-bottomed chair. He had tilted 
 it against the wall, and, with his head thrown back, 
 seemed to slumber. His coarse mouth was open, his 
 purple nose, thrown thus into prominence, was gro- 
 tesque, his filthy waistcoat rose and stretched and fell 
 as his flabby paunch inflated with his breathing. Be- 
 side the hot stove, just where the last shaft of the sun, 
 falling through the barred window, could fall on her, 
 a black cat, fat and sleek, that haunted the chamber 
 with her uncanny feline presence, stretched herself, 
 and yawned, curling her delicate tongue. 
 
 When Archie entered the death-chamber, there had 
 been eleven men in it. But the number had decreased. 
 He could remember distinctly each separate exit. One 
 by one they had gone out, never to return. There was 
 Mike Thomas ; he would remember the horror of that 
 to the end of his life, as, with the human habit, he ex- 
 pressed it to Marriott, insensible of the grim irony of 
 the phrase in that place of deliberate death, where, 
 after all, life persisted on its own terms and with its 
 common phrases and symbols. The newspapers had 
 called it a harrowing scene ; the inmates of the death- 
 chamber had whispered about it, calling it a bungle, 
 and the affair had magnified and distorted itself to 
 their imaginations, and they had dwelt on it with a 
 covert morbidity. The newspapers next day were de- 
 nied them, but they knew that it had required three 
 shocks — they could count them by the thrumming of 
 the currents, each time the prison had shaken with the 
 howl of the awakened convicts in the cell-house. Bill 
 Arnold, the negro who had killed a real estate agent, 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 579 
 
 had been the most concerned ; his day was but a week 
 after Thomas's. The strain had been too much for 
 Arnold; he had collapsed, raved like a maniac, then 
 sobbed, fallen on his knees and yammered a prayer to 
 Jimmy Ball, as if the deputy warden were a god. They 
 had dragged him out, still on his knees, moaning "God 
 be merciful ; God be merciful." 
 
 They had missed Arnold. He was a jolly negro, 
 who could sing and tell stories, and do buck-and-wing 
 dancing, and, when Ball was away, and the guard's 
 back turned, give perfect imitations of them both. 
 They missed him out of their Hfe in that chamber, or 
 rather out of their death. It seemed strange to think 
 that one minute he was among them, full of warm 
 pulsing life and strength — and that the next, he should 
 be dead. They missed him, as men miss a fellow with 
 whom they have eaten and slept for months. 
 
 These men in the state shambles were there, the law 
 had said, for murder. But this was only in a sense 
 true. One was there, for instance, because his lawyer 
 had made a mistake ; he had not kept accurate account 
 of his peremptory challenges; he thought he had ex- 
 hausted but fifteen, whereas he had exhausted sixteen ; 
 that is, all of them, and so had been unable to remove 
 from the jury a man whom he had irritated and offend- 
 ed by his persistent questioning; he had been quite 
 sarcastic, intending to challenge the man peremptorily 
 in a few moments. Another man was there because 
 the judge before whom he was tried, having quarreled 
 with his wife one morning, was out of humor all that 
 day, and had ridiculed his lawyer, not in words, but 
 by sneers and curlings of his lip, which could not be 
 preserved in the record. Another — Pritchard, to bq 
 
58o THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 exact — was tHere, first, because he had been a chemist ; 
 secondly, because he, Hke the judge, had had a quarrel 
 with his wife; thirdly, because his wife had died sud- 
 denly, and traces of cyanide of potassium had been 
 found in her stomach — at least three of the four doc- 
 tors who had conducted the post-mortem examination 
 had said the traces were of cyanide of potassium — and 
 fourthly, because a small vial was discovered in the 
 room in which were also traces of cyanide of potas- 
 sium; at least, three chemists declared the traces were 
 those of cyanide of potassium. And all of them were 
 there for some such reason as this, and all of them, 
 with the possible exception of Pritchard, had taken 
 human life. And yet each one had felt, and still felt, 
 that the circumstances under which he had killed were 
 such as to warrant killing; such, indeed, as to make it 
 at the moment seem imperative and necessary, just as 
 the State felt that in killing these men, circumstances 
 had arisen which made it justifiable, imperative and 
 necessary to kill. 
 
 Though Archie waited in suspense, the afternoon 
 was short, short even beyond the shortness of Novem- 
 ber, and at five o'clock Marriott came. He lingered 
 just outside the entrance to the chamber in the little 
 room that was fitted up somehow like a chapel, the 
 room in which the death chair was placed. The guard 
 brought Archie out, and he leaned carelessly against 
 the rail that surrounded the chair, mysterious and sin- 
 ister under its draping of black oil-cloth. The rail 
 railed off the little platform on which the chair was 
 placed just as a chancel-rail rails off an altar, pos- 
 
THE TURN OE THE BALANCE 581 
 
 sibly because so many people regarded the chair in the 
 same sacred Hght that they regarded an altar, and 
 spoke of it as if its rite were quite as saving and sacer- 
 dotal. But Archie leaned against the rail calmly, neg- 
 ligently, and it made Marriott's flesh creep to see him 
 thus unmoved and practical. He did not speak, but he 
 looked his last question out of his blue eyes. 
 
 "The governor hasn't decided yet," Marriott said. 
 "I've spent the afternoon with him. I've labored with 
 him — God!" he suddenly paused and sighed in utter 
 weariness at the recollection of the long hours in which 
 he had clung to the governor — "I'm to see him again 
 at eight o'clock at the executive mansion. He's to give 
 me a final answer then." 
 
 "At eight o'clock?" The words slipped from Ar- 
 chie's lips as softly as his breath. 
 
 "This evening," said Marriott, dreading now the 
 thought of fixity of time. He looked at Archie; and 
 it was almost more than he could endure. Archie's 
 eyes were fastened on him; his gaze^ seemed to cling 
 to him in final desperation. 
 
 "Oh, in the name of God," Archie suddenly whis- 
 pered, leaning toward him, his face directly in his, "do 
 something, Mr. Marriott! something! something! I 
 can't, I can't die to-night! If it's only a little more 
 time — just another day — but not to-night! Not to- 
 night! Do something, Mr. Marriott; something!" 
 
 Marriott seized Archie's hand. It was cold and wet. 
 He wrung it as hard as he could. There were no 
 words for such a moment as this. Words but mocked. 
 
 He saw Archie's chest heave, and the cords tighten 
 in his swelling neck. Marriott could only look at him 
 
582 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 — this boy, for whom he had come to have an affec- 
 tion — so young, so strong, with the great gloom of 
 death prematurely, unnecessarily, in his face ! 
 
 But the face cleared suddenly, — ^Archie still could 
 think, and he remembered — he remembered Curly, and 
 Mason and old Dillon, and Gibbs, he recalled the only 
 ideals he knew — like all of us, he could live up only to 
 such ideals as he had — he remembered that he must be 
 game. He straightened, Marriott saw the fine and 
 supple play of the muscles of his chest, its white skin 
 revealed through his open shirt. 
 
 "So long, Mr. Marriott," said Archie, and then 
 turned and went back into the death-chamber. 
 
 Outside, in the twilight that was filling the quad- 
 rangle, Marriott passed along, the gloom of the place 
 he had left filling his soul. The trusty who had con- 
 ducted him to the death-chamber paced in silence by 
 his side. He passed the great tree, gaunt and bare and 
 black now, the tree under which he had seen that sum- 
 mer day these. doomed men take their exercise, with 
 the Sunday-school scholars standing by and gazing on 
 with curious covert glances and perverted thoughts. 
 He wished that time had paused on that day — he had 
 had hope then; this thing as to Archie, it then had 
 seemed, simply could not be ; it might, he had felt, very 
 well be as to those other doomed men ; indeed, it 
 seemed certain and irrevocable ; but as to Archie, no, it 
 could not be. And yet, here it was, the night before 
 the day — and but one more hope between them and the 
 end. He hastened on, anxious to get out of the place. 
 Any moment the whistle might blow and he would 
 have to wait until the men had come from their work ; 
 the gate;5 could not be unlocked at that time, or until 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 583 
 
 the men were locked again in their cells. They were 
 passing the chapel, and suddenly he heard music — 
 the playing of a piano. He stopped and listened. He 
 heard the deep bass notes of Grieg's Ode to the Spring, 
 played now with a pathos he had never known before. 
 ,,-n "What's that?" he asked the trusty. 
 
 "That playing ? That's young Ernsthauser. He's a 
 swell piano player." 
 
