The Sin of 
 Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 AND 
 
 Other Humor out Tales 
 
 Richard Connell 
 
 UPOY, OF GALIF. L*RARY. LOS
 
 The Sin of 
 Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 AND 
 
 Other Humorous Tales 
 
 BY 
 
 Richard Connell 
 
 New r York 
 George H. Doran Company
 
 Copyright, 
 By George H. Doran Company 
 
 Copyright, 1922, by P. F. Collier $ Son Co. 
 
 Copyright, 1921, by The Century Co. 
 
 Copyright, 1920, by Street and Smith Corporation 
 
 Copyright, 1921, by The McCall Company 
 
 Copyright, 1920, 1921, 1922, By the Curtis Publishing Company 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO 
 LOUISE FOX CONNELL 
 
 My Wife 
 
 Who Helped Me With 
 These Stories 
 
 CM O
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAQH 
 
 I The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 11 
 
 II Mr. Pottle and the South-Sea Cannibals SI 
 
 III Mr. Pottle and Culture 51 
 
 IV Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog 69 
 V Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 101 
 
 VI The Cage Man 127 
 
 VII Where is the Tropic of Capricorn? 145 
 
 VIII Mr. Braddy's Bottle 165 
 
 IX Gretna Greenhorns 187 
 
 X Terrible Epps 207 
 
 XI Honor Among Sportsmen 239 
 
 XII The $25,000 Jaw 263
 
 I: The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon
 
 I: The Sin of Monsieur 
 Pettipon 
 
 7| jfOISTENING the tip of his immaculate hand- 
 
 l\/i kerchief, M. Alphonse Marie Louis Camille 
 
 Pettipon deftly and daintily rubbed an almost 
 
 imperceptible speck of dust from the mirror in State- 
 
 room C 341 of the liner Voltaire of the Paris-New York 
 
 Steamship Company, and a little sigh of happiness flut- 
 
 tered his double chins. 
 
 He set about his task of making up the berths in the 
 stateroom with the air of a high priest performing a 
 sacerdotal ritual. His big pink hands gently smoothed 
 the crinkles from the linen pillow cases; the woolen 
 blankets he arranged in neat, folded triangles and stood 
 off to survey the effect as an artist might. And, indeed, 
 Monsieur Pettipon considered himself an artist. 
 
 To him the art of being a steward was just as esti- 
 mable as the art of being a poet ; he was a Shelley of the 
 dustpan ; a Keats of the sheets. To him the making up 
 of a berth in one of the cabins he tended was a sonnet; 
 an orange pip or burnt match on the floor was as intol- 
 erable as a false quantity. Few poets took as much 
 pains with their pens as he did with his whisk. He 
 loved his work with a zeal almost fanatical. 
 
 Lowering himself to his plump knees, Monsieur 
 Pettipon swept the floor with a busy brush, humming 
 the while a little Provence song: 
 
 ii
 
 12 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "My mama's at Paris, 
 My papa's at Versailles, 
 But me, I am here, 
 Sleeping in the straw. 
 CHORUS : 
 
 "Oo la la, 
 Oo la la, 
 Oo la, oo Id, 
 Oo la la." 
 
 As he sang the series of "Oo la las" he kept time with 
 strokes of his brush, one stroke to each "la," until a 
 microscope could not have detected the smallest crumb 
 of foreign matter on the red carpet. 
 
 Then he hoisted himself wheezily to his feet and 
 with critical eye examined the cabin. It was perfec- 
 tion. Once more he sighed the happy little sigh of 
 work well done; then he gathered up his brush, his 
 dustpan and his collection of little cleaning rags and 
 entered the stateroom next door, where he expertly set 
 about making things tidy to an accompaniment of 
 "Oo la las." 
 
 Suddenly in the midst of a "la la," he broke off, and 
 his wide brow puckered as an outward sign that some 
 disquieting thought was stirring beneath it. He was 
 not going to be able to buy his little son Napoleon a 
 violin this trip either. 
 
 The look of contentment he usually wore while doing 
 the work he loved gave way to small furrows of worry. 
 He was saying silently to himself: "Ah, Alphonse, old 
 boy, this violin situation is getting serious. Your little 
 Napoleon is thirteen, and it is at that tender age that 
 virtuosos begin to find themselves. And what is a 
 virtuoso without a violin ? You should be a steward of
 
 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 13 
 
 the first class, old turnip, -where each trip you would 
 be tipped the price of a violin; on second-class tips 
 one cannot buy even mouth organs. Alas !" 
 
 Each trip now, for months, Monsieur Pettipon had 
 said to his wife as he left his tiny flat in the Rue 
 Dauphine, "This time, Therese, I will have a million- 
 aire. He will see with what care I smooth his sheets 
 and pick the banana skins from the floor, and he will 
 say, 'This Pettipon is not such a bad lot. I will give 
 him twenty dollars.' Or he will write to M. Victor 
 Ronssoy about me, and Monsieur Ronssoy will order 
 the captain to order the chief steward to make me a 
 steward of the first class, and then, my dear, I will buy 
 a violin the most wonderful for our little cabbage." 
 
 To which the practical Therese would reply, "Mil- 
 lionaires do not travel second class." 
 
 And Monsieur Pettipon would smile hopefully and 
 say "Who can tell?" although he knew perfectly well 
 that she was right. 
 
 And Therese would pick a nonexistent hair from the 
 worn collar of his coat and remark, "Oh, if you were 
 only a steward of the first class, my Alphonse !" 
 
 "Patience, my dear Therese, patience," he would 
 Bay, secretly glowing as men do when their life ambi- 
 tion is touched on. 
 
 "Patience? Patience, indeed!" she would exclaim. 
 "Have you not crossed on the Voltaire a hundred and 
 twenty-seven times? Has a speck of dust ever been 
 found in one of your cabins? You should have been 
 promoted long ago. You are being done a dirtiness, 
 Monsieur Pettipon." 
 
 And he would march off to his ship, wagging his big 
 head. 
 
 This trip, clearly, there was no millionaire. In
 
 14 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 C 341 was a young painter and his bride ; his tip would 
 be two dollars, and that would be enough, for was he 
 not a fellow artist ? In C 342 were two lingerie buyers 
 from New York; they would exact much service, give 
 hints of much reward and, unless Monsieur Pettipon 
 looked sharp, would slip away without tipping him at 
 all. In C 343 were school-teachers, two to a berth; 
 Monsieur Pettipon appraised them at five dollars for 
 the party; C 344 contained two fat ladies very sick; 
 and C 345 contained two thin ladies both sick. Say 
 a dollar each. In C 346 was a shaggy-bearded indi- 
 vidual male of unknown derivation, who spoke an 
 explosive brand of English, which burst out in a series 
 of grunts, and who had economical habits in the use 
 of soap. It was doubtful, reasoned Monsieur Pettipon, 
 if the principle of tipping had ever penetrated the wild 
 regions from which this being unquestionably hailed. 
 Years of experience had taught Monsieur Pettipon to 
 appraise with a quite uncanny accuracy the amount 
 of tips he would get from his clients, as he called them. 
 
 Still troubled in his mind over his inability to pro- 
 vide a new violin for the promising Napoleon, Mon- 
 sieur Pettipon went about his work, and in the course 
 of time reached Stateroom C 346 and tapped with soft 
 knuckles. 
 
 "Come," grunted the shaggy occupant. 
 
 Monsieur Pettipon, with an apologetic flood of "par- 
 dons," entered. He stopped in some alarm. The 
 shaggy one, in violently striped pajamas, was standing 
 in the center of the cabin, plainly very indignant about 
 something. He fixed upon Monsieur Pettipon a pair 
 of accusing eyes. With the air of a conjurer doing a 
 trick he thrust his hand, palm upward, beneath the 
 surprised nose of Monsieur Pettipon.
 
 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 15 
 
 "Behold !" cried the shaggy one in a voice of thunder. 
 
 Monsieur Pettipon peered into the outstretched hand. 
 In the cupped palm was a small dark object. It was 
 alive. 
 
 Monsieur Pettipon, speechless with horror, regarded 
 the thing with round unbelieving eyes. He felt as if 
 he had been struck a heavy, stunning blow. 
 
 At last with a great effort he asked weakly, "You 
 found him here, monsieur ?" 
 
 "I found him here," declared the shaggy one, nod- 
 ding his bushy head toward his berth. 
 
 The world of Monsieur Pettipon seemed to come 
 crashing down around his ears. 
 
 "Impossible !" panted Monsieur Pettipon. "It could 
 not be." 
 
 "It could be," said the shaggy one sternly, "because 
 it was." 
 
 He continued to hold the damnatory evidence within 
 a foot of Monsieur Pettipon's staring incredulous eyes. 
 
 "But, monsieur," protested the steward, "I tell you 
 the thing could not be. One hundred and twenty-seven 
 times have I crossed on this Voltaire, and such a thing 
 has not been. Never, never, never." 
 
 "I did not make him," ptut in the passenger, with a 
 show of irony. 
 
 "No, no! Of course monsieur did not make him. 
 That is true. But perhaps monsieur " 
 
 The gesture of the overwhelmed Pettipon was deli- 
 cate but pregnant. 
 
 The shaggy passenger glared ferociously at the 
 steward. 
 
 "Do you mean I brought him with me?" he de- 
 manded in a terrible voice. 
 
 Monsieur Pettipon shrugged his shoulders.
 
 16 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "Such things happen," he said soothingly. "When 
 one travels " 
 
 The shaggy one interrupted him. 
 
 "He is not mine!" he exploded bellicosely. "He 
 never was mine. I found him here, I tell you. Here ! 
 Something shall be done about this." 
 
 Monsieur Pettipon had begun to tremble ; tiny moist 
 drops bedewed his expanse of brow; to lose his job 
 would be tragedy enough; but this this would be 
 worse than tragedy ; it would be disgrace. His artistic 
 reputation was at stake. His career was tottering on 
 a hideous brink. All Paris, all France would know, 
 and would laugh at him. 
 
 "Give me the little devil," he said humbly. "I, my- 
 self, personally, will see to it that he troubles you no 
 more. He shall perish at once, monsieur; he shall die 
 the death. You will have fresh bedding, fresh carpet, 
 fresh everything. There will be fumigations. I beg 
 that monsieur will think no more of it." 
 
 Savagely he took the thing between plump thumb 
 and forefinger and bore it from the stateroom, holding 
 it at arm's length. In the corridor, with the door shut 
 on the shaggy one, Monsieur Pettipon, feverishly agi- 
 tated, muttered again and again, "He did bring it with 
 him. He did bring it with him." 
 
 All that night Monsieur Pettipon lay in his berth, 
 stark awake, and brooded. The material side of the 
 affair was bad enough. The shaggy one would report 
 the matter to the head steward of the second class; 
 Monsieur Pettipon would be ignominiously discharged; 
 the sin, he had to admit, merited the extremest penalty. 
 Jobs are hard to get, particularly when one is fat and 
 past forty. He saw the Pettipons ejected from their 
 flat; he saw his little Napoleon a cafe waiter instead
 
 The Sin of Monsieur Petti pon 17 
 
 of a virtuoso. All this was misery enough. But it was 
 the spiritual side that tortured him most poignantly, 
 that made him toss and moan as the waves swished 
 against the liner's sides and an ocean dawn stole fog- 
 gily through the porthole. He was a failure at the work 
 he loved. 
 
 Consider the emotions of an artist who suddenly 
 realizes that his masterpiece is a tawdry smear; con- 
 sider the shock to a gentleman, proud of his name, 
 who finds a blot black as midnight on the escutcheon 
 he had for many prideful years thought stainless. To 
 the mind of the crushed Pettipon came the thought 
 that even though his job was irretrievably lost he still 
 might be able to save his honor. 
 
 As early as it was possible he went to the head 
 steward of the second class, his immediate superior. 
 
 There were tears in Monsieur Pettipon's eyes and 
 voice as he said, "Monsieur Deveau, a great misfortune, 
 as you have doubtless been informed, has overtaken me." 
 
 The head steward of the second class looked up 
 sharply. He was in a bearish mood, for he had lost 
 eleven francs at cards the night before. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur Pettipon ?" he asked brusquely. 
 
 "Oh, he has heard about it, he has heard about it," 
 thought Monsieur Pettipon; and his voice trembled as 
 he said aloud, "I have done faithful work on the Vol- 
 taire for twenty-two years, Monsieur Deveau, and such 
 a thing has never before happened." 
 
 "What thing ? Of what do you speak ? Out with it, 
 man." 
 
 "This!" cried Monsieur Pettipon tragically. 
 
 He thrust out his great paw of a hand ; in it nestled 
 a small dark object, now lifeless. 
 
 The head steward gave it a swift examination.
 
 1 8 The Sin of Monsieur Petti pon 
 
 "Ah!" lie exclaimed petulantly. "Must you trouble 
 me with, your pets at this time when I am busy ?" 
 
 "Pets, monsieur ?" The aghast Pettipon raised pro- 
 testing hands toward heaven. "Oh, never in this life, 
 monsieur the head steward." 
 
 "Then why do you bring him to me with such great 
 care?" demanded the head steward. "Do you think 
 perhaps, Monsieur Pettipon, that I wish to discuss 
 entomology at six in the morning? I assure you that 
 such a thing is not a curiosity to me. I have lived, 
 Monsieur Pettipon." 
 
 "But but he was in one of my cabins," groaned 
 Monsieur Pettipon. 
 
 "Indeed?" The head steward was growing impa- 
 tient. "I did not suppose you had caught him with a 
 hook and line. Take him away. Drown him. Bury 
 him. Burn him. Do I care?" 
 
 "He is furious," thought Monsieur Pettipon, "at my 
 sin. But he is pretending not to be. He will save up 
 his wrath until the Voltaire returns to France, and 
 then he will denounce me before the whole ship's com- 
 pany. I know these long-nosed Normans. Even so, 
 I must save my honor if I can." 
 
 He leaned toward the head steward and said with 
 great earnestness of tone, "I assure you, monsieur the 
 head steward, that I took every precaution. The pas- 
 senger who occupies the cabin is, between ourselves, a 
 fellow of great dirtiness. I am convinced he brought 
 this aboard with him. I have my reasons, monsieur. 
 Did I not say to Georges Prunier he is steward in the 
 corridor next to mine 'Georges, old oyster, that hairy 
 fellow in C 346 has a look of itchiness which I do not 
 fancy. I must be on my guard/ You can ask Georges 
 Prunier an honest fellow, monsieur the head steward
 
 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 19 
 
 if I did not say this. And Georges said, 'Alphonse, 
 my friend, I incline to agree with you.' And I said 
 to Georges, 'Georges, my brave, it would not surprise 
 me if 
 
 The head steward of the second class broke in tartly : 
 "You should write a book of memoirs, Monsieur Petti- 
 pon. When I have nothing to do I will read it. But 
 now have I not a thousand and two things to do ? Take 
 away your pet. Have him stuffed. Present him to a 
 museum. Do I care?" He started to turn from Mon- 
 sieur Pettipon, whose cheeks were quivering like spilled 
 
 jelly- 
 
 "I entreat you, Monsieur Deveau," begged Pettipon, 
 "to consider how for twenty-two years, three months 
 and a day, such a thing had not happened in my 
 cabins. This little rascal and you can see how tiny 
 he is is the only one that has ever been found, and 
 I give you my word, the word of a Pettipon, that he 
 was not there when we sailed. The passenger brought 
 him with him. I have my reasons " 
 
 "Enough !" broke in the head steward of the second 
 class with mounting irritation. "I can stand no more. 
 Go back to your work, Monsieur Pettipon." 
 
 He presented his back to Monsieur Pettipon. Sick at 
 heart the adipose steward went back to his domain. 
 As he made the cabins neat he did not sing the little 
 song with the chorus of "oo la las." 
 
 "There was deep displeasure in that Norman's eye," 
 said Monsieur Pettipon to himself. "He does not be- 
 lieve that the passenger is to blame. Your goose ia 
 cooked, my poor Alphonse. You must appeal to the 
 chief steward." 
 
 To the chief steward, in his elaborate office in the
 
 2O The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 first class, went Monsieur Pettipon, nervously opening 
 and shutting his fat fists. 
 
 The chief steward, a tun of a man, bigger even than 
 Monsieur Pettipon, peeped at his visitor from beneath 
 waggish, furry eyebrows. 
 
 "I am Monsieur Pettipon," said the visitor timidly. 
 "For twenty-two years, three months and a day, I have 
 been second-class steward on the Voltaire, and never 
 monsieur the chief steward, has there been a complaint, 
 one little complaint against me. One hundred and 
 twenty-seven trips have I made, and never has a single 
 passenger said " 
 
 "I'm sorry," interrupted the chief steward, "but I 
 can't make you a first-class steward. No vacancies. 
 Next year, perhaps ; or the year after " 
 
 "Oh, it isn't that," said Monsieur Pettipon miser- 
 ably. "It is this." 
 
 He held out his hand so that the chief steward could 
 see its contents. 
 
 "Ah ?" exclaimed the chief steward, arching his furry 
 brows. "Is this perhaps a bribe, monsieur?" 
 
 "Monsieur the chief steward is good enough to jest," 
 said Pettipon, standing first on one foot and then on 
 the other in his embarrassment, "but I assure you that 
 it has been a most serious blow to me." 
 
 "Blow ?" repeated the chief steward. "Blow ? Is it 
 that in the second class one comes to blows with them ?" 
 
 "He knows about it all," thought Monsieur Petti- 
 pon. "He is making game of me." His moon face 
 stricken and appealing, Monsieur Pettipon addressed 
 the chief steward. "He brought it with him, monsieur 
 the chief steward. I have my reasons : 
 
 "Who brought what with whom?" queried the chief 
 steward with a trace of asperity.
 
 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 21 
 
 "The passenger brought this aboard with him," ex- 
 plained Monsieur Pettipon. "I have good reasons, 
 monsieur, for making so grave a charge. Did I not 
 say to Georges Pnmier he is in charge of the cor- 
 ridor next to mine 'Georges, old oyster, that hairy 
 fellow in C 346 has a look of itchiness which I do not 
 fancy. I must be on my guard.' You can ask Georges 
 Prunier a thoroughly reliable fellow, monsieur, a 
 wearer of the military medal, and the son of the lead- 
 ing veterinarian in Amiens if I did not say this. And 
 Georges said " 
 
 The chief steward held up a silencing hand. 
 
 "Stop, I pray you, before my head bursts," he com- 
 manded. "Your repartee with Georges is most affect- 
 ing, but I do not see how it concerns a busy man like 
 me." 
 
 "But the passenger said he found this in his berth !" 
 wailed Monsieur Pettipon, wringing his great hands. 
 
 "My compliments to monsieur the passenger," said 
 the chief steward, "and tell him that there is no 
 reward." 
 
 "!Now I am sure he is angry with me," said Mon- 
 sieur Pettipon to himself. "These sly, smiling, fat 
 fellows! I must convince him of my innocence." 
 
 Monsieur Pettipon laid an imploring hand on the 
 chief steward's sleeve. 
 
 "I can only say," said Monsieur Pettipon in the ac- 
 cents of a man on the gallows, "that I did all within 
 the power of one poor human to prevent this dreadful 
 occurrence. I hope monsieur the chief steward will 
 believe that. I cannot deny that the thing exists" 
 as he spoke he sadly contemplated the palm of his hand 
 "and that the evidence is against me. But in my 
 heart I know I am innocent. I can only hope that
 
 22 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 monsieur will take into account my long and blameless 
 service, my one hundred and twenty-seven trips, my 
 twenty-two years, three months and " 
 
 "My dear Pettipon," said the chief steward with a 
 ponderous jocosity, "try to bear your cross. The only 
 way the Voltaire can atone for this monstrous sin of 
 yours is to be sunk, here, now and at once. But I'm 
 afraid the captain and Monsieur Ronssoy might ob- 
 ject. Get along now, while I think up a suitable 
 penance for you." 
 
 As he went with slow, despairing steps to his quar- 
 ters Monsieur Pettipon said to himself, "It is clear 
 he thinks me guilty. Helas! Poor Alphonse." For 
 long minutes he sat, his huge head in his hands, pon- 
 dering. 
 
 "I must, I shall appeal to him again," he said half 
 aloud. "There are certain points he should know. 
 What Georges Prunier said, for instance." 
 
 So back he went to the chief steward. 
 
 "Holy Blue!" cried that official. "You? Again? 
 Found another one?" 
 
 "No, no, monsieur the chief steward," replied Mon- 
 sieur Pettipon in agonies; "there is only one. In twen- 
 ty-two years there has been only one. He brought it 
 with him. Ask Georges Prunier if I did not say " 
 
 "Name of a name!" burst out the chief steward. 
 "Am I to hear all that again ? Did I not say to forget 
 the matter ?" 
 
 "Forget, monsieur? Could Napoleon forget Water- 
 loo ? I beg that you permit me to explain." 
 
 "Oh, bother you and your explanations!" cried the 
 chief steward with the sudden impatience common to 
 fat men. "Take them to some less busy man. The 
 captain, for example."
 
 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 23 
 
 Monsieur Pettipon bowed himself from the office, 
 covered with confusion and despair. Had not the chief 
 steward refused to hear him? Did not the chief 
 steward's words imply that the crime was too heinous 
 for any one less than the captain himself to pass judg- 
 ment on it? To the captain Monsieur Pettipon would 
 have to go, although he dreaded to do it, for the cap- 
 tain was notoriously the busiest and least approachable 
 man on the ship. Desperation gave him courage. 
 Breathless at his own temerity, pink as a peony with 
 shame, Monsieur Pettipon found himself bowing be- 
 fore a blur of gold and multihued decorations that in- 
 stinct rather than his reason told him was the captain 
 of the Voltaire. 
 
 The captain was worried about the fog, and about 
 the presence aboard of M. Victor Ronssoy, the presi- 
 dent of the line, and his manner was brisk and chilly. 
 
 "Did I ring for you ?" he asked. 
 
 "No," jerked out Monsieur Pettipon, "but if the 
 captain will pardon the great liberty, I have a matter of 
 the utmost importance on which I wish to address him." 
 
 "Speak, man, speak !" shot out the captain, alarmed 
 by Monsieur Pettipon's serious aspect. "Leak ? Fire ? 
 Somebody overboard ? What ?" 
 
 "No, no !" cried Monsieur Pettipon, trickles of moist 
 emotion sliding down the creases of his round face. 
 "Kobody overboard; no leak; no fire. But monsieur 
 the captain behold this !" 
 
 He extended his hand and the captain bent his head 
 over it with quick interest. 
 
 For a second the captain stared at the thing in Mon- 
 sieur Pettipon's hand; then he stared at Monsieur 
 Pettipon. 
 
 "Ten thousand million little blue devils, what does
 
 24 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 this mean?" roared the captain. "Have you been 
 drinking ?" 
 
 Monsieur Pettipon quaked to the end of his toes. 
 
 "]STo, no!" he stammered. "I am only too sober, 
 monsieur the captain, and I do not blame you for 
 being enraged. The Voltaire is your ship, and you 
 love her, as I do. I feel this disgrace even more than 
 you can, monsieur the captain, believe me. But I beg 
 of you do not be hasty ; my honor is involved. I admit 
 that this thing was found in one of my cabins. Con- 
 sider my horror when he was found. It was no less 
 than yours, monsieur the captain. But I give you my 
 word, the word of a Pettipon, that " 
 
 The captain stopped the rush of words with, "Com- 
 pose yourself. Come to the point." 
 
 "Point, monsieur the captain ?" gasped Pettipon. "la 
 it not enough point that this thing was found in one 
 of my cabins? Such a thing in the cabin of Mon- 
 sieur Alphonse Marie Louis Camille Pettipon ! Is that 
 nothing? For twenty-two years have I been steward 
 in the second class, and not one of these, not so much 
 as a baby one, has ever been found. I am beside my- 
 self with chagrin. My only defense is that a passen- 
 ger a fellow of dirtiness, monsieur the captain 
 brought it with him. He denies it. I denounce him 
 as a liar the most barefaced. For did I not say to 
 Georges Prunier a fellow steward and a man of in- 
 tegrity 'Georges, old oyster, that hairy fellow in C 346 
 has a look of itchiness which I do not fancy. I must 
 be on my guard.' And Georges said " 
 
 The captain, with something like a smile playing 
 about among his whiskers, interrupted with, "So this 
 is the first one in twenty-two years, eh? We'll have 
 to look into this, Monsieur Pettipon. Good day."
 
 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 25 
 
 "Look into this," groaned Pettipon as he stumbled 
 down a gangway. "I know what that means. Ah, poor 
 Therese ! Poor Napoleon 1" 
 
 He looked down at the great, green, hungry waves 
 with a calculating eye; he wondered if they would be 
 cold. He placed a tentative hand on the rail. Then, 
 an inspiration came to him. M. Victor Konssoy was 
 aboard; he was the last court of appeal. Monsieur 
 Pettipon would dare, for the sake of his honor, to go 
 to the president of the line himself. For tortured 
 minutes Alphonse Pettipon paced up and down, and 
 something closely resembling sobs shook his huge frame 
 as he looked about his little kingdom and thought of 
 his impending banishment. At last by a supreme effort 
 of will he nerved himself to go to the suite of Monsieur 
 Ronssoy. It was a splendid suite of five rooms, and 
 Monsieur Pettipon had more than once peeked into it 
 when it was empty and had noted with fascinated eyes 
 the perfection of its appointments. But now he twice 
 turned from the door, his courage oozing from him. On 
 the third attempt, with the recklessness of a condemned 
 man, he rapped on the door. 
 
 The president of the line was a white-haired giant 
 with a chin like an anvil and bright humorous eyes, 
 like a kingfisher. 
 
 "Monsieur Konssoy," began the flustered, damp- 
 browed Pettipon in a faltering voice, "I have only 
 apologies to make for this intrusion. Only a matter of 
 the utmost consequence could cause me to take the 
 liberty." 
 
 The president's brow knitted anxiously. 
 
 "Out with it," he ordered. "Are we sinking ? Have 
 we hit an iceberg?" 
 
 "JSTo, no, monsieur the president! But surely you
 
 26 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 have heard what I, Alphonse Pettipon, steward in the 
 second class, found in one of my cabins?" 
 
 "Oh, so you're Pettipon!" exclaimed the president, 
 and his frown vanished. "Ah, yes ; ah, yes." 
 
 "He knows of my disgrace," thought Monsieur Petti- 
 pon, mopping his streaming brow. "Now all is lost 
 indeed." Hanging his head he addressed the presi- 
 dent: "Alas, yes, I am none other than that unhappy 
 Pettipon," he said mournfully. "But yesterday, mon- 
 sieur, I was a proud man. This was my one hundred 
 and twenty-eighth trip on the Voltaire. I had not a 
 mark against me. But the world has been black for me, 
 monsieur the president, since I found this." 
 
 He held out his hand so that the president could 
 view the remains lying in it. 
 
 "Ah," exclaimed the president, adjusting his pince- 
 nez, "a perfect specimen !" 
 
 "But note, monsieur the president," begged Mon- 
 sieur Pettipon, "that he is a mere infant. But a few 
 days old, I am sure. He could not have been aboard 
 long. One can see that. I am convinced that it was 
 the passenger who brought him with him. I have my 
 reasons for making this serious charge, Monsieur 
 Eonssoy. Good reasons too. Did I not say to Georges 
 Prunier a steward of the strictest honesty, monsieur 
 'Georges, old oyster, that hairy fellow in C 346 has 
 a look of itchiness which I do not fancy.' And Georges 
 said, 'Alphonse, my friend ' ' 
 
 "Most interesting," murmured the president. "Pray 
 proceed." 
 
 With a wealth of detail and with no little passion 
 Monsieur Pettipon told his story. The eyes of the 
 president encouraged him, and he told of little Napo- 
 leon and the violin, and of his twenty-two years on the
 
 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 27 
 
 Voltaire and how proud he was of his work as a 
 steward, and how severe a blow the affair had been 
 to him. 
 
 When he had finished, Monsieur Ronssoy said, "And 
 you thought it necessary to report your discovery to 
 the head steward of the second class?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "And to the chief steward ?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "And to the captain " 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "And finally to me, the president of the line ?" 
 
 "Even so, monsieur," said the perspiring Pettipon. 
 
 M. Victor Ronssoy regarded him thoughtfully. 
 
 "Monsieur Pettipon," he said, "the sort of man I 
 like is the man who takes his job seriously. You 
 would not have raised such a devil of a fuss about so 
 small a thing as this if you were not that sort of man. 
 I am going to have you made steward of my suite im- 
 mediately, Monsieur Pettipon. Now you may toss that 
 thing out of the porthole." 
 
 "Oh, no, monsieur !" cried Alphonse Pettipon, great, 
 grateful tears rushing to his eyes. "Never in this life ! 
 Him I shall keep always in my watch charm."
 
 II: Mr. Pottle and the South- Sea 
 Cannibals
 
 II: Mr. Pottle and the South- 
 Sea Cannibals 
 
 i 
 
 7| /[^" POTTLE was a barber, but also a man of 
 
 / m/m imagination, and as his hands went through 
 
 their accustomed motions, his mind was far 
 
 away, recalling what he had read the night before. 
 
 "Bright Marquesas sunlight glinted from 
 the cutlass of the intrepid explorer as with a 
 sweep of his arm he brought the blade down 
 on the tattooed throat of the man-eating 
 savage." 
 
 Mr. Pottle's errant mind was jerked back sharply 
 from the South Seas to Granville, Ohio, by a protesting 
 voice. 
 
 "Hey, Pottle, what's bitin' you? You took a slice 
 out o' my Adam's apple that time." 
 
 Mr. Pottle, with apologetic murmurs, rubbed the 
 wound with an alum stick; then he dusted his victim 
 with talcum powder, and gave the patented chair a little 
 kick, so that its occupant was shot bolt upright. 
 
 "Bay rum?" asked Mr. Pottle, professionally. 
 
 "Nope." 
 
 "Dandruff-Death?"
 
 32 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "Nope." 
 
 "Sweet Lilac Tonic?" 
 
 "Nope." 
 
 "Plain water V 9 
 
 "Yep." 
 
 "Naked savages danced and howled round 
 the great pot in which the trussed explorer 
 had been placed. The cannibal chief, fire- 
 brand in hand, made ready to ignite the fagots 
 under the pot It began to look bad for the 
 explorer." 
 
 'Again a shrill voice of protest punctured Mr. Pottle'a 
 day-dream. 
 
 "Hey, Pottle, come to life! You've went and put 
 Sweet Lilac Tonic on me 'stead of plain water. I ain't 
 going to no coon ball. You've gone and smelled me 
 up like a screamin' geranium." 
 
 "Why, so I have, so I have," said Mr. Pottle, in ac- 
 cents of surprise and contrition. "Sorry, Luke. It'll 
 wear off in a day or two. Guess I must be gettin' 
 absent-minded." 
 
 "That's what you said last Saddy when you clipped 
 a piece out o' Virgil Overholt's ear," observed Luke, 
 with some indignation. "What's bitin' you, anyhow, 
 Pottle ? You used to be the best barber in the county 
 before you took to readin' them books." 
 
 "What books ?" 
 
 "All about cannibals and explorers and the South- 
 Sea Islands," answered Luke. 
 
 "They're good books," said Mr. Pottle warmly. His 
 eyes brightened. "I just got a new one," he said. "It's 
 called 'Green Isles, Brown Man-Eaters, and a White
 
 Mr. Pottle and the Cannibals 33 
 
 Man.' I sat up till two readin' it. It's about the 
 Marquesas Islands, and it's a darn' excitin' book, 
 Luke." 
 
 "It excited you so much you sliced my Adam's 
 apple," grumbled Luke, clamping on his rubber collar. 
 "You had better cut out this fool readin'." 
 
 "Don't you ever read, Luke ?" 
 
 "Sure I do. 'The Mornin' News-Press' for week- 
 days, 'The P'lice Gazette' when I come here to get 
 shaved Saddy nights, and the Bible for Sundays. 
 That's readin' enough for any man." 
 
 "Did you ever read 'Robinson Crusoe' ?" 
 
 "Nope, but I heard him." 
 
 "Heard him ? Heard who ?" 
 
 "Crusoe," said Luke, snapping his ready-tied tie 
 into place. 
 
 "Heard him ? You couldn't have heard him." 
 
 "I couldn't, hey? Well, I did." 
 
 "Where ?" demanded Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Singin' on a phonograph," said Luke. 
 
 Mr. Pottle said nothing; Luke was a regular cus- 
 tomer, and in successful modern business the customer 
 is always right. However, Mr. Pottle seized a strop 
 and by his vigorous stroppings silently expressed his 
 disgust at a man who hadn't heard of "Robinson Cru- 
 soe," for Robinson was one of Mr. Pottle's deities. 
 
 When Luke reached the door, he turned. 
 
 "Say, Pottle," he said, "if you're so nutty about 
 these here South Sea Islands, why don't you go there ?" 
 
 Mr. Pottle ceased his stropping. 
 
 "I am going," he said. 
 
 Luke gave a dubious hoot and vanished. He did not 
 realize that he had heard Mr. Pottle make the big 
 decision of his life.
 
 34 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 2 
 
 That night Mr. Pottle finished the book, and 
 dreamed, as he had dreamed on many a night since the 
 lure of the South Seas first cast a spell on him, that 
 in a distant, sun-loved isle, bright with greens and 
 purples, he reclined beneath the manorinana-hine (or 
 umbrella fern) on his own paepae (or platform), a 
 scarlet pareu (or breech-clout) about his middle, a yel- 
 low hibiscus flower in his hair, while the Tcukus (or 
 small green turtle-doves) cooed in the branches of the 
 pevatvii (or banana-tree), and Bunnidori (that is, she, 
 with the Lips of Love), a tawny maid of wondrous 
 beauty, played softly to him on the ukulele. The tan- 
 talizing fragrance of a bowl of popoi (or pudding) 
 mingled in his nostrils with the more delicate perfume 
 of the golden blossoms of the puu-epu (or mulberry- 
 tree). A sound in the jungle, a deep boom! boom! 
 boom! roused him from this reverie. 
 
 "What is it, O Bunnidori ?" he asked. 
 
 " 'Tis a feast, O my Pottle, Lord of the Menikea 
 (that is, white men)," lisped his companion. 
 
 "Upon what do the men in the jungle feast, O plump 
 and pleasing daughter of delight ?" inquired Mr. Pottle, 
 who was up on Polynesian etiquette. 
 
 She lowered her already low voice still lower. 
 
 "Upon the long pig that speaks," she whispered. 
 
 A delicious shudder ran down the spine of the sleep- 
 ing Mr. Pottle, for from his reading he knew that "the 1 
 long pig that speaks" means man I 
 
 For Mr. Pottle had one big ambition, one great sup- 
 pressed desire. It was the dearest wish of his thirty-six 
 years of life to meet a cannibal, a real cannibal, face 
 to face, eye to eye.
 
 Mr. Pottle and the Cannibals 35 
 
 Next day lie sold his barber's shop. Two months 
 and seventeen days later he was unpacking his trunk 
 in the tiny settlement of Vait-hua, in the Marquesas 
 Islands, in the heart of the South Seas. 
 
 The air was balmy, the sea deep purple, the nodding 
 palms and giant ferns of the greenest green were ex- 
 actly as advertised; but when the first week or two of 
 enchantment had worn off, Mr. Pottle owned to a cer- 
 tain feeling of disappointment. 
 
 He tasted popoi and found it rather nasty ; the hotel 
 in which he stayed the only one was deficient in 
 plumbing, but not in fauna. The natives he had ex- 
 pected great things of the natives were remarkably 
 like underdone Pullman porters wrapped in bandana 
 handkerchiefs. They were not exciting, they exhibited 
 no inclination to eat Mr. Pottle or one another, they 
 coveted his pink shirt, and begged for a drink from hia 
 bottle of Sweet Lilac Tonic. 
 
 He mentioned his disappointment at these evidences 
 of civilization to Tiki Tiu, the astute native who kept 
 the general store. 
 
 Mr. Pottle's mode of conversation was his own in- 
 vention. From the books he had read he improvised a 
 language. It was simple. He gave English words a 
 barbaric sound, usually by suffixing "um" or "ee," 
 shouted them at the top of his voice into the ear of the 
 person with whom he was conversing, and repeated 
 them in various permutations. He addressed Tiki Tiu 
 with brisk and confident familiarity. 
 
 "Helloee, Tiki Tiu. Me wantum see can-balls. Can- 
 balls me wantum see. Me see can-balls wantum." 
 
 The venerable native, who spoke seventeen island 
 dialects and tongues, and dabbled in English, Spanish, 
 and French, appeared to apprehend his meaning; in-
 
 36 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 deed, one might almost have thought he had heard this 
 question before, for he answered promptly: 
 
 "No more can-balls here. All Baptists." 
 
 "Where are can-balls ? Can-balls where are ? Where 
 can-balls are?" demanded Mr. Pottle. 
 
 Tiki Tiu closed his eyes and let blue smoke filter 
 through his nostrils. Finally he said: 
 
 "Isle of O-pip-ee." 
 
 "Isle of O-pip-ee ?" Mr. Pottle grew excited. "Where 
 is ? Is where ?" 
 
 "Two hundred miles south," answered Tiki Tiu. 
 
 Mr. Pottle's eyes sparkled. He was on the trail. 
 
 "How go there? Go there how? There go how?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Tiki Tiu considered. Then he said : 
 
 "I take. Nice liT schooner." 
 
 "How much ?" asked Mr. Pottle. "Much how ?" 
 
 Tiki Tiu considered again. 
 
 "Ninety-three dol's," he said. 
 
 "Goodum!" cried Mr. Pottle, and counted the pro- 
 ceeds of 186 hair-cuts into the hand of Tiki Tiu. 
 
 "You take me to-mollow? To-mollow you take me? 
 Me you take to-mollow? To-mollow? To-mollow? 
 To-mollow?" asked Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Yes," promised Tiki Tiu; "to-mollow." 
 
 Mr. Pottle stayed upi all night packing; from time 
 to time he referred to much-thumbed copies of "Rob- 
 inson Crusoe" and "Green Isles, Brown Man-Eaters, 
 and a White Man." 
 
 Tiki Tin's nice li'l' schooner deposited Mr. Pottle 
 and his impedimenta on the small, remote Isle of 
 O-pip-ee ; Tiki Tiu agreed to return for him in a month. 
 
 "This is something like it," exclaimed Mr. Pottle 
 as he unpacked his camera, his ukulele, his razors, his
 
 Mr. Pottle and the Cannibals 37 
 
 canned soup, his heating outfit, and his bathing^suit. 
 Only the wild parrakeets heard him ; save for their calls, 
 an ominous silence hung over the thick foliage of 
 O-pip-ee. There was not the ghost of a sign of human 
 habitation. 
 
 Mr. Pottle, vaguely apprehensive of sharks, pitched 
 his pup-tent far up on the beach; to-morrow would be 
 time enough to look for cannibals. 
 
 He lay smoking and thinking. He was happy. The 
 realization of a life's ambition lay, so to speak, just 
 around the corner. To-morrow he could turn that 
 corner if he wished. 
 
 He squirmed as something small nibbled at his hip- 
 bone, and he wondered why writers of books on the 
 South Seas make such scant mention of the insects. 
 Surely they must have noticed the little creatures, which 
 had, he discovered, a way of making their presence felt. 
 
 He wondered, too, now that he came to think of it, 
 if he hadn't been a little rash in coming alone to a 
 cannibal-infested isle with no weapons of defense but a 
 shot-gun, picked up at a bargain at the last minute, 
 and his case of razors. True, in all the books by ex- 
 plorers he had read, the explorer never once had actu- 
 ally been eaten ; he always lived to write the book. But 
 what about the explorers who had not written books? 
 What had happened to them ? 
 
 He flipped a centipede off his ankle, and wondered 
 if he hadn't been just a little too impulsive to sell his 
 profitable barber-shop, to come many thousand miles 
 over strange waters, to maroon himself on the lonely 
 Isle of O-pip-ee. At Vait-hua he had heard that can- 
 nibals do not fancy white men for culinary purposes. 
 He gave a little start as he looked down at his own
 
 38 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 bare legs and saw that the tropic sun had already tinted 
 them a coffee hue. 
 
 Mr. Pottle did not sleep well that night; strange 
 sounds made his eyes fly open. Once it was a curious 
 scuttling along the beach. Peeping out from his pup- 
 tent, he saw half a dozen tupa (or giant tree-climbing 
 crabs) on a nocturnal raid on a cocoanut-grove. Later 
 he heard the big nuts come crashing down. The day 
 shift of insects had quit, and the night shift, fresh and 
 hungry, came to work ; inquisitive vampire bats butted 
 their soft heads against his tent. 
 
 At dawn he set about finding a permanent abode. 
 He followed a small fresh-water stream two hundred 
 yards inland, and came to a coral cave by a pool, a 
 ready-made home, cool and, more important, well con- 
 cealed. He spent the day settling down, chasing out 
 the bats, putting up mosquito-netting, tidying up. He 
 dined well off cocoanut milk and canned sardines, and 
 was so tired that he fell asleep before he could change 
 his bathing-suit for pajamas. He slept fairly well, 
 albeit he dreamed that two cannibal kings were dis- 
 puting over his prostrate form whether he would be 
 better as a ragout or stuffed with chestnuts. 
 
 Waking, he decided to lie low and wait for the 
 savages to show themselves, for he knew from Tiki 
 Tiu that the Isle of O-pip-ee was not more than seven 
 miles long and three or four miles wide ; sooner or later 
 they must pass near him. He figured that there was 
 logic in this plan, for no cannibal had seen him land; 
 therefore he knew that the cannibals were on the isle, 
 but they did not know that he was. The advantage 
 was his.
 
 Mr. Pottle and the Cannibals 39 
 
 For days lie remained secluded, subsisting on canned 
 foods, cocoanuts, mei (or breadfruit), and an occa- 
 sional boiled baby feke (or young devil-fish), a nest of 
 which Mr. Pottle found on one furtive moonlight sally 
 to the beach. 
 
 Emboldened by this sally and by the silence of the 
 woods, Mr. Pottle made other expeditions away from 
 his cave ; on one he penetrated fully five hundred yards 
 into the jungle. He was prowling, like a Cooper In- 
 dian, among the faufee (or lacebark-trees) when he 
 heard a sound that sent him scurrying and quaking 
 back to his lair. 
 
 It was a faint sound that the breezes bore to him, 
 so faint that he could not be sure; but it sounded like 
 some far-off barbaric instrument mingling its dim 
 notes with those of a human voice raised in a weird, 
 primeval chant. 
 
 But the savages did not show themselves, and finding 
 no cannibals by night, Mr. Pottle grew still bolder; he 
 ventured on short explorations by day. He examined 
 minutely his own cove, and then one morning crept 
 over a low ledge and into the next cove. He made his 
 way cautiously along the smooth, white beach. The 
 morning was still, calm, beautiful. Its peace all but 
 drove thoughts of cannibals from his mind. He came 
 to a strip of land running into the sea; another cove 
 lay beyond. Mr. Pottle was an impulsive man; he 
 pushed through the Jceoho (or thorn-bushes) ; his foot 
 slipped; he rolled down a declivity and into the next 
 cove. 
 
 He did not stay there; he did not even tarry. What 
 he saw sent him dashing through the thorn-bushes and
 
 40 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 along the white sand like a hundred-yard sprinter. In 
 the sand of the cove were many imprints of naked 
 human feet. 
 
 A less stout-hearted man than Mr. Pottle would 
 never have come out of his cave again; but he had 
 come eight thousand miles to see a cannibal. An over- 
 mastering desire had spurred him on ; he would not give 
 up now. Of such stuff are Ohio barbers made. 
 
 A few days later, at twilight, he issued forth from 
 his cave again. Around his loins was a scarlet pareu; 
 he had discarded his bathing-suit as too civilized. In 
 his long, black hair was a yellow hibiscus flower. 
 
 Like a burglar, he crept along the beach to the 
 bushy promontory that hid the cove where the foot- 
 prints were, he wiggled through the bush, he slid down 
 to the third beach, and crouched behind a large rock. 
 The beach seemed deserted ; the muttering of the ocean 
 was the only sound Mr. Pottle heard. Another rock, 
 a dozen feet away, seemed to offer better concealment, 
 and he stepped out toward it, and then stopped short. 
 Mr. Pottle stood face to face with a naked, brown 
 
 Mr. Pottle's feet refused to take him away ; a paraly- 
 sis such as one has in nightmares rooted him to the 
 spot. His returning faculties took in these facts : first, 
 the savage was unarmed; second, Mr. Pottle had for- 
 gotten to bring his shot-gun. It was a case of man to 
 man-eater. 
 
 The savage was large, well-fed, almost fat; his long 
 black Lair fringed his head; he did not wear a par-
 
 Mr. Pottle and the Cannibals 41 
 
 ticularly bloodthirsty expression; indeed, he appeared 
 startled and considerably alarmed. 
 
 Reason told Mr. Pottle that friendliness was the best 
 policy. Instinctively, he recalled the literature of his 
 youth, and how Buffalo Bill had acted in a like cir- 
 cumstance. He raised his right hand solemnly in the 
 air and ejaculated, "How!" 
 
 The savage raised his right hand solemnly in the 
 air, and in the same tone also ejaculated, "How !" Mr. 
 Pottle had begun famously. He said loudly: 
 
 "Who you ? You who ? Who you ?" 
 
 The savage, to Mr. Pottle's surprise, answered after 
 a brief moment: 
 
 "Me Lee." 
 
 Here was luck. The man-eater could talk the Pottle 
 lingo. 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Pottle, to show that he understood, 
 "you Mealy." 
 
 The savage shook his head. 
 
 "No," he said ; "Me Lee. Me Lee." He thumped 
 his barrel-like chest with each word. 
 
 "Oh, I see," cried Mr. Pottle; "you Mealy-mealy." 
 
 The. savage made a face that among civilized people 
 would have meant that he did not think much of Mr. 
 Pottle's intellect. 
 
 "Who you ?" inquired Mealy-mealy. 
 
 Mr. Pottle thumped his narrow chest. 
 
 "Me, Pottle. Pottle!" 
 
 "Oh, you Pottle-pottle," said the savage, evidently 
 pleased with his own powers of comprehension. 
 
 Mr. Pottle let it go at that. Why argue with a 
 cannibal? He addressed the savage again. 
 
 "Mealy-mealy, you eatum long pig? Eatum long 
 pig you ? Long pig you eatum ?"
 
 42 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 This question agitated Mealy-mealy. He trembled. 
 Then he nodded his head in the affirmative, a score of 
 rapid nods. 
 
 Mr. Pottle's voice faltered a little as he asked the 
 next question. 
 
 "Where you gottum tribe ? You gottum tribe where ? 
 Tribe you gottum where ?" 
 
 Mealy-mealy considered, scowled, and said: 
 
 "Gottum velly big tribe not far. Velly fierce. 
 Eatum long pig. Eatum Pottle-pottle." