DILLINGHAM'S AMERICAN AUTHORS LIBRARY, No. 11, FEBRUARY, 1656. ISSUED MONTHLY. *6 PER YEAH. As Made by Himself. NEW YORK: COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY G. IV. D tiling ham, Publisher, MDCCCXCV. [All Rights Reserved.] CONTENTS. CHAPTEB. PAGr. I. Stopping a Gap ... 7 II. A Chance Acquaintance . 13 III. Kate 24 IV. The Boy and the Man . . 34 V. A Paradoxical Diversion . 42 VI. Mollie Hayden ... 50 VII. Introspection . . . .61 VIII. Doctor Tom .... 70 IX. A Daily Round ... 84 X. Two Women and a Man . . 89 XI. The Unexpected ... 96 XII. Just Dyspepsia . . .109 XIII. Hot and Thirsty Days . . 119 XIV. Helen 123 XV. Gorton Bowie . . .143 XVI. The Relief of Confession . 153 XVII. The Fool . . . . .161 XVIII. An Interruption . . .168 XIX. Night and Day . . .176 XX. The Last Confession 181 CONFESSIONS OF A FOOL. CHAPTER I. STOPPING A GAP. The fact that the Widow was going to be there was enough for me although 1 well understood that I was asked on the trip for something else than to be with the Widow. I do not fool myself on this point. Faxon would take care of the Widow. I was to take care of the Widow's sister. Well, Faxon owns the yacht and may ar- range these little things as he pleases. He Confessions of a Fool. wants to own the Widow, and some one must be on hand to absorb the sister for the Widow never goes far afield without her sister. The sister attachment lends respectabil- ity and dullness to onr sojourn. Still, if I didn't fill the gap, Faxon would simply invite some other fellow. After all, if I don't get the Widow, there are pats and Faxon's steward does make a sublime pate and no end of cham- pagne. Besides, I have a suspicion that the Widow would prefer my company to Faxon's. That is something only the yacht is Faxon's, and the Widow must needs go with it. It's hard work, though, not to violate the confidence of my host. How will T re- call the sail two weeks ago! Stopping a Gap. When the Widow came back down the companion-way after dinner that evening, ostensibly to get her wrap, and finding me waiting at the foot of the ladder for her asked me to fetch the wrap from her state-room, and then let me lay it over her shoulders, and, somehow, allowed her face to come so near mine that I got the fra- grance from the poudre on her cheek- well, nothing but the most absurd strength of purpose prevented me from holding on to her for the rest of the run home and letting Faxon indulge himself with the sis- ter and the sulks. As it was, I'm afraid I went so far that there would have been no more yachting trips for me if the Widow had not subsequently got the sister to par- ticularly request my company on board! 10 Confessions of a Fool. I know, as a matter of fact, that I made a mess of it yesterday. The Widow was particularly fascinating. She has reduced her mourning from the broad and somber border that distinguished her yachting suit earlier in the season, to a narrow edg- ing of black about collar, cuffs and the hem of her skirt; and while thus modified, the outfit is not so conspicuously fetching, it pleasantly suggests a transition to a more properly approachable stage. We had had usual weather since leaving the anchorage in the morning until after sundown in the evening. Then the breeze freshened remarkably and we took in top- sails, and, by nine o'clock, had a reef in the mainsail. Faxon and I were helping the men at the running gear, and Faxon slipped and turned his ankle. Think he Stopping a Gap. 11 took too many cocktails before dinner his steward mixes a terrific cocktail. At the solicitation of the Widow he went below and turned in on top of one of the saloon transoms. I have reason to believe that he wanted the Widow to come down and nurse him, but she shuddered and said she could never bear to witness suffering and pain- but that her sister was a splendid nurse. So the sister rubbed Faxon's ankle with liniment all the way home. The Widow and I sat under the weather rail in the gloom and got along nicely. I wrapped her about with Faxon's big uni- form overcoat, and, as she insisted I must be cold, I shared the overcoat with her. It was all very pleasant until Faxon went off to sleep and the Widow's sister came on deck. 12 Confessions of a Fool. I'm afraid that when the club cruise starts I shall not be a guest on Faxon's yacht; but I wouldn't have missed that evening's experience for a dozen cruises. Besides, the Widow assures me by note this morning that unless there is another gentleman in the party she shall decliue to go on the cruise. That means me I'm sure of it. She has a nice way of putting things without really committing herself. CHAPTER H. A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. It's odd how a fellow with, brains in his head will so often consider it desirable amusement to get drunk. Practical experience, covering a some- what lengthy period, coupled with a consci- entious consideration devoted to the sub- ject during many despondent hours, leads me to the conclusion that the first drink is responsible for it all. While the first drink is rarely taken with a view to getting drunk, it too often leads directly, and by rapid stages, to that regrettable end. Accordingly, I argue that avoidance of 13 14 Confessions of a Foot. the first drink makes temperance an easy virtue to practice. In other words, for me at leant, it is as easy to be a Prohibitionist as to be a tem- perance man. A cocktail before breakfast, before lunch, before dinner, or a social glass between meals the result is all the same with me. Other drinks are pretty sure to follow with an ever-decreasing interval between. I used to refrain from taking anythingbefi)re even- ing, but had to abandon this apparently sal- utary practice since it usually compelled me to sit up all night before getting in enough to go to bed on. Then I would rise with difficulty on the morning following, and, of necessity, take frequent bracers all day to do business on. The practice robbed me of sleep and unfitted me for work as A Chance Acquaintance. 15 well. Xow I drink as early in the day as may be desired by any of my many friends not even waiting for the hour when the snn gets over the foreyard, as is the rule, I believe, rigidly adhered to among naval men, who have an international fame for scientific intemperance. The result is, I re- tire early on my otiinn cum dig., and enjoy a good night's rest, awakening on the mor- row refreshed and ready for my day's toil. Some days, to be sure, this practice raises the deuce with my day's toil, but there is no remedy except strict prohibition and that is only to be considered during hours of extreme remorse. I am moved to write these philosophic lines because I sat up quite late last even- ing, and as nearly as I can recall myself, as I was, I drank too much. 16 Confessions of a Fool. If I hadn't drunk too muck I would not have dropped into the dance hall where I found myself shortly before midnight. And if I hadn't dropped into the dance hall I should not have met let me see, I believe she told me her name was Helen. The dance was all right, and Helen, or any other young woman, had a perfect right to be there. It was the festival of some society, or military company, or something of that sort. The young women were there to dance and have a good time in a perfect- ly respectable, if not altogether high-toned, way. The young men, however, were there chiefly to empty a punch-bowl two or three times over and smoke cigarettes. Of course they danced,, but the intermissions were longer than the dances, because the young men, and not the young women, A Chance Acquaintance. 17 were running the affair. Then there were a lot of fellows and men about town who dropped in late in the evening, and most of them had done a goodly amount of drink- ing outside the hall as I had. I was impressed with Helen. She was exceedingly pretty, although when I try to picture her I can only see a pair of very large and very soft eyes. I cannot recall their color. I like to think of her as having an artistic temperament judging from my recollection of her eyes. Just about as I had come to regard her with interest she disappeared in the cloak- room. When she came out she had on her outer garments, apparently prepared to leave the dance. A young fellow met her at the door of the cloak room. He was the kind of a 18 Confessions of a Fool. young fellow whose ideas of being a man are gained by standing up against a bar. He bad had as much of the punch as he could reasonably carry, and was evidently a little proud of it. Indeed, he was dis- posed to show himself a reckless man of the world in the presence of Helen. "You told me, Jack," I heard Helen say, "that you would take me home at mid- night." "Oh, pshaw!" remonstrated the young fellow; "the fun's just begun and Minnie doesn't want to go yet." "I can't help it," pleaded Helen. "Yon know mother would be awful angry if I should stay until the ball ended. I'm go- ing home, and if you won't go with mo T shall go alone. You and Minnie may stay," The young fellow muttered something: A Chance Acquaintance. 19 that sounded disagreeable, and then he turned on his heel and sauntered across the floor. The girl stood irresolute a moment. Then she made her way to the main exit and passed out of the hall. I couldn't help following her. I liked to fancy myself as a sort of unknown pro- tector of Helen's footsteps for the immedi- ate future. The sidewalk in the immediate vicinity of the doorway was ornamented with a group t>f young chaps who were. refreshing their brows in the cool air and puffing cig- arettes. When Helen had run the gantlet of their searching eyes she became the sub- ject of a discussion which resulted in one of the group leaving his fellows and walking leisurely after her. 20 Confessions of a Fool. I sauntered after the young fellow. Helen increased her steps, the young fel- low increased his, and I kept the pace. Finally the young fellow overtook Helen and accosted her. I slowed down to watch developments, and was rather pleased to observe that Helen did not take kindly to the company of the young fellow. After a little she stopped short and I heard her ex- press herself to the effect that she would stand there for the rest of the night if the young fellow didn't go about his business. The recollection of this impresses me that Helen has a will as well as being artistic. The young fellow was expostulating when I overtook them, and I grabbed him by the collar and gave him a gentle twist and a shove that landed him in the gutter. The girl looked up in my face an instant A. Chance Acquaintance. 21 as if in doubt how to accept my appearance on the scene. "I will go with you as far as may be nec- essary to save you from annoyance," I re- marked, at the same time regretting that the situation had not found me perfectly free from the effects of the drinking that had occupied me during the earlier even- ing hours. Helen looked straight up into my face with the expression of a girl who was per- fectly able to take care of herself, but at the same time would be glad to be relieved of the responsibility if she could accom- plish it judiciously. The inspection seemed to satisfy her. She was certainly not over twenty-one or twenty-two, and I am thirty- three; and very likely the discrepancy in our years gave her confidence, for she 22 Confessions of a Fool. turned and walked along with me, without, however, accepting my proffered arm. I don't recall much that we talked about on the way, although once she had placed her confidence in me so far as to let me walk with her, she began to chat freely and about all sorts of things that are interest- ing to a girl of her years dances and fel- lows and immature ideas of life, and the circus, and the work at which she was em- ployed, and gossip about people that I never knew or expect to know. She ex- plained that the "Jack" who had declined to take her home was her brother, and that he was keeping company with another young woman, for whose sake he wanted to remain at the ball. I do remember that when I left Helen on the steps of a little cottage a long way from A Chance Acquaintance. 23 the scene of the ball, she extended her hand and, looking me frankly in the face with her big eyes, thanked me for being so kind to her. She was not an uncommon sort of a girl, perhaps, but somehow I wished I might hold her hand for a week. CHAPTER III. KATE. "Are you sure you don't neglect your business through being too much of a good fellow, Dick?" My sister put that interesting question to me the other evening. My sister is Mrs. Edward Marberry. She is a charming woman, although I never admired her taste in marrying Edward Marberry. I don't know how better I may describe Marberry than to remark that, in all his life, nobody ever referred to him as "Ned" Marberry. I know no other man of my acquaintance bv the Christian name of Ed- 24 Kate. 25 ward whom somebody some one body, at least doesn't call "Ned." I never could contemplate with pleasure so anomalous a thing, any more than I could the charac- ter of a man named Charles, who would never be called "Charlie"; or what kind of a fellow it would be who would not be known as "Tom" if his name was Thomas. Edward Marberry goes to bed every night at ten o'clock, and rises every morn- ing at seven o'clock. He is down street to business by 8:30, and hasn't eaten a dinner or supper out of his house since he was married excepting on occasions when his college society holds its annual reunion, when, to my perennial surprise, he is always chosen to preside, and is es- teemed the brightest fellow in the com- pany. I understand he delivered the ad- Confessions of a Fool. dress to undergraduates on his class day at the university, and from old associates have heard it said that in his youth he was a tearing good fellow. I can't conceive of it, however. He has backslid terribly. And yet I must acknowledge that. Mar- berry always dresses like a gentleman, and I'll wager the clothes on his back'~are paid for with the cash discount. He cer- tainly has provided a charming home for my sister, who, despite the fact that, as I remember her when she was a "young lady" and I a small boy, she was a particu- larly lively girl, fond of society and all that, she seems to be not only content, but actually happy in her humdrum mar- ried existence. I believe he takes her to everything that is first-class at the the- atres, and she drives a good horse in an Kate. 27 unostentatious sort of hitch-up, and gives afternoon teas, which her husband attends. I can't explain in detail why I think Mar- berry and she should not be happy; but if theirs is the right kind of a way to se- cure happiness in life, then my methods ought not to secure it, for they are dia- metrically opposite to Marberry's. And yet, I'll bet no man on earth leads a Jollier life than I do. But Kate my sister takes me to task occasionally which means every time I run in to eat or loaf. She thinks I am wasting my career, whatever that may l^e. I tell her the only thing I waste is money, and there is plenty of -that in the world, if you can find a way to get hold of it honestly and I have usually secured my share without too much work. 28 Confessions of a Fool. "You know, Dick," she said on this par- ticular evening, "I have promised you never to refer again to your greatest er- ror to never recall to you your cruelty. The one thing you have done, which, as a woman, is a horror to me, I have ceased to speak to you about, but you must let me appeal to your good sense to take care of yourself, however careless you may be of others. You are my brother, Dick; I would have you manly and upright, and I hope you are, as the world outside looks at you. But, whether you are so regarded or not, I want you to take care of your- self." "In other words, Kate," I interrupted, grimly, "you don't want me to make a fool of myself." "I don't mean that exactly," returned Kate. 29 this sweet woman. "I don't suppose you will ever do that or at least nobody will know it, because you are bright and smart. But what I am afraid of is, you will wreck yourself. You are too easy. You know you are, dear. It seems to me as if you would never stop being a boy. Everybody speaks of you as a 'good fellow/ but I am not sure that the good fellows are the kind that make successes of themselves. And, moreover, I don't know as it is always a long step from being what men call a good fellow to being what heart and con- science would recognize as a very bad fel- low." "Oh, Kate!" I expostulated. "I wouldn't talk like that. I never harmed anybody but myself." "We won't discuss that," returned my 30 'Confessions of a Fool. sister, calmly, "because you know we dif- fer on that point. I feel that you have harmed one other person, and harmed her grievously. Now, don't get up to go ; I don't mean to pursue that subject. Only this, you cannot well harm yourself without harming some one else, a little bit at least. Nobody is independent of others in this world. And if you could, you have no business to harm yourself. It is your bus- iness to take care of yourself. To secure a good name and an honorable position especially when God has given you talents enough to do it." "I suppose you think I'll fill a drunk- ard's grave, or kill somebody, or rob a bank," I uttered, with an attempt at flip- pancy. "OH, Dick, you nmsn't laugh at me wKen Kate. si I talk to you. Take me a little bit seri- ously for your own sake. You are too good- hearted to be vicious, too bright to inten- tionally destroy your reputation or your- self, and, of course, you are honest. I don't propose to insult you. But you are careless and reckless, and you don't care enough for yourself. You like a good time and good company, and you like them all the time. Xow, there are some serious things in life to be attended to, and some serious hours to be passed and some seri- ous duties to be performed, never mind how easy your pathway of life may seem to be. You may, perhaps, get through life without violating the liking of men and of women, and yet without securing a bit of their respect and esteem. And if you haven't that, you may depend upon it, 32 Confessions of a Foot. brother, you will suffer your own self some time 'suffer keenly, however happy a front you may present to the world." "Well, well, Kate," I cried, "what a splendid preacher you would make!" "Maybe so," said Kate, thoughtfully. "I don't think much else is necessary for preaching if you have sincerity. That is about all there is worth having, it seems to me. You may fool others, but you can- not fool yourself, Dick. That is the way Edward puts it it is not original with me. And I hope you are not trying to fool yourself, brother." My dear Kate! I rise from the great easy chair and cross the bit of space be- tween us to her side. I take both her hands in mine, and she, too, rises, and I kiss her. How sweet she is, with her soft, dark Kate. 33 hair evenly parted and brought down on either side of her forehead, like a Madon- na. I think it is of a Madonna she re- minds me; my art education is very lim- ited. I am proud of my sister, though, and I love her. GHAPTEE IV. THE BOY AND THE MAN. Well, I've seen Helen again. She evidently regards me in the light of a hero. I used to regard myself that way. But it has been many years since I or-any one else has. It's rather pleasant to talk and walk with Helen under the circumstances. To be sure, she does most of the talking. A young girl is about the biggest chatterer on earth. To talk with Helen carries me back to the younger days the days when a fellow is really more of a man than he ever is in 34 The Boy and the Man. 35 his life, I think, although he doesn't know it, but yearns for the time to come when he will have acquired more smoothness of physique and can lay claim to experiences. He would cover the fresh color in his cheeks with a beard, and would even like to have a gray hair or two in the beard. Proud as he is of his health and his strength, he would prefer the suggestion of a paunch to his flat stomach, and envies not a little the slight stoop of the shoul- ders which lends to that gray-mustached man he sees on the street a something that indicates the man-of-the-world, the chap who has suffered as well as enjoyed. All this the boy would be to the girl he is fond of. He does not want to have her regard him too much as a boy. And he fools himself with the idea that he is a 36 Confessions of a Fool. man of the world after all, and that she thinks so. Hasten the years! Hurry up the experiences! I want to be older! Poor fool of a boy! Don't you remem- ber the occasions when you dropped your absurd mask? Don't you remember the walk down the country road, when you turned a handspring over the five-barred gate, just to show off to her what a lithe young fellow you were? Don't you re- member teaching her to swim, and how she remarked on the big muscles of your arms which swelled as you lifted her on your shoulder? And you remember and smile, because of the pain it gave you, that night when you undertook to tell her that you loved her, and the fine words assembled from a dozen summer novels went out of your head be- The Boy and the Man. 37 fore her swimming eyes looking up into yours. And at the supreme moment, when you were to have been so manly in your devotion, you were a blundering boy! You are, indeed, older now. The fine .words you couldn't say that night you could easily speak now exactly as the summer novelist writes them. You have had one or two experiences since then, and if you had that love scene to do over again, you would do it with neatness and de- spatch; and, after it was over, you would not have to feel afraid lest she thought you nothing but a boy for making such a mess of it, or kicking yourself because, in the moment's mad joy, when she had fallen into your arms, you had shut your eyes and kissed the back of her neck, instead of her waiting lips. 38 Confessions of a Foot. You recall that distinguished-looking man with the cameo-like face, smooth shaven always, the calm, steel-gray eyes, the silken hair, with a few streaks of gray in it, always immaculately dressed, strolling on the hotel piazza, while you were knock- ing about in a flannel shirt. Somehow that man had a peculiar attractiveness for her and for most of the young women about the hotel. The truth to tell, he was your ideal, too. Some day you would see the world and grow to be like him. But now, in self-defense, you scorned him. What could the girls see in that "old man" that they must all flock about him at every op- portunity? A lithe young fellow like you could knock him down with a straight left- hander easily. Thank Heaven, you were young and had health and strength! Nev- The Boy and the Man. ertheless you got out of your neglige for dinner so long as he stayed at the hotel. Youth is no more sincere than age. In- deed, youth knows not the value of sincerity. Age does, even if it does not practice it. And some day you may grow old enough to realize, as Kate urges upon me, that there is not much else worth cherish- ing beside sincerity. The earlier you have learned that, the better for you. And now I am nearly of the age that, when I was eighteen, I looked forward-to. I am of the age when it is easy to talk with a woman over twenty-five,and embarrassing- ly delightful and reminiscence-producing to be alone with a schoolgirl. I can exchange flatteries and fall in love without much difficulty. And I know that the best and truest love a man ever feels is when he is 40 Confessions of a Fool. a "boy" and is fond of a "girl." It may be love without reason and may not stand the test of marriage, but the boy is never to know again anything half so delectable. And it is a delight for the man to be taken back to the boy-days, as the walk and the talk with Helen take me back. You have set me to thinking of all this, Helen. You, with your sweet chatter, talk- ing to me as if you thought it your duty to entertain me, and, being unsophisticat- ed (though you think you are not), you have an idea that what interests you must interest me and every one else. Your eyes are bright, your voice is pleasant to hear, and it is a delight to listen to you and to look at you. I wish I were a boy again. I haven't the heart to pay you compli- ments, and I don't know what else to talk The Boy and the Man. 41 about to you. It isn't very necessary for me to say anything at all, for you have a big fund of things to talk about, just as another sweet little woman and I used to have in common, until we began to make love to one another. And then we had that to talk about, and that was enough. She was a high-bred woman, and you, Helen, are a girl that works for your living. Perhaps you are high-bred, too. You certainly are fairly educated, Helen, as rich and poor may be in our land, and you are bright and smart. I like you. I think Kate, my sister, might like you. And the Widow would be jealous of you. I would as lief the Widow would know I like to talk and walk with you, Helen. I am not so sure that I should like to tell Kate about you. CHAPTEE V. A PARADOXICAL DIVERSION. It's odd how a fellow will be proud of the fact that he has lost a pile of money game- ly. Any one may boast of his winnings, but real sporting blood is evidenced only by the complacency even satisfaction with which you are able to face your los- ings. For example, I pretended to the same hilarity when I dropped my last available dollar on the last event at the track to-day as I used to feel when, as a youngster at college, I thought it smart to "go broke" at a silly roulette wheel or to stake my last 42 A Paradoxical Diversion. 43 cent on a bluff at poker that I was sure was going to be called. It has been a great week. Wonderful, the excitement of exchanging a roll of greenbacks for a vari-colored ticket; then promenading the paddock puffing a strong cigar, with the indescribable self -conscious- ness of playing a goodly stake outwardly calm, inwardly confess it 'burning up for forty-five minutes waiting for the event to be started! Zip! In forty-five seconds the short furlongs are covered, and you are at liberty to joke with your friends about the evaporation of another fifty. The degree of complacency marks the drops of real sporting blood in your veins. It is so nice to be known as a real sport, and the only test is to lose. Your nightcap of coure it is whiskey, 44 Confessions of a Fool. the only liquor on earth for a nightcap until you enter upon the brandy period- sets your brain a-going, when you would have thought you had drunk enough during the evening to put you into a sow's slumber. And you may lie on your bed, your eyes star- ing wide open into the darkness, and think of how much drudgery it took to en- able you to indulge in the delight of throw- ing away that fat roll of greenbacks! Thank God, you are not such a damn fool as Faxon, who lit his cigar with a crisp certificate just before the party broke up. You didn't have a bill left to burn. And your debts, too that roll of bills might have taken some of them off your conscience for you have a conscience and are ashamed yet to face the man to whom you owe money. A Paradoxical Diversion. 45 A pistol might be handy at this time! But no don't take yourself too seriously. You are a fool, that's all, and so long as most people don't know it, you can afford to laugh at yourself. Only, remember, some day people will begin to find it out! And when they do, you will discover that yon are likely to be regarded a knave as well. You'll have to stop, old man, if you don't want to face that. Now your eyelids will close at last. The lightning-like effect of the nightcap is working off. Your brain is quieting down. You will hold a calmer, if no better, opin- ion of yourself in the morning. There's plenty of chance yet to straighten yourself out before your friends discover what a sham you are. 46 Confessions of a Fool. "I observe," remarked the Widow, as I joined her in the grand stand, "that you have a new and very pretty acquaintance." "To whom do you refer?" "Dear me! how sly of you! I don't know her name but she is young and pretty, and as I have seen you on two successive days on the street with her I'm afraid that I shall have less of your company in the future." "You got along well enough without my company on the cruise," I remarked, vi- ciously. "Oh, no, dear, I did not. You see, I am frank with you. I admit that, pleasant as the cruise was, I should have enjoyed it far better with you on board. You know I like your company, or I wouldn't have ac- cepted so much of it. It isn't pleasant to A Paradoxical Diversion. 47 be dropped by one's old friends a woman likes flattery too well for that, you know." "I don't know whether you are laughing at me or not." "Then your perceptions are lacking in their accustomed brilliancy. Of course, I am laughing at you. You don't imagine for a moment that I am going to cry over you? Go ahead, make some little creature like that black-haired young girl fall in love with you. It will be easy enough, I'm sure. Any man can make almost any woman think she's in love with him if he goes about it right providing, always, that he is fairly prepossessing and has decent man- ners. A male flirt is an abomination, of course, but it takes my sex a long while to recognize the flirts if they are only kind to them." 48 Confessions of a Fool. "You are inclined to be mischievous, to- day," I venture to remark. "Can't a fellow be seen on the street with a woman with- out being accused of trying to flirt with her? or, worse yet, of trying to make love to her?" "You can't not two days in succession," remarked the Widow, with a disagreeable laugh. I shut up. The horses are off. Our glasses are on them. It's a steeplechase, and, if I had any money upon it, it would be exciting. Fortunately, one of the riders is thrown, and a little interest is accord- ingly aroused. I forget a good many other things as I watch the trackmen pick the little jockey up. There is a prolonged cheer. Somebody's horse has won. I have no money on the event and so watch the r A Paradoxical Diversion: 49 inanimate little body, in the yellow shirt being borne across the track to the stables. A small part of the crowd of thousands move over in that direction. A whisper runs through the crowd that a jockey has been badly hurt killed, perhaps. "How exasperating!" says a harsh voice in my ear. It is the Widow speaking. "What's the matter now?" "I had a ticket on that horse. He was sure to win, but of course that stupid jockey couldn't stay on his back!" CHAPTER VI. MOLLIE HAYDEN. "Dear Richard," niy sister wrote she us- ally writes "Richard," instead of "Dick." Indeed, except when talking to me earnest- ly about myself, and affectionately, she in- variably addresses me as "Richard." It's a delicate way she has of indicating her re- spect for me, coupled, I always feel, with the suggestion that I respect myself that I grow up to "Richard." "Dear Richard Come over to dinner with us Wednesday evening. Miss Hay- den, a cousin of Mr. Marberry's, and her mother are to be our guests for a week on 50 MoUic Haydcn. 51 their return home from the Pier. You will have to help me entertain them. I know I may depend upon you." Depend upon me ! Well, I should say so ! Pm accustomed to being "depended upon." Didn't do a stroke of work all summer be- cause so many persons depended upon me! And the winter has started in before the autumn is half gone, with more engage- ments than even I feel prepared to tackle. The club, the lodge, the dancing crowd I don't dare contemplate how many com- mittees Pm on to do this and to do that and to get up this and to get up that and all fun and a good time. The devil only knows where Pm coming out. I didn't earn enough money last Spring to even carry me through the summer, and Pve got to buckle down to work sooner or later or 52 Confessions of a Fool. Dun's man will be crowding me again as he did three years ago, when I went to Europe for a month and spent a year's time and no end of money on that yellow- headed singer in Berlin. But Kate, you shall not be neglected while I have an hour or a penny to spare. That husband of yours is about as much help for an entertainer as a cigar-store In- dian. Your brother is worth something in this world, after all, isn't he, Kate? Once in a while, as a convenience to be "de- pended upon!" * * * * Well, I've had a surprise party! Mollie Hayden is a resplendent beauty. I suspected that, because Kate didn't say a word about her in her letter. Ned Mar- berry has broken me up completely, too. Moll ic Haydcn. 53 We enjoyed a very pleasant evening Wednesday. I was greatly impressed with Marberry's cousin. She had met a lot of people at the Pier that I had known in past seasons, and she didn't give any sign that they had told her too much about me or, indeed, had even mentioned me for the matter of that. She is a thorough young woman of the world. Not like the Widow. The Widow is tough. But just a well- poised, handsome, wholesome girl, who may have a love affair to her account, per- haps, and knows how to be perfectly free without being frivolous or silly. Let me look back over the week. It's been mighty jolly only that confounded Marberry violated all my confidence in him as a dyed-in-the-wool chump. Shouldn't wonder if he might be a good fellow if he 54 Confessions of a Fool. wanted to be. During the evening, Wednesday, I invited everybody to take in the theatre with me Thursday night, and then we had a little supper, and I'm blessed if Marberry didn't indulge himself in the champagne. On Friday, Marberry took us all out for an old-fashioned roughing a trip up-country in his trap I didn't know he owned a trap before. Mollie Hayden and I sat together on the back seat and I had a distinctly jolly time. On Saturday Kate gave a complimentary tea to her guests, which would have been extraordi- narily dull if Marberry hadn't rigged up a little spread in the smoking room for us fellows after the affair was over. Said he didn't get any satisfaction from sweet crackers and bonbons himself, and knew we fellows must be hungry. He actually Mollic II ay den. 55 produced a couple of bottles of Burgundy that he admitted had been lying in his cel- lar ever since he was married. That shows his slowness. I wouldn't wonder but Marberry was quite a boy after all in his younger days before he backslid. Sunday we all went to church twice, morning and evening service. Don't re- member when I have been to church be- fore. But I would go anywhere with a girl like Mollie Hayden. Monday afternoon I hired a Victoria and took the folks about town and out to the Park. Marberry couldn't go business. Was glad of it for that matter. Would just as lief as not be the only fellow in a pnrty that included Mollie Hayden. In the evening we had dinner en famille, with a little music. Miss Hayden plays a 56 Confessions of a Fool. viola exquisitely, and she sings, too has a pure contralto voice. I know I would give a good deal to have her voice around the house all the time. I remarked as much to Kate the other day and she reminded me gently that as sweet a voice as Mollie Hayden's had once been mine to listen to. Tuesday night we saw a bit of light opera and after returning home Kate made a rarebit and Marberry actually had some Bass to go with it. I believe Marberry would make quite a decent sort of a chap if he would let himself loose. The Haydens departed Wednesday fore- noon. I saw them off on the train Kate and I. Wehad driven down in the democrat, and I drove back home with Kate, stopping on the way for her to do some shopping. Kate didn't speak to me during the ride. Moll ic II ay den. 57 When we reached the house she invited me to come in and I went in. I followed her into the drawing room. She stepped in front of the mirror, unconsciously regard- ing her handsome face as she deliberately drew off her gloves from as snug a pair of hands as there is in the world. She turned to me after a moment. "Dick," she said, looking me straight in the eye, "I didn't tell the Hay dens much about you." "Thank you," I returned, inclined to feel amused, but estopped from expressing the inclination by my sister's perfectly serious face. "They are very nice people," pursued my sister, her eyes dropping a moment as she neatly folded her gloves and laid them on the mantel under the mirror. 68 Confessions of a Fool. "Miss Hayden is certainly charming," I ventured to remark. "Decidedly so," said my sister. "They are very well to do, the family connections are very nice, and '' My sister paused and, facing the mirror, began to draw the pins out of her hat. "Kate," I said, after watching her a mo- ment, "I may have to go West on a bus- iness trip shortly. Wouldn't it be perfect- ly proper to renew my acquaintance with the Haydens by stopping over a few days?" "They would he very glad to see you, I am sure," said my sister. "They both feel, as I do, under great obligations to you for paying them so much attention during their stay with us, and I am confident they would be glad to reciprocate your kind- ness." Moltic Haydcn. Kate had by this time got her hat un- pinned, and I stepped to her to assist in removing her light jacket. "Will you stop to luncheon, Richard?" she asked, as she turned herself out of the jacket and faced me. "Thank you, no," I responded. "I'll run along. I want to tell you, though, little girl, that I am distinctly grateful to you for letting me in on such a nice week of it as I have had." "The obligation is ours, Richard," said my sister, as she preceded me to the hall. "I don't know what we would have done without you. You helped so much to give them a good time." She paused with one hand on the door- knob, and turning to me said this: "Brother, if you were only as good and 60 Confessions of a Foot. sensible a man as most people think yon are and as you really are, down deep, where you never have looked at yourself any woman might well be proud of you." Even Miss Hayden? I wondered if that was in my sister's thought. CHAPTER VII. INTROSPECTION. Somewhere I remember reading that every man has three characters, what he is, what .he things he is, and what he wants other people to think he is or something like that, for my quotations are never ac- curate. By subdivision it seems to me one may find himself playing a score and more dif- ferent parts in the course of a day. If I were an author I think I could write a book book, all the characters in which should be drawn from myself and there would be plenty of them and so various as to be 61 62 Confessions of a Fool. in no danger of recognition as a part and parcel of a single real man. And which would be the real character? Which would e the real "I"? I would give a small fortune to find out, to meet him face to face' and to be able to say with confidence, '*Now I know myself." If the real "I" was a good sort of a chap that would be desirable. But if not well, it would be a satisfaction to know it and give up at once the struggle of fighting it. To little Helen I am a hero and, lo ! with her I feel myself heroic! I act the hero very well, quite unconsciously, for this, au- dience. tfo the Widow I am a .man about town, a fellow of the world. A little brighter and smarter than most of the moths that singe themselves at her flame, and so a trifle Introspection. more desirable for her company. And I feel that I am just a bit brighter and sharper than the majority of fellows. To Faxon well, I suppose to ,him I am chiefly a nuisance, and I present as dis- agreeable a part as I can play when in his company especially if the Widow is there, and she usually is. To Gorton Bowie well, Gorton is a mighty good sort of a chap, and he a~ ciates that there is plenty of good in rnr We've been partners for three years, now, ever since the old man died, and I made a stock company of the business and made Bowie treasurer of it. Gorton and I get along very well. Probably each of us sup- plies something the other lacks. I know he supplies a good deal that I lack he at- tends to business and regards me, as he has 64 Confessions of a Fool. so often told me, as his kind benefactor who had given him a start in life and done for him more than he could ever repay. When Gorton talks that way I feel as phil- anthropic as a whole missionary society, and have no further twinges of conscience for letting him do all the work, and find an occasional bit of extra money for me to take a flyer in stocks with. Ned Marberry, of course, regards me as an irreclaimable fool and, strangely enough, I feel exactly that way when in his company. But Kate ah, dear Kate you are more charitable. You think I am foolish, but hardly a fool. You look upon me as a man with an unfortunate nature in that, with ample abilities, there is something that prevents them from working out my ob- Introspection. 65 vious destiny which is to amount to some- thing. You upbraid me at one moment and the next you would go through flood and fire for me. You have always had an ideal of me, Kate, and it frets you because I fail to reach the ideal indeed, if it conies to a crisis you will stand with me against the world and avow that I am, after all, all that you want me to be. With you, Kate, I am a careless, but repentant, boy, whose life is always all before him. Then there's the Doctor my dear old yellow-haired Tom! I don't think you ever inspire me to play a part, dear boy. We found each other out pretty thoroughly in the old college days, and if there are any moments in the year when I am neither posing nor imagining, nor feeling, any- thing but just what I am at those mo* 66 Confessions of a Fool. merits, it is when I am with you. You know me better than my own sister possibly better than I know myself. And it is en- couraging that you seem to think as much of me to-day as you ever did. And then there's Mollie Hayden I'd give a world or two to know what you think of me. I was always at jny best with you and my best is far from bad, not to sacrifice fact in the interest of unnecessary modesty. Mollie, I think if I were always with you I should be as fine a fellow as there is on earth, and you would never re- gret- Hold on, old man, you are going too fast! You thought that once before. Some one else accepted you at that valuation. The result was what? Never mind, what. I am a coward when Introspection. (ft I think of it. I feel as if I were utterly de- praved, as thoroughly bad as a man can be, a beast and a brute and yet, that too is but one of the many characters all evolved from the same uneasy soul. What is a fellow going to do about it? Which one of himself will he settle down with and live with? How is he ever to know which one of him he really is or, at least, which one comes the closest to meet- ing the average of them all? Are all men built this way, I wonder? Where am I go- ing to land when all is said and done? Will people speak of me as a ibrute or a jolly good fellow or would they speak of me at all? I suppose environment and circumstance shape the course. Born with the latent seed of a dozen different kinds of fellows 68 Confessions of a Fool. within one, environment and circumstance gradually would mould firmly one nature and eliminate the rest until at a sufficient maturity the man comes forth rounded and finished and standing for something. But. as for me, nearly half the allotted years are gone, and I know not myself. I will not allow that I am a wicked man, and yet I have done some wicked things. I will not allow that I am a stupid man, and yet I have often acted stupidly enough. I can- not claim that I am either good or smarf, and yet from time to time my little world has credited me with a plenty of good and smart things. I have a tender heart and my nature is sympathetic; yet I have done one woman a cruel wrong and cannot be sure that I might not repeat the crime should opportunity arise. I would sacrifice Introspection. 69 my life for a friend like the Doctor or Kate and yet my friendship is likely to do any of my friends more harm than good before they are done with it. That was the ex- perience of her who was my best friend. I suppose the trouble is my life has lacked attrition. It has always been too easy. It has permitted the birth of new characters without cultivating, or finishing off, any one of the old original ones, that were perhaps born with me or were evolved in the early days. And now, here I am a jumble of irreconcilable natures, cast into parts enough for a five-act melo- drama and not knowing whether Fm to be most effective as the hero or the heavy villain, or as the low comedian! CHAPTER VIII. DOCTOR TOM. Keal life is different from story lif^ in that there doesn't seem to be any con- sistent plot to the former. Eeal life is a series of incidents usually with only the merest association between them. The culmination of life's story seems usually to be independent of most of the incidents. In story life all the in- cidents must bear with some closeness on the result, else the story is not a well-told story. And yet Dr. Tom maintains that even in real life not the smallest episode, incident or thought but that influences its story. 70 Doctor Tom. And the story of real life, so the dear old man argues, is the development of a char- acter. That is all there is to life so the Doc. talks to develop character. The working of it out for yourself and the watching of it work out in other persons are, the Doctor claims to think, of more absorbing inter- est than any romance ever written or any play ever acted. The subject came up over a pipe and a glass of exceedingly tasty Kirschewasser in the Doctor's quarters, where, on my way to my own rooms, I had dropped in, noting that the midnight incandescent was burning in the little back office. I had been to the opera with Helen. It was a dangerous experiment, because the chances were good for acquaintances being 72 Confessions of a Fool. there who might be curious as to the iden- tity of Helen. As a matter of fact, they were there, plenty of them. The Widow, from two rows in front, faced square about to beam on me, and she leveled her lorg- nette on Helen. Gorton Bowie was there, too, with Mrs. Bowie, and I observed that they discussed Helen. Gorton is a good, faithful fellow, as he ought to be, for I have set him up in the world. But his wife, whom he married a few months ago, doesn't regard me highly, and~ apparently thinks neither my business nor any of the rest of the earth could be run without Gor- ton, and that the universe is indebted ito him accordingly for being alive. I didn't care anything about the boys. In fact, I was quite glad to have themTlook at Helen, for she is about as pretty a girl Doctor Tom. 73 as a fellow could be seen with. I suppose I'll catch it a trifle warmly when I go round to the club, but I can stand it. I was telling the Doctor about this ex- perience and about Helen, and had re- marked how easily a little gossip could be created among one's friends, by appearing in public with a new girl; and, on the other hand, of what infinitesimal import- ance most of our actions were, anyway. "Everything spoken by the characters in a book is important, and has an influence on the outcome of the story," I remarked. "In real life, however, our characters chat- ter away from dawn to dark and it bears on nothing. We do things of importance enough to make interesting chapters for a novel, but they are all disconnected, have no associated purpose, bear upon nothing, 74 Confessions of a Fool. and are forgotten with no possible in- fluence upon the story." Then the Doctor, pushing his hand through his yellow hair, enunciated the theory about the only plot in life's story being the development of a character, and every trifle must inevitably bear upon that. I had nothing to say to that. When the Doctor gets serious about a thing I never have anything to say. But I was surprised and not a little startled when the Doctor, after a few puffs of his pipe, turned on me with this: "Mind you, Dick, I don't admit that the plot which we demand in our book is al- together absent from real life. For ex- ample, yon take this young girl, who is far removed from your circle of acquaint- ances, and bring her into the full light of Doctor Tom. their curious gaze in a public place and create your idle, unimportant gossip; what is going to come of it all? Isn't there a chance that a story may after all be op- ened to be read aye, to the last chapter?" ''Nonsense, Doctor," I returned. "In a book, I suppose you 'mean, I should at this moment properly be the hero of a romance, with Helen as the heroine. Our destinies should work out from our first public ap- pearance to the chancel rail or to a tragic disappointment for one or the other of our parts. And all would live happily, or otherwise, ever after. Now, of course, there is to be nothing of the sort. That is the point I make. With all the talk and gossip among my interested friends that I Tiave created to-night, this chapter in the real life story will amount to nothing. Another 76 Confessions of a Fool. chapter will be begun and finished on an entirely irrelevant topic. I will acknoAvl- edge that what yon call the romance "of the development of a fellow's character may be progressing in proper sequences, but as for the kind of plot in the books, why, Helen is only an inconsequential incident." The Doctor looked at me sharply for a moment; then he said very slowly: "My dear Dick, the girl you call Helen may have no place in your story; but did you ever stop to consider that you your- self may be making some mighty import- ant chapters in her romance? For in- stance, I might ask what you are going to do with this Helen?" I glared at the Doctor a moment, half inclined to be angry witl; him. But his lips curled into a smile at the corners, and Doctor Tom. 77 his mustache twitched mischievously. It is impossible ever to get put out with the Doctor. "What am I going to do with her!" I echoed. "Why, Tom, I wouldn't harm the girl. Besides, she is quite well able to tak? care of herself, I assure you. I like her and she likes me. We enjoy being togeth- er, and I propose to have her enjoy herself, and to enjoy myself with her." "Precisely. A perfectly simple exposi- tion. Very natural and as old as the uni verse," said the Doctor. "Not what you would call a Platonic interest, but "Damn Platonic interest; of course not," I interrupted. "I don't believe there is such a thing. I don't pretend to it, at any rate. I like the girl, like her company; that's all there is about it." 78 Confessions of a Fool. "Just so," said the Doctor, still imper- turbable. "You have liked a good immy girls before liked their company. A bright, pretty girl is a pleasant compan- ion, to be sure. It's pleasant to take her around with you, to take her sleigh-riding, and it's fun to hold her little hand in yours and to kiss her " "'Now, Doc, you are laughing at me," I expostulated. "Never more serious in my life, Dick, although you deserve to be laughed at, sure enough. But it may not be a laughing matter for this unknown Helen, you know. Not that I can have any interest in Helen, or any other girl you may take to, after all, except that in doing her an injury, you do yourself one; and you know I care for you, old man." Doctor Tom. 79 "Well, Doc," I ejaculated, "that's a fun- ny way of getting around to me." "It may be funny, but I would have no reason to interest myself in anybody's af- fair, except for an interest in one of the parties to it. If I knew Helen I should be inclined to sympathize with her, per- haps. But as it is she is only the indirect cause of my complaint. As I understand it, here is .a young girl whose acquaintance you made quite informally, but who, de- spite that, is an estimable enough young woman, rather beneath you socially and in- tellectually, I suppose, but bright and am- iable enough to be good company. You are not a rake or a roue, and she, as a young business woman, is doubtless very well able to take care of herself if she chooses to. Still the fact that she accepts your at- 80 Confessions of a Foot. tention shows that she likes you fairly well, and, some day, she may think that she is in love with yon. Then what are you going to do about it? Of course you won't be foolish enough to marry her though you would, if you were the hero of a story, de- spite friends, social station and everything else. But the last chapter of her story under these circumstances is going to be a pathetic one, and what is to you an incident will be an important part of the plot in her romance, and thus result in some little damage to you as a man. If you should do nothing worse than make a fool of yourself, that's bad enough." "I don't know why I shouldn't marry Helen," I exclaim, with a spurt of indigna- tion. "Xonsense!" cried the Doctor, laughing Doctor Tom. 81 out loud.