 "May we look in ?" 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 They entered, and stood just inside the door. A 
 young German, in the gray convict garb, was seated at 
 a piano, his delicate hands straying over the keys. 
 One gas-jet burned in the wall above the piano, shed- 
 ding its faint circle of light around the pianist, glisten- 
 ing on the dark panels of the instrument, lighting the 
 pale face of the boy — he was but a boy — and then los- 
 ing itself in the great darkness that hung thick and 
 soft and heavy in the vast auditorium. Marriott looked 
 and listened in silence; tears came to his eyes, a vast 
 pity welled within him, and he knew that never again 
 would he hear the Ode without experiencing the pity 
 and the pain of this day. He wished, indeed, that he 
 had not heard it. The musician played on, rapt and 
 alone, unconscious of their presence. 
 
 "Tell me about that fellow," said Marriott, as they 
 stole away. 
 
 "Oh, he was a musician outside. The warden lets 
 him play. The warden likes music. I've seen him cry 
 when Ernsthauser plays. He plays for visitors, and 
 he picks up, they say, a good bit of money every day. 
 The visitors, except the Sunday-schools, give him 
 tips." 
 
584 THE TURN Ot: THE BALANCE 
 
 "How long is he in for ?" 
 
 "Life." 
 
 The word fell like a blow on Marriott. Life ! What 
 parodoxes were in this place ! What perverted mean- 
 ings — if there were any meanings left in the world. 
 This one word life, in one part of the prison meant 
 life indeed; now it meant death. Was there any dif- 
 ference in the words, after all — life and death ? Life in 
 death ; death in life ? With Archie it was death in life, 
 with this musician, life in death — no, it was the other 
 way. But was it? Marriott could not decide. The 
 words meant nothing, after all. 
 
 The delay in the chapel kept Marriott in the prison 
 for half an hour. He would not watch the convicts 
 march again to their cells ; he did not wish to hear the 
 clanging of the gong nor the thud of the bolts that 
 locked them in for the night. 
 
 The warden, a ruddy and rotund man, spoke pleas- 
 antly to him and asked him into his office. The warden 
 sat in a big swivel chair before his roll-top desk, and, 
 while Marriott waited, locked in now like the rest, they 
 chatted. It was incomprehensible to Marriott that this 
 man could chat casually and even laugh, when he knew 
 that he must stay up that night to do such a deed as 
 the law required of him. The consciousness, indeed, 
 must have lain on the warden, try as he might not to 
 show it, for, presently, the warden himself, as if he 
 could not help it, referred to the event. 
 
 "How's Archie taking it ?" he asked. 
 
 Marriott might have replied conventionally, or po- 
 litely, that he was taking it well, but he somehow re- 
 sented this man's casual and contained manner. And 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 585 
 
 so, looking him in the eyes, and meaning to punish 
 him, he said : 
 
 "He's trying to appear game, but he's taking it 
 hard." 
 
 "Hard, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, hard." Marriott looked at him sternly. "Tell 
 me," he emboldened himself to ask, "how can you do 
 it?" 
 
 The warden's face became suddenly hard. 
 
 "Do it? Bah! I could switch it into all of them 
 fellows in there — like that!" He snapped his fat fin- 
 gers in the air with a startling, suggestive electric 
 sound. And for a moment afterward his upper lip 
 curled with a cruelty that appalled Marriott. He 
 looked at this man, this executioner, who seemed to be 
 encompassed all at once with a kind of subtle, evil 
 fascination. Marriott looked at his face — then in some 
 way at the finger and thumb which, a moment before, 
 had snapped their indifference in the air. And he 
 started, for suddenly he recalled that Doctor Tyler 
 Tilson had declared, in the profound scientific treatise 
 he had written for the Post, that Archie had the spatu- 
 late finger-tips and the stubbed finger-nails that were 
 among the stigmata of the homicide, and Marriott 
 saw that the fingers of the warden were spatulate, their 
 nails were broad and stubbed, imbedded in the flesh. 
 And this man liked music — cried when the life-man 
 played ! 
 
 "Won't you stop and have dinner with me?" the 
 warden asked. "You can stay for the execution, too, if 
 you wish." 
 
 **No, thank you," said Marriott hurriedly. The 
 
586 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 thought of sitting down to dine with this man on this 
 evening was abhorrent, loathsome to him. He might 
 have sat down and eaten with Archie and his compan- 
 ions, or with those convicts whose distant shuffling 
 feet he heard; he could have eaten their bread, wet 
 and salt with their tears, but he could not eat with this 
 .man. And yet, sensitively, he could not let this man 
 detect his loathing. 
 
 "No," he said, "I must get back to my hotel — " and 
 the thought of the hotel, with its light and its life, filled 
 him with instant longing. "I have another appoint- 
 ment with the governor this evening." 
 
 "Oh, he won't do anything," said the warden. 
 
 The words depressed Marriott, and he hurried away 
 with them persistently ringing in his ears, glad at least 
 to get away from the great pile that hid so much sor- 
 row and misery and shame from the world, and now 
 sat black against the gathering night, under the shadow 
 of a mighty wing. 
 
 At eight o'clock that evening Archie was sitting on 
 the edge of his cot, smoking one of the Russian cigar- 
 ettes Marriott had brought him in the afternoon. The 
 pungent and unusual odor filled the death-chamber, 
 and the other waiting men (who nevertheless did not 
 have to die that night) sniffed, some suspiciously, 
 some with the air of connoisseurs. 
 
 "Ha !" said Pritchard, turning his pale face slowly 
 about, "imported, eh ?" 
 
 Then Archie passed them around, though somewhat 
 reluctantly. Marriott had brought him several boxes 
 of these cigarettes, and Archie knew they were the 
 kind Marriott smoked himself. He was generous 
 
THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 587 
 
 enough ; this brotherhood of doomed men held all 
 things in common, like the early Christians, sharing 
 their little luxuries, but Archie felt that it was useless 
 to waste such cigarettes on men who would be alive 
 to-morrow; especially when it was doubtful if there 
 would be enough for himself. 
 
 The warden had sent him a supper which was borne 
 in with the effect of being the last and highest excel- 
 lence to which the culinary art could attain. If there 
 was anything, Ball reported the warden as having said, 
 that was then in market, and was not there he'd like to 
 know what it was. The generosity of the warden had 
 not been limited to Archie ; the others were treated to 
 a like repast; there was turkey for all. Archie had 
 not eaten much ; he had made an effort and smiled and 
 thanked the warden when he strolled in afterward for 
 his meed of praise. Archie found the cigarettes suffi- 
 cient. He sat there almost without moving, smoking 
 them one after another, end to end, lighting a fresh 
 one from the cork-tipped stub of the one he was about 
 to fling away. He sat and smoked, his eyes blinked 
 in his white face, and his brows contracted as he tried 
 to think. He was not, of course, at any time, capable 
 of sustained or logical thought, and now his thoughts 
 were merely a muddle of impressions, a curiosity as to 
 whether he would win or lose, as if he were gambling, 
 and all this in the midst of a mighty wonder, vast, im- 
 measurable, profound, that was expanding slowly in 
 his soul. 
 
 How many times had he waited as he was waiting 
 now, for word from Marriott? May fourteenth, Octo- 
 ber twenty-first, November twenty-third. What day 
 was this ? Oh, yes, the twenty-second. What time was 
 
'S^ THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 it now ? . . . Kouka ? — Kouka was dead ; yes, dead. 
 That was good . . . And he himself must die . . . 
 Die? What was that? . . . May fourteenth, Octo- 
 ber twenty-first, November twenty-third. He had al- 
 ready died three times. No, he had died many more 
 times than that ; during the trial he had died again and 
 again, by day, by night. Here in the death-chamber 
 he had died ; here on this very cot. Sometimes during 
 the day, when they were all strangely merry, when 
 Bill Arnold was doing a song and dance, when they 
 had all forgotten, suddenly, in an instant, it would 
 come over him, and he would die — die there, amidst 
 them all, with the sun streaming in the window — die 
 with a smile and a joke, perhaps while speaking to one 
 of them ; they would not know he was dying. And in 
 the night he died often, nearly every night, suddenly 
 he would find himself awake, staring into the darkness ; 
 then he would remember it all, and he would die, live 
 over that death again, as it were. All about him the 
 others would be snoring, or groaning, muttering or 
 cursing, like drunkards in their sleep. Perhaps they 
 were dying, too. Now, he must die again. And he 
 had already died a thousand deaths. Kouka had died, 
 too, but only once. ... 
 
 What was that? Marriott? His heart stopped. 
 But, no, it was not Marriott. There was still hope; 
 there was always hope so long as Marriott did not 
 come. It was only the old Lutheran preacher, Mr. 
 Hoerr. He came to pray with him ? This was strange, 
 thought Archie. Why should he pray now? What 
 diflFerence could that make? Prayers could not save 
 him ; he had tried that, sometimes at night, as well as 
 he could, imploring, pleading, holding on with his 
 
THE TURN OF, THE BALANCE 589 
 
 wHoIe soul, until he was exhausted ; but it did no good ; 
 no one, or nothing heard. The only thing that could 
 do any good now was the governor. . . . Still, he 
 was glad it was not Marriott. He had, suddenly, be- 
 gun to dread the coming of Marriott. . . . But this 
 preacher? Well, he could pray if he wanted to, it 
 seemed to please him, to be a part somehow of the 
 whole ceremony they were going through. Yet he 
 might pray if it gave him any pleasure. He had read 
 of their praying, always; but Mr. Hoerr must not 
 expect him to stop smoking cigarettes while he prayed. 
 Archie lighted a fresh cigarette hurriedly, inhaled 
 the smoke, filling his lungs in every cell. . . . The 
 preacher had asked him if he was reconciled, if he 
 were ready to meet his God. Archie did not reply. 
 He stared at the preacher, the smoke streaming from 
 his lips, from his nostrils. Ready to meet his God? 
 What a strange thing to ask ! He was not ready, no ; 
 he had not asked to meet his God, yet. There was no 
 use in asking such a question; if they were uncertain 
 about it, or had any question, or feared any danger 
 they could settle it by just a word — a word from the 
 governor. Then he would not have to meet his God, 
 • . . Where was his God anyhow ? He had no God. 
 . . . These sky-pilots were strange fellows! He 
 never knew what to say to them. . . . **The blood of 
 Jesus." . . . Oh, yes, he had heard that, too. . . . 
 Was he being game? What would the papers say? 
 Would the old Market Place gang talk about it ? And 
 Mason, and Dillon, and Gibbs? And Curly, too? They 
 might as well; doubtless they would. They settled 
 whomever they pleased. . . . Out at Nussbaum's sa- 
 loon in the old days. . . . His mother, and Jakie and 
 
590 TtlE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 little Katie playing in the back yard, their yellow heads 
 bobbing in the sunshine. . . . And Gusta! Poor 
 Gusta ! Whatever became of that chump of a Peltzer ? 
 He ought to have fixed him. . . . The old man's 
 rheumatic leg. . . . And that case of his against the 
 railroad. . . . John O'Brien — rattler. . . . What 
 was the word for leg? Oh, yes, gimp. . . . Well, he 
 had made a mess of it. . . . If they would only hang 
 him, instead. . . . Why couldn't they? That would 
 be so much easier. He was used to thinking of that ; so 
 many men had gone through that. But this new way, 
 there was so much fuss about it. . . . Bill Arnold. 
 . . . What if? . . . Ugh. . . . How cold it 
 was ! Had some one opened the window ? . . . 
 
 Yes, he was the fall guy, all right, all right. ... A 
 black, intolerable gloom, dread wastes like a desert. 
 Thirst raged in his throat. ... It was dry and sand- 
 ed. .. . How rank the cigarette tasted! . . . 
 Why did the others huddle there in the back of the 
 cage, their faces black, ugly, brutal? Were they plot- 
 ting? They might slip up on him, from behind. He 
 turned quickly. . . . Well, they would get theirs, too. 
 ... . One day in the wilderness of Samar when their 
 company had been detailed to — the flag — ^how green the 
 woods were ; the rushes — 
 
 His father hated him, too, yes, ever since. . . . 
 Eades — Eades had done this. God ! What a cold prop- 
 osition Eades was ! . . . One day when he was a lit- 
 tle kid, just as they came from school in the afternoon. 
 . . . The rifle range, and the captain smiling as he 
 pinned his sharp-shooter's medal on. . . . Where was 
 his medal now ? He meant to ask the warden to have it 
 pinned on his breast after — He must attend to that, 
 
fHE TURN OF THE BALANCE 591 
 
 and not forget it. He had spoken to Beck about it and 
 Beck had promised, but Beck never did anything he 
 said he would. ... If, now, those bars were not 
 there, he could choke Beck, take his gun — 
 
 His mind suddenly became clear. With a yearning 
 that was ineffable, intolerable, he longed for some 
 power to stay this thing — if he could only try it all 
 over again, he would do better now ! His mind had 
 become clear, incandescent ; he had a swift flashing con- 
 ception of purity, faith, virtue — but before he could 
 grasp the conception it had gone. He was crying, his 
 mother, he remembered — but now he could not see her 
 face, he could see the shape of her head, her hair, her 
 throat, but not her face. He could, however, see her 
 hands quite distinctly. They were large, and brown, 
 and wrinkled, and the fingers were curved so that they 
 were almost always closed. . . . But this was not be- 
 ing game ; he needn't say dying game just yet. 
 
 Was that Marriott? No, the warden. He had 
 brought him something. He was thrusting it through 
 the bars. A bottle ! Archie seized it, pressed it to his 
 lips. Whisky! He drank long and long. Ah! That 
 was better! That did him good! That beat prayers, 
 or tears, or solitaire, or even wishing on the black cat. 
 That made him warm, comfortable. There was hope 
 now. Marriott would bring that governor around! 
 Marriott was a hell of a smart fellow, even if he had 
 lost his case. Perhaps, if he had had Frisby, — Frisby 
 was smart, too, and had a pull. He drank again. That 
 was better yet. What would it matter if the governor 
 refused? It wouldn't matter at all; it was all right. 
 This stuff made him feel game. How much was there 
 
592 THE TURN. OE THE BALANCE 
 
 in tHe Ijottle? . . . AH, the cigarettes tasted better, 
 too, now . . . 
 
 Marriott ? No, not this time. Well, that was good. 
 It was the barber come to "top'' him. 
 
 The barber shaved bare a little round spot on 
 Archie's head, exposing a bluish-white disk of scalp 
 in the midst of his yellow locks. And then, kneeling 
 with his scissors, he slit each leg of Archie's trousers 
 to the knee. Then the warden drew a paper out of his 
 pocket and began to read. 
 
 Archie could not hear what he read. After the bar- 
 ber began shaving his head, he fell into a stupor, and 
 sat there, his eyes staring straight before him, his 
 mouth agape, a cigarette clinging to his lower lip and 
 dangling toward his chin. He looked like a young 
 tonsured priest suddenly become imbecile. 
 
 When they finished, he still sat there. Some one 
 was taking off his shoes. Then there was a step. He 
 looked up, as one returning from a dream. He saw 
 some one standing just within the door of the ante- 
 chamber. Marriott? No, it was not Marriott. It 
 was the governor's messenger. 
 
 Without in the cell-house the long corridors had 
 been laid deep in yellow sawdust, so that the fall of the 
 feet of the midnight guests might not awaken the con- 
 victs who slept so heavily, on the narrow bunks in 
 their cells, after their dreadful day of toil. 
 
XXXI 
 
 "All ready, Archie." 
 
 Jimmy Ball touched him on the shoulder. The 
 grated door was open, and Beck stood just inside it, 
 his revolver drawn. He kept his eye on the others, 
 huddled there behind him. 
 
 "Come, my boy." 
 
 He made an effort, and stood up. He glanced to- 
 ward the open grated door, thence across the flagging 
 to the other door, and tried to take a step. Out there 
 he could see one or two faces thrust forward suddenly ; 
 they peered in, then hastily withdrew. He tried again 
 to take a step, but one leg had gone to sleep, it prickled, 
 and as he bore his weight upon it, it seemed to swell 
 suddenly to elephantine proportions. And he seemed 
 to have no knees at all ; if he stood up he would col- 
 lapse. How was he ever to walk that distance ? 
 
 "Here !" said Ball. "Get on that other side of him. 
 Warden." 
 
 Then they started. The Reverend Mr. Hoerr, wait- 
 ing by the door, had begun to read something in a 
 strange, unnatural voice, out of a little red book he held 
 at his breast in both his hands. 
 
 "Good-by, Archie !" they called from behind, and he 
 turned, swayed a little, and looked back over his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "Good-by, boys," he said. He had a glimpse of their 
 faces; they looked gray and ugly, worse even than 
 
 593 
 
594 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 they had that evening — or was it that evening when 
 with sudden fear he had seen them crouching there be- 
 hind him ? 
 
 Perhaps just at the last minute the governor would 
 change his mind. They were walking the long way 
 to the door, six yards off. The flagging was cold to 
 his bare feet; his slit trouser-legs flapped miserably, 
 revealing his white calves. Walking had suddenly be- 
 come laborious ; he had to lift each leg separately and 
 manage it; he walked much as that man in the rear 
 rank of Company 21 walked. He would have liked to 
 stop and rest an instant, but Ball and the warden 
 walked beside him, urged him resistlessly along, each 
 gripping him at the wrist and upper arm. 
 
 In the room outside, Archie recognized the reporters 
 standing in the sawdust. What they were to write that 
 night would be in the newspapers the next morning, 
 but he would not read it. He heard Beck lock the door 
 of the death-chamber, locking it hurriedly, so that he 
 could be in time to look on. Archie had no friend in 
 the group of men that waited in silence, glancing curi- 
 ously at him, their faces white as the whitewashed wall. 
 The doctors held their watches in their hands. And 
 there before him was the chair, its oil-cloth cover now 
 removed, its cane bottom exposed. But he would have 
 to step up on the little platform to get to it. 
 
 *'No — yes, there you are, Archie, my boy!" whis- 
 pered Ball. "There!" 
 
 He was in it, at last. He leaned back; then, as his 
 back touched the back of the chair, started violently. 
 But there were hands on his shoulders pressing him 
 down, until he could feel his back touch the chair from 
 his shoulders down to the very end of his spine. Some 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 59S 
 
 one had seized his legs, turned back the slit trousers 
 from his calves. 
 
 ''Be quick!" he heard the warden say in a scared 
 voice. He was at his right side where the switch and 
 the indicator were. 
 
 There were hands, too, at his head, at his arms — 
 hands all over him. He took one last look. Had the 
 governor — ? Then the leather mask was strapped over 
 his eyes and it was dark. He could only feel and hear 
 now — feel the cold metal on his legs, feel the moist 
 sponge on the top of his head where the barber had 
 shaved him, feel the leather straps binding his legs and 
 arms to the legs and the arms of the chair, binding 
 them tightly, so that they gave him pain, and he could 
 not move. Helpless he lay there, and waited. He 
 heard the loud ticking of a watch; then on the other 
 side of him the loud ticking of another watch ; fingers 
 were at his wrists. There was no sound but the 
 mumble of Mr. Hoerr's voice. Then some one said: 
 
 "All ready." 
 
 He waited a second, or an age, then, suddenly, it 
 seemed as if he must leap from the chair, his body 
 was swelling to some monstrous, impossible, unhuman 
 shape ; his muscles were stretched, millions of hot and 
 dreadful needles were piercing and pricking him, a 
 stupendous roaring was in his ears, then a million 
 colors, colors he had never seen or imagined before, 
 colors no one had ever seen or imagined, colors beyond 
 the range of the spectra, new, undiscovered, summoned 
 by some mysterious agency from distant corners of the 
 universe, played before his eyes. Suddenly they were 
 shattered by a terrific explosion in his brain — then 
 darkness. 
 
596 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE j 
 
 But no, there was still sensation ; a dull purple color 
 slowly spread before him, gradually grew lighter, ex- 
 panded, and with a mighty pain he struggled, groping 
 his way in torture and torment over fearful obstacles 
 from some far distance, remote as black stars in the 
 cold abyss of the universe ; he struggled back to life — 
 then an appalling confusion, a grasp at consciousness ; 
 he heard the ticking of the two watches — then, through 
 his brain there slowly trickled a thread of thought that 
 squirmed and glowed like a white-hot wire ... 
 
 A faint groan escaped the pale lips below the black 
 leather mask, a tremor ran through the form in the 
 chair, then it relaxed and was still. 
 
 "It's all over." The doctor, lifting his fingers from 
 Archie's wrist, tried to smile, and wiped the perspira- 
 tion from his face with a handkerchief. 
 
 Some one flung up a window, and a draught of cool 
 air sucked through the room. On the draught was 
 borne from the death-chamber the stale odor of Rus- 
 sian cigarettes. And then a demoniacal roar shook 
 the cell-house. The convicts had bcoi awaket 
 
XXXII 
 
 Late in the winter the cable brought the news that 
 Amos Hunter had died at Capri. Though the con- 
 ventionaHties were observed, it was doubtful if the 
 event caused even a passing regret in the city where 
 Hunter had been one of the wealthiest citizens. The 
 extinction of this cold and selfish personality was 
 noted, of course, by the closing of his bank for a day ; 
 the Chamber of Commerce, the Board of Trade, and 
 the Stock Exchange adopted the usual resolutions, and 
 the newspapers printed editorials in which the old 
 canting, hypocritical phrases were paraded. To his 
 widow, beyond the shock that came with the breaking 
 of the habit of years, there was a mild regret, and the 
 daughter, who was with him when he died, after the 
 American consul had come to her assistance and ar- 
 ranged to send the body home, experienced a stealthy 
 pleasure in her homeward journey she had not known 
 on the outward voyage. 
 
 But to the Wards the news came as a distinct relief, 
 for now the danger, if it ever was a danger, that had 
 hung over them for months was definitely removed. 
 They had grown so accustomed to its presence, how- 
 ever, the suspense and uncertainty had become so 
 much a part of their lives that they did not recognize 
 its reality until they found it removed altogether. 
 Ward and Elizabeth had now and then talked about 
 
 597 
 
598 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 it and speculated on its possibilities of trouble in a 
 world where there was so much trouble; and Mrs. 
 Ward had been haunted by the fear of what her world 
 might say. Now that this danger was passed, she could 
 look on it as a thing that was as if it never had been, 
 and she fondled and caressed her full-grown son more 
 than ever. Ward was glad, but he was not happy. He 
 saw that Dick's character had been marked definitely. 
 The boy had escaped the artificial law that man had 
 made, but he had not evaded the natural law, and Ward 
 realized, though perhaps not so clearly as Elizabeth 
 realized, that Dick must go on paying the penalty in 
 his character year after year — perhaps to the end of 
 his days. 
 
 If it made any real difference to Dick, he did not 
 show it. Very early in the experience he seemed to 
 be fully reassured, and Ward and Elizabeth and Mar- 
 riott saw plainly that he was not wise enough to find 
 the good that always is concealed somewhere in the 
 bad. Dick took up his old life, and, so far as his re- 
 stricted opportunities now permitted, sought his old 
 sensations. Elizabeth sadly observed the continued 
 disintegration of his character, expressed to her by 
 such coarse physical manifestations as his excessive 
 eating and drinking and smoking. And she saw that 
 there was nothing she or any one could now do; that 
 no one could help him but himself, and that, like the 
 story of the prodigal of old, which suddenly revealed 
 its hidden meaning to her in this personal contact with 
 a similar experience, he must continue to feed on husks 
 until he came to himself. How few, she thought, had 
 come to themselves ! Elizabeth had been near to boast- 
 ing that her own eyes had been opened, and they 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 599 
 
 had, indeed, been washed by tears, but now she Humbly; 
 wondered if she had come to herself as yet. She had' 
 long ago given up the fictions of society which her; 
 mother yet revered; she had abandoned her formal 
 charities, finding them absurd and inadequate. Mean-'' 
 while, she waited patiently, hoping that some day she 
 might find the way to life. 
 
 She saw nothing of Eades, though she was con- 
 stantly hearing of his success. His conviction of 
 Archie had given him prestige. He considered the 
 case against Curly Jackson, but finding it impossible 
 to convict him, feeling a lack of public sentiment, he 
 was forced to nolle the indictment against him and 
 reluctantly let him go. In fact, Eades was having his 
 trouble in common with the rest of humanity. Though 
 he had been applauded and praised, all at once, for 
 some mysterious reason he could not understand but 
 could only feel in its eflFect, he discovered an eccen- 
 tricity in the institution he revered. For a while it was 
 difficult to convict any one; verdict after verdict of 
 not guilty was rendered in the criminal court; there 
 seemed to be a reaction against punishment. 
 
 When Amos Hunter died, Eades began to think 
 again of Elizabeth Ward. He assured himself that 
 after this lapse of time, now that the danger was re- 
 moved, Elizabeth would respect him for his high- 
 minded impartiality and devotion to duty, and, indeed, 
 understand what a sacrifice it had been to him to decide 
 as he had. And he resolved that at the first opportu- 
 nity he would speak to her again. He did not have to 
 wait long for the opportunity. A new musician had 
 come to town, and, with his interest in all artistic en- 
 deavors, Braxton Parrish had taken up this frail youth 
 
6oo THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 who could play the violin, and had arranged a recital 
 
 at his home. 
 
 Elizabeth went because Parrish had asked her espe- 
 cially and because her mother had urged it on her, "out 
 of respect to me," as Mrs. Ward put it. . When she got 
 there, she told herself she was glad she had come be- 
 cause she could now realize how foreign all this ar- 
 tificial life had become to her; she was glad to have 
 the opportunity to correct her reckoning, to see how 
 far she had progressed. She found, however, no profit 
 in it, though the boy, whose playing she liked, inter- 
 ested her. He stood in the music-room under the mel- 
 low light, and his slender figure bending gracefully to 
 his violin, and his sensitive, fragile, poetic face, had 
 their various impressions for her; but she sat apart 
 and after a while, when the supper was served, she 
 found a little nook on a low divan behind some palms. 
 But Eades discovered her in her retreat. 
 
 "I have been wondering whether my fate was settled 
 — after that last time we met," he said, after the awk- 
 >vard moment in which they exchanged banalities. 
 
 The wonder was in his words alone; she could not 
 detect the uncertainty she felt would have become him. 
 
 "Is it settled?" 
 
 "Yes, it is settled." 
 
 He was taken aback, but he was determined, always 
 determined. He could not suppose that, in the end, 
 she would actually refuse him. 
 
 "Of course," he began again, "I could realize that 
 for a time you would naturally feel resentful — though 
 that isn't the word — but now — ^that the necessity is 
 passed — that I am in a sense free — I had let myself 
 begin to hope again." 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 6oi 
 
 "You don't understand," she said, almost sick at 
 heart. "You didn't understand that day.'* 
 
 "Why, I thought I did. You wanted me — ^to let him 
 
 go- 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And because I loved you, to prove that I loved 
 you—" 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "Well, then, didn't I understand you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, I confess," he leaned back helplessly, "you 
 baffle me." 
 
 "Oh, but it wasn't a bargain'^ she said. Her gray 
 eyes looked calmly into his as she told him what she 
 knew was not accurately the truth, and she was glad 
 of the moment because it gave her the opportunity to 
 declare false what had so long been true to her, and, 
 just as she had feared, true to him. She felt restored, 
 rehabilitated in her old self-esteem, and she relished 
 his perplexity. 
 
 "It seems inconsistent," he said. 
 
 "Does it? How strange!" She said it coldly, and 
 slowly she took her eyes from him. They were silent 
 for a while. 
 
 "Then my fate is settled — irrevocably ?" he asked at 
 length. 
 
 "Yes, irrevocably." 
 
 "I wish," he complained, "that I understood." 
 
 "I wish you did," she replied. 
 
 "Can't you tell me?" 
 
 "Don't force me to." 
 
 "Very well," he said, drawing himself up. "I beg 
 
6o2 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 your pardon." These words, however, meant that the 
 apology should have been hers. 
 
 As they drove home, her mother said to her : 
 
 "What were you and John Eades talking about back 
 there in that corner?" 
 
 **An old subject." 
 
 "Was he — " Mrs. Ward was burning with a cu- 
 riosity she did not, however, like to put into words. 
 
 Elizabeth laughed. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "he was, Butsjl settled him." 
 
 "I hope you were not — " 
 
 "Brutal?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps not that — you, of course, could not 
 be that." 
 
 "Don't be too sure." 
 
 They discussed Eades as the carriage rolled along, 
 but their points of view could never be the same. 
 
 "And yet, after all, dear," Mrs. Ward was saying, 
 "we must be just. I don't see — " 
 
 "No," Elizabeth interrupted her mother. "You 
 don't see. None of you can see. It wasn't because he 
 wouldn't let Dick go. It was because that one act of 
 his revealed his true nature, his real self; showed me 
 that he isn't a man, but a machine ; not a human being, 
 but a prosecutor; he's an institution, and one can't 
 marry an institution, you know," she concluded oddly. 
 
 "Elizabeth !" said Mrs. Ward. "That doesn't sound 
 quite ladylike or nice !" 
 
 Elizabeth laughed lightly now, in the content that 
 came with the new happiness that was glowing within 
 her. 
 
XXXIII 
 
 Curly Jackson was hurrying along Race Street, glad 
 of his old friend, the darkness, that in February had 
 begun to gather at five o'clock. He passed a factory, 
 a tall, ugly building of brick, and in the light of the 
 incandescent lamps he could see the faces of the ma- 
 chinists bent over the glistening machines. Curly' 
 looked at these workmen, thought of their toil, of 
 the homes they would go to presently, of the wives 
 that would be waiting, and the children — suddenly a 
 whistle blew, the roar of machinery subsided, whirred, 
 hummed and died away; a glad, spontaneous shout 
 went up from the factory, and, in another minute, a 
 regiment of men in overalls and caps, begrimed and 
 greasy, burst into the street and went trooping off in 
 the twilight. The scene moved Curly profoundly ; he 
 longed for some touch of this humanity, for the fellow- 
 ship of these working-men, for some one to slap his 
 back, and, in mere animal spirits and joy at release, 
 sprint a race for half a block with him. 
 
 Curly felt that these workmen were like him, at 
 least, in one respect, they were as glad to be released 
 from the factory as he had been half an hour before to 
 be released from the jail. He had left the jail, but he 
 was not free. Inside the jail he had the sympathy and 
 understanding of his fellows ; here he had nothing but 
 hatred and suspicion. Even these men trooping along 
 beside him and, to his joy, brushing against him now 
 
 603 
 
6o4 THE TURK OF, THE BALANCE 
 
 and then, would have scorned and avoided him had 
 they known he was just released from prison. There 
 was no work for him among them, and his only free- 
 dom lay still in the fields, the woods, and along the 
 highways of gravel and of iron. 
 
 ''Well," he thought, grinding his teeth bitterly, 
 "they'll have to pay toll now !'* 
 
 He found Gibbs in his back room, alone, and evi- 
 dently in a gloomy mood. Gibbs stretched his hand 
 across the table. 
 
 "Well, Curly, I'm glad to see some one in luck." 
 "You're right, Dan, my luck's good. I'm no hoodoo. 
 To be in the way I was and have your pal topped, to 
 make a clear lamas — that looks like good luck to 
 me." 
 
 "Oh, well, they never had anything on you." 
 "They didn't have anything on Dutch neither — ^but 
 in the frame-up I didn't know but they'd put a sinker 
 on me, too. What made me sore was having that 
 Flanagan rap against me — why, great God! a job like 
 that — ^that some fink, some gay cat done after he'd got 
 scared !" Jackson could not find the words to express 
 his disgust, his sense of injury, the stain, as it were, 
 on his professional reputation. 
 
 "It was that they put Dutch away on." 
 "Sure, I know that, Dan, and everybody knows that. 
 It was just like a mob of hoosiers after you with pitch- 
 forks; like that time old Dillon and Mason and me 
 gave 'em battle in the jungle in Illinois. Well, that's 
 the way these people was. They was howlin' around 
 that court-house and that pogey — God ! to think of it ! 
 To think of a fellow's getting a lump like that handed 
 to him — all for croakin' a copper!" Curly shook his 
 
THE TURN of: THE BArANCE ^5 
 
 Head a moment in his inability to understand this situa- 
 tion, and he held his hands out in appeal to Gibbs, and 
 said in his high, shrill voice, emphasizing certain 
 words : 
 
 "What in hell do you make of it, Dan ?" 
 
 "What's the use wasting time over that?" Gibbs 
 asked. "That's all over, ain't it? Then cut it out 
 Course," — it seemed, however, that Gibbs had some 
 final comment of his own to make — "you might say the 
 kid ought to've had a medal for croaking a gendie. I 
 wisht when he pushed his barker he'd wiped out a few 
 more bulls. He was a good shot." 
 
 Gibbs said this with an air of closing the discussion, 
 and of having paid his tribute to Archie. 
 
 "Well, Dan," Curly began, "you'll have to put me 
 on the nut until I can get to work. I haven't even got 
 pad money. I gave my bit to Jane ; she says graft's on 
 the fritz. She twisted a super, but it was an old can- 
 ister — has she been in to-day ?" 
 
 Gibbs shook his head gloomily. 
 
 "She didn't expect 'em to turn me out to-day." 
 Curly mused in a moment's silence. "Ain't she the 
 limit? One day she was goin' to bash that sister of 
 poor Dutch, the next she's doubled with her, holdin' 
 her up. She had me scared when she landed in ; I was 
 'fraid she'd tip off the lay somehow — course" — ^he has- 
 tened to do her justice — "I knew she wouldn't throw 
 me down, but the main bull — What's wrong, Dan?** 
 Curly, seeing that Gibbs was not interested, stopped 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Oh, everything's wrong. Dean's been here — now 
 he's pinched !" 
 
 "No! What for?" 
 
6o6 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 "You'd never guess." 
 
 "The big mitt?" 
 
 "No, short change! He came in drunk — he's been 
 at it for a month ; of course, if he hadn't, he wouldn't 
 have done anything so fooHsh. Did you know a moll 
 buzzer named McGlynn ? Well, he got home the other 
 day from doin' a stretch, and Ed gets sorry for him 
 and promises to take him out. So they go down to the 
 spill and turned a sucker — Ed flopped him for a ten !" 
 Gibbs's tone expressed the greatest contempt. "He'll 
 be doing a heel or a stick-up next, or go shark hunt- 
 ing. Think of Ed Dean's being in for a thing like 
 that!" 
 
 "Is he down at the boob?" 
 
 "No, we sprung him on paper. He's all broke up — 
 you heard about McDougall ?" 
 
 "What about him?" 
 
 "Dead ; didn't you know ? Died in Baltimore — some 
 one shot him in a saloon. He wouldn't tell who; he 
 was game — died saying it was all right, that the guy 
 wasn't to blame. And then," Gibbs went on, "that 
 ain't all. Dempsey was settled." 
 
 "Yes, I read it in the paper." 
 
 "That was a kangaroo, too." 
 
 "I judged so ; they settled him for the dip. How did 
 it come off ?" 
 
 "Oh, it was them farmers down at Bayport. Demp- 
 sey had a privilege at the fair last fall ; he took a hier- 
 onymous — hanky-panky, chuck-a-luck." 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Curly impatiently, "the old 
 army game." 
 
 "Well, he skinned the shellapers, and they squealed 
 this year to get even. They had him pinched for the 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 607 
 
 dip. Why, old Dempsey couldn't even stall — ^he 
 couldn't put his back up to go to the front !" 
 
 "Who did it?" 
 
 "Oh, a little Chicago gun. You don't know him." 
 
 "Well," said Curly, "you have had a run of bad 
 luck." 
 
 "Do you know what does it?" Gibbs leaned over 
 confidentially, a superstitious gleam in his eye. "It's 
 that Koerner thing. There's a hoodoo over that family. 
 That girl's been in here once or twice — with Jane. 
 You tell Jane not to tow her round here any more. If 
 I was you, I'd cut her loose — she'll queer you. You 
 won't have any luck as long as you're filled in with 
 her." 
 
 "I thought the old man had some damages coming 
 to him for the loss of his gimp," said Curly. 
 
 "Well, he has; but it's in the courts. They'll job 
 him, too, I suppose. He can't win against that hoodoo. 
 The courts have been taking their time." 
 
 The courts, indeed, had been taking their time with 
 Koerner's case. Months had gone by and still no hint 
 of a decision. The truth was, the judges of the Supreme 
 Court were divided. They had discussed the case many 
 times and had had heated arguments over it, but they 
 could not agree as to what had been the proximate cause 
 of Koerner's injury, whether it was the unblocked frog 
 in which he had caught his foot, or the ice on which he 
 had slipped. If it was the unblocked frog, then it was 
 the railroad company's fault ; if it was the snow and ice, 
 then it was what is known as the act of God. Dixon, 
 McGee and Bundy, justices, all thought the unblocked 
 frog was the proximate cause ; they argued that if the 
 irog; had been blocked, Koerner could not have caught 
 
6og THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 his foot in it. They were supported in their opinion by 
 Sharlow, of the nisi prius court, and by Gardner, Daw- 
 son and Kirkpatrick, of the Appellate Court; so that 
 of all the judges who were to pass on Koerner's case, 
 he had seven on his side. On the other hand, Funk, 
 Hambaugh and Ficklin thought it was God's fault and 
 not the railroad company's ; they argued it was the ice 
 causing him to slip that made Koerner fall and catch 
 his foot. 
 
 It resulted, therefore, that with all the elaborate ma- 
 chinery of the law, one man, after all, was to decide 
 this case, and that man was Buckmaster, the chief 
 justice. Buckmaster had the printed transcript of the 
 record and the printed briefs of counsel, but, like most 
 of his colleagues, he disliked to read records and mere- 
 ly skimmed the briefs. Besides, Buckmaster could not 
 fix his mind on anything just then, for, like Archie, he, 
 too, was under sentence of death. His doctor, some 
 time before this, had told him he had Bright's disease, 
 and Buckmaster had now reached the stage where he 
 had almost convinced himself that his doctor was 
 wrong, and he felt that if he could take a trip south, 
 he would come back well again. Buckmaster would 
 have preferred to lay the blame of Koerner's accident 
 on God rather than on the railroad company. He had 
 thought more about the railroads and the laws they had 
 made than he had about God and the laws He had 
 made, for he had been a railroad attorney before he 
 became a judge; indeed, the railroad companies had 
 had his party nominate him for judge of the Supreme 
 Court. Buckmaster knew how much the railroads lost 
 in damages every year, ^nd how the unscrupulous per- 
 sonal-injury lawyers mulcted them; and just now, 
 
THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 6og 
 
 when he was needing this trip south, and the manager 
 of the railroad had placed his own private car at his 
 disposal, Buckmaster felt more than ever inclined to- 
 ward the railroad's side of these cases. Therefore, 
 after getting some ideas from Hambaugh, he an- 
 nounced to his colleagues that he had concluded, after 
 careful consideration, that Funk and Hambaugh and 
 Ficklin were right; and Hambaugh was designated to 
 write the profound opinion in which the decision of 
 the court below was reversed. 
 
 Marriott had the news of the reversal in a telegram 
 from the clerk of the Supreme Court, and he sat a long 
 time at his desk, gazing out over the hideous roofs 
 and chimneys with their plumes of white steam. 
 . . . Well, he must tell old Koerner. He never 
 dreaded anything more in his life, yet it must be done. 
 But he could wait until morning. Bad news would 
 keep. 
 
 But Marriott was spared the pain of bearing the 
 news of this final defeat to Koerner. It would seem 
 that the law itself would forego none of its privileges 
 as to this family with which it so long had sported. 
 The news, in fact, was borne to Koerner by a deputy 
 sheriff. 
 
 Packard, the lawyer for the Building and Loan 
 Company which held the mortgage on Koerner's house, 
 had been waiting, at Marriott's request, for the deter- 
 mination of Koerner's suit against the railroad com- 
 pany. That morning Packard had read of the reversal 
 in the Legal Bulletin, a journal that spun out daily 
 through its short and formal columns, the threads of 
 misery and woe and sin that men tangle into that in- 
 extricable snarl called "jurisprudence." And Packard 
 
6io THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 immediately; that very morning, began his suit in fore- 
 closure, and before noon the papers were served. 
 
 When Marriott knocked at the httle door in Bolt 
 Street, where he had stood so often and in so many 
 varying moeds of hope and despair, — ^though all of 
 these moods, as he was perhaps in his egoism glad to 
 feel, had owed their origin to the altruistic spirit, — ^he 
 felt that surely he must be standing there now for the 
 last time. He glanced at the front of the little home ; 
 it had been so neat when he first saw it; now it was 
 weather-beaten and worn; the front door was 
 scratched, the paint had cracked and come off in 
 flakes. 
 
 The door was opened by the old man himself, and 
 he almost frightened Marriott by the fierce expression 
 of his haggard face. His shirt was open, revealing 
 his red and wrinkled throat; his white hair stood up 
 straight, his lean jaws were covered with a short, white 
 beard, and his thick white eyebrows beetled fearfully. 
 When he saw Marriott his lips trembled in anger, and 
 his eyes flashed from their caverns. 
 
 "So!" he cried, not opening wide the door, not in- 
 viting Marriott in, "you gom', huh ?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Koerner," said Marriott, "I came — to—" 
 
 "You lost, yah, I know dot ! You lose all your cases, 
 huh, pretty much, aindt it so ?" 
 
 Marriott flamed hotly. 
 
 "No, it isn't so," he retorted, stepping back a little. 
 "I have been unfortunate, I know, in your case, and in 
 Archie's, but I did — " 
 
 "Ho!" scoffed Koerner in his tremendous voice. 
 "Veil ! Maybe you like to lose anudder case. Hier! I 
 gif you von !" 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 6ii 
 
 With a sudden and elaborate flourisli of the arm he 
 stretched over his crutch, he delivered a document to 
 Marriott, and Marriott saw that it was the summons 
 in the foreclosure suit. 
 
 "I s'pose we lose dot case, too, aindt it ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Marriott thoughtfully and sadly, tap- 
 ping his hand with the paper, "we'll lose this. When 
 did you get it ?" 
 
 "Dis morning. A deputy sheriff, he brought 'im — " 
 
 "And he told you—" 
 
 " 'Bout de Oder von ? Yah, dot's so." 
 ;r. They were silent a moment and Marriott, uncon- 
 sciously, and with something of the habit of the family 
 solicitor, put the summons into his pocket. 
 
 "Veil, I bet dere be no delays in dis case, huh?" 
 Koerner asked. 
 
 Marriott wondered if it were possible to make this 
 old man understand. 
 
 "You see, Mr. Koerner," he began, "the law — " 
 
 The old German reared before him in mighty rage, 
 and he roared out from his tremendous throat : 
 
 "Oh, go to hell mit your Gott-tamned law !" 
 
 And he slammed the door in Marriott's face. 
 
 I 
 
 Koerner was right; there were no delays now, no 
 questions of proximate cause, no more, indeed, than 
 there had been in Archie's case. The law worked uner- 
 ringly, remorselessly and swiftly; the Legal Bulletin 
 marked the steps day by day, judgment by default — 
 decree — order of sale. There came a day when the 
 sheriff's deputies — ^there were two of them now, know- 
 ing old man Koerner — went to the little cottage in Bolt 
 Street. Standing on the little stoop, one of them, hold- 
 
6i2 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 ing a paper in his hand, rapped on the door. There was 
 no answer, and he rapped again. Still no answer. He 
 beat with his gloved knuckles; he kicked lightly with 
 his boot ; still no answer. The deputies went about the 
 house trying to pfeep in at the windows. The blinds 
 were down ; they tried both doors, front and back ; they 
 were locked. 
 
 In a neighbor's yard a little girl looked on with the 
 crude curiosity of a child. After the man had tried 
 the house all about, and rightly imagining from all that 
 was said of the Koerners in the neighborhood that the 
 law was about to indulge in some new and sensational 
 ribaldry with them, she called out in a shrill, important 
 voice : 
 
 "They're in there, Mister !" 
 
 "Are you sure ?" 
 
 "Oh, honest!" said the officious little girl, drawing 
 Jier chin in affectedly. "Cross my heart, it's so." 
 
 Then the deputy put his shoulder to the door ; pres- 
 ently it gave. 
 
 In the front room, on the plush lounge, lay the two 
 children, Jakie and Katie, their throats cut from ear to 
 ear. In the dining-room, where there had been a 
 struggle, lay the body of Mrs. Koerner, her throat like- 
 wise cut from ear to ear. And from four huge nails 
 driven closely together into the lintel of the kitchen 
 door, hung the body of old man Koerner, with its one 
 long leg just off the floor, and from his long yellow 
 face hung the old man's tongue, as if it were his last 
 impotent effort to express his scorn of the law, whose 
 emissaries he expected to find him there. 
 
XXXIV 
 
 The series of dark events tKat had so curiously in- 
 terwrought themselves into the life of Elizabeth Ward 
 seemed, as far as the mind of mortals could determine, 
 to find its close in the tragedy which the despairing 
 Koerner contrived in his household. The effects of 
 ;all these related circumstances on those who, however 
 [remotely, were concerned in them, could not, of course, 
 be estimated; but the horror they produced in Eliza- 
 beth made the end of that winter a season of depression 
 that left a permanent impress on her life and character. 
 For weeks she was bewildered and afraid, but as the 
 days went by those events began to assume in her re- 
 trospective vision their proper relations in a world that 
 speedily forgot them in its contemplation of other events 
 exactly like them, and she tried to pass them in review ; 
 the Koerners all were dead, save Gusta, and she was 
 worse than dead ; Kouka and Hunter were dead ; Dick 
 was still astray ; Graves and all that horde of poor and 
 criminal, whose faces for an instant had been turned 
 up in appeal to her, had sunk into the black abyss 
 again. What did it all mean? 
 
 She sought an answer to the questions, but could 
 find none. No one could help her; few, indeed, could 
 understand what it was she wished to know. Her fa- 
 ther thought the market quotations important; her 
 mother was absorbed in the way in which certain per- 
 
 613 
 
6i4 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 sons dressed, or served their meals, or arranged their 
 entertainments; as for the church, where once she 
 might have gone for help, it was not interested in her 
 question. 
 
 The philosophers and the poets that had been her fa- 
 vorites had now for her new meanings, it is true, but 
 they had been writing of the poor and the imprisoned 
 for ages, and yet that very morning in that very city, 
 not far away, there were countless poor and criminal, 
 and as fast as these died or disappeared or were put 
 to prison or to death, others appeared to take their 
 places ; the courts ground on, the prisons were prompt- 
 ly filled, the scenes she had witnessed in the slums and 
 at the prisons were daily reenacted with ever-increas- 
 ing numbers to take the places of those who went down 
 in the process. And men continued to talk learnedly 
 and solemnly of law and justice. 
 
 She thought of Marriott's efforts to save Archie ; she 
 thought of her own efforts; the Organized Charities 
 squabbling as to whether it would open its meetings 
 with prayer or not, whether it would hold an entertain- 
 ment in a theater or some other building ; she remem- 
 bered the tedious statistics and the talk about the 
 industrious and the idle, the frugal and the wasteful, the 
 worthy and the unworthy. When, she wondered, had 
 the young curate ever worked ? who had declared him 
 worthy ? When, indeed, had she herself ever worked ? 
 who had declared her worthy ? 
 
 But this was not all: there were other distinctions; 
 besides the rich and the poor, the worthy and the un- 
 worthy, there were the "good" and the "bad." She 
 indeed, herself, had once thought that mankind was 
 thus divided, one class being rich^ worth}^ and good. 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 615 
 
 and the other class poor, unworthy and bad. But now, 
 while she could distinguish between the rich and poor, 
 she could no longer draw a line between the good and 
 the bad, or the worthy and the , unworthy, though it 
 did not seem difficult to some people, — Eades, for in- 
 stance, who, with his little stated formula of life, 
 thought he could make the world good by locking up 
 all the bad people in one place. Surely, she thought, 
 Eades could not do this; he could lock up only the 
 poor people. And a new question troubled Elizabeth : 
 was the one crime, then, in being poor? But gradu- 
 ally these questions resolved themselves into one ques- 
 tion that included all the others. "What," she asked 
 herself, "does life mean to me? What attitude am I 
 to adopt toward it ? In a word, what am I, a girl, hav- 
 ing all my life been carefully sheltered from these 
 things and having led an idle existence, with none but 
 purely artificial duties to perform — what am I to do ?" 
 The first thing, she told herself, was to look at the 
 world in a new Hght: a light that would reveal, dis- 
 tinctly, all the poor, all the criminal in the great, hag- 
 gard, cruel city, not as beings of another nature, of an- 
 other kind or of another class, different from herself, 
 and from wh9m she must separate herself, but as human 
 beings, no matter how wretched or miserable, exactly 
 like herself, bound to her by ties that nothing could 
 break. They might, indeed, be denied everything else, 
 but they could not be denied this kinship ; they claimed 
 it by right of a common humanity and a common di- 1 
 vinity. And, beginning to look on them in this new '^ 
 light, she found she was looking on them in a new 
 pity, a new sympathy, yes, a new love. And suddenly 
 she found the peace and the happiness of a new, life. 
 
6i6 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 like that whicH came with the great awakening of the 
 spring. 
 
 For spring had come again. All that morning a 
 warm rain had fallen and the green sward eagerly 
 soaked it up. The young leaves of the trees were 
 glistening wet, the raindrops clung in little rows, like 
 strings of jewels, to the slender, shining twigs; they 
 danced on the swimming pavement, and in the gutters 
 there poured along a yellow stream with great white 
 bubbles floating gaily on its surface. The day was 
 still; now and then she could hear the hoof-beats of 
 the horses that trotted nervously over the slippery 
 asphalt. It rained softly, patiently, as if it had always 
 rained, as if it always would rain; the day was gray, 
 but in the yard a robin chirped. 
 
 Yes, thought Elizabeth, as she faced life in her new 
 attitude, the Koerners' tragedies are not the only ones. 
 For all about her she saw people who, though they 
 moved and ate and talked and bustled to and fro, were 
 yet dead; the very souls within them were atrophied 
 and dead; that is, dead to all that is real and vital in 
 existence. They who could so complacently deny life 
 to others were at the same time denying life to them- 
 selves. The tragedy had not been Koerner's alone; 
 it had been Ford's as well; Eades could not punish 
 Archie without punishing himself ; Modderwell, in ex- 
 cluding Gusta, must exclude himself; and Dick might 
 cause others to suffer, but he must suffer more. He 
 paid the penalty just as all those in her narrow lit- 
 tle world paid the penalty and kept on paying the 
 penalty until they were bankrupts in soul and spirit. 
 The things they considered important and counted on 
 to give them happiness, gave them no happiness ; they 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 617 
 
 were the most unhappy of all, and far more desperate j 
 because they did not realize why they were unhappy. J 
 The poor were not more poor, more unhappy, more 
 hungry, or more squalid. There was no hunger so 
 gnawing as that infinite hunger of the soul, no poverty 
 so squalid as the poverty of mere possession. And - 
 there were crimes that printed statutes did not define, "I 
 and laws that were not accidents, but harmoniously I 
 acting and reacting in the moral world, revisited this 1 
 cruelty, this savagery, this brutality with increasing I 
 force upon those who had inflicted it on others. .And as t 
 she thought of all the evil deeds of that host of mankind 
 known as criminals, and of that other host that pun- 
 ished them, she saw that both crime and punishment 
 emanated from the same ignorant spirit of cruelty and 
 fear. Would they ever learn of the great equity and * 
 tolerance, the simple love in nature? They had but to 
 look at the falling rain, or at the sun when it shone 
 again, to read the simple and sufficient lesson. No, she 
 would not disown these people, any of them. She must 
 live among them, she must feast or starve, laugh or cry, 
 despair or triumph with them ; she must bear their bur- 
 dens or lay her own upon them, and so be brought close 
 to them in the great bond of human sympathy and love, 
 for only by love, she saw, shall the world be redeemed. 
 
 Meanwhile, everything went on as before. The pe- 
 culiar spiritual experience through which Elizabeth 
 was passing she kept largely to herself: she could 
 not discuss it with any one ; somehow, she would have 
 found it impossible, because she realized that all those 
 about her, except perhaps Marriott, would consider it 
 all ridiculous and look at her in a queer, disconcerting 
 
6i8 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 way. She saw few persons outside of her own family ; 
 people spoke of her as having settled down, and began 
 to forget her. But she saw much of Marriott; their 
 old friendly relations, resumed at the time the trouble 
 of Gusta and Archie and Dick had brought them to- 
 gether, had grown more intimate. Of. Eades she saw 
 nothing at all, and perhaps because both she and Mar- 
 riott were conscious of a certain restraint with respect 
 to him, his name was never mentioned between them. 
 But at last an event occurred that broke even this 
 restraint : it was announced that Eades was to be mar- 
 ried. He was to marry an eastern girl who had vis- 
 ited in the city the winter before and now had come 
 back again. She had been the object of much social at- 
 tention, partly because she was considered beautiful, but 
 more, perhaps, because she was in her own right very 
 wealthy. She had, in truth, a pretty, though vain and 
 selfish little face ; she dressed exquisitely, and she had 
 magnificent auburn, that is, red hair. People were di- 
 vided as to what color it really was, though all spoke 
 of it as "artistic." And now it was announced that 
 she had been won by John Eades ; the wedding was 
 to occur in the autumn. The news had interested 
 Marriott, of course, and he could not keep from im- 
 parting it to Elizabeth ; indeed, he could not avoid 
 a certain tone of triumph when he told her. He had 
 seen Eades that very morning in the court-house; he 
 seemed to Marriott to have grown heavier, which 
 may have been the effect of a new coat he wore, or 
 of the prosperousness and success that were surely 
 coming to him. He was one of those men whom the 
 whole community would admire; he would always do 
 
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 619 
 
 the thing appropriate to the occasion ; it would, some- 
 how, be considered in bad form to criticize him. 
 
 The newspapers had the habit of praisifig him; he 
 was popular — precisely that, for while he had few 
 friends and no intimates, everybody in the city ap- 
 proved him. He was just then being mentioned for 
 Congress, and even for the governorship. 
 
 Yes, thought Marriott, Eades is a man plainly 
 marked for success; everything will come his way. 
 Eades had stopped long enough — and just long enough 
 — to take Marriott's hand, to smile, to ask him the 
 proper questions, to tell him 'he was looking well, that 
 he must drop in and see him, and then he had hastened 
 away. Marriott had felt a new quality in Eades's man- 
 ner, but he could not isolate or specify it. Was Eades 
 changing ? He was changing physically, to be sure, he 
 was growing stouter, but he was at the age for that; 
 the youthful lines were being erased from his figure, 
 just as the lines of maturity were being drawn in his 
 face. Marriott thought it over, a question in his rnind. 
 Was success spoiling Eades ? 
 
 But when Marriott told Elizabeth the news, she did 
 not appear to be surprised ; she did not even appear to 
 be interested. The summer had come early that year ; 
 within a week it had burst upon them suddenly. The 
 night was so warm that they had gone out on the 
 veranda. Marriott watched Elizabeth narrowly, there 
 in the soft darkness, to note the effect. But apparently 
 there was no effect. She sat quite still and said noth- 
 ing. The noise of the city had died away into a har- 
 mony, and the air throbbed with the shrill, tiny sounds 
 of hidden infinitesimal life. There came to them the 
 
620 THE TURN OF. THE BALANCE 
 
 fragrance of the lilacs, jiist blooming in the big yard 
 of the Wards, and the fragrance of the lilacs brought 
 to them memories. To Marriott, the fragrance brought 
 memories of that night at Hazel Ford's wedding; he 
 thought of it a long time, wondering. After a while 
 they left the veranda and strolled into the yard under 
 the trees. 
 
 "Do you know," said Marriott, "I thought you 
 would be surprised to hear of John Eades's engage- 
 ment." 
 
 "Why?" she asked. 
 
 "Well, I don't know ; no one had noticed that he was 
 paying her any attention — " Suddenly he became em- 
 barrassed. He was still thinking of the evening at 
 Hazel Ford's wedding, and he was wondering if Eliza- 
 beth were thinking of it, too, and this confused him. 
 
 "Oh," Elizabeth said, as if she had not noticed his 
 hesitation, "I'm very glad — it's an appropriate match." 
 
 Then she was silent ; she seemed to be thinking ; and 
 Marriott wondered what significance there was in the 
 remark she had just made; did it have a tribute for 
 Eades, or for the girl, or exactly the reverse ? 
 
 "I was thinking," she began, as if in answer to his 
 thought, and then suddenly she stopped and gave a 
 little laugh. "Gordon," she went on, "can't you see 
 them ? Can't you see just what a life they will live — 
 how correct, and proper, and successful — and empty, 
 and hollow, and deadly it will be — going on year after 
 year, year after year? Can't you see them with their 
 conception of life, or rather, their lack of conception of 
 it ?" She had begun her sentence with a laugh, but she 
 ended it in deep seriousness. And for some reason they 
 stopped where they were; and suddenly, they knew 
 
THE TURN OK THE BALANCE 621 
 
 that, at last, the moment had come. Just why they knew 
 this they could not have told, either of them, but they 
 knew that the moment had come, the moment toward 
 which they had been moving for a long time. They felt 
 it, that was all. And neither was surprised. Words, in- 
 deed, were unnecessary. They had been talking, for 
 the first time in months, of Eades, yet neither was 
 thinking at all of the life Eades and his fashionable 
 wife would lead, nor caring in the least about it. Mar- 
 riott knew that in another instant he would tell Eliza- 
 beth what long had been in his heart, what he should 
 have told her months ago, what he had come there that 
 very night to tell her ; he knew that everything he had 
 said that night had been intended, in some way, to lead 
 up to it; he was certain of it, and he thought quite 
 calmly, and yet when he spoke and heard his own 
 voice, its tone, though low, showed his excitement; 
 and he heard himself saying : 
 
 *T am thinking — do you know of what? Well, of 
 that night—" 
 
 And then, suddenly, he took her hands and poured 
 out the unnecessary words. 
 
 "Elizabeth, do you know — I've always felt — well, 
 that little incident that night at Hazel Ford's wedding ; 
 do you remember? I was so stupid, so bungling, so 
 inept. I thought that Eades — that there was — some- 
 thing; I thought so for a long time. I wish I could 
 explain — it was only because — I loved you !" 
 
 He could see her eyes glow in the darkness; he 
 heard her catch her breath, and then he took her in his 
 arms. 
 
 "Oh, Elizabeth, dearest, how I loved you ! I had loved 
 you for a long, long time, but that night for the first 
 
622 THE TURN OF THE BALANCE 
 
 time I fully realized, and I thought then, in that mo- 
 ment, that I was too late, that there never had been — " 
 
 He drew her close to him, and bent his head and 
 kissed her lips, her eyes, her hair. 
 
 "Oh, Gordon !" she whispered, lifting her face from 
 his shoulder. "How very blind you were that night !'* 
 
 Long after Marriott had gone, Elizabeth sat by her 
 window and looked out into the night; above the 
 trees the stars glowed in a purple sky. She was too 
 happy for sleep, too happy for words. She sat there 
 and dreamed of this love that had come to her, and 
 tears filled her eyes. Because of this love, this love 
 of Gordon Marriott, this love of all things, she need 
 ask no more questions for a while. Love, that was 
 the great law of life, would one day, in the end, ex- 
 plain and make all things clear. Not to her, neces- 
 sarily, but to some one, to humanity, when, perhaps, 
 through long ages of joy and sorrow, of conflict and 
 sin, and in hope and faith, it had purified and perfected 
 itself. And now by this love and by the new light 
 within her, at last she was to live, to enter into life — life 
 like that which had awakened in the world this brood- 
 ing tropical night, with its soft glowing stars, its moist 
 air, laden with the odor of lilacs and of the first blos- 
 soms of the fruit trees, and with the smell of the warm, 
 rich, fecund earth. 
 
 ( 
 
 THE END 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 Of 
 
5 14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 REC'D CD 
 
 •> h ; 
 
 J UN 51982 
 
 ^>-f tm^k «-» 
 
 4^*^^ 
 
 8feb ' 6^m 
 
 ^^-W 
 
 ^fC. CIS . HW 1 7 76 
 
 Rt'C'D 
 
 MUN191985 
 
 LD 
 
 ^TBiy 
 
 mi 
 
 KtCia NOV 7 '85 
 
 ''Af'fi^rOM/ 
 
 '■<SC'0 
 
 tnj 
 
 iife^ 
 
 ^~sw 
 
 ^4M>1 
 
 r'&2B'^ 
 
 LD 21A-50m-4,'59 
 (A1724sl0)476B 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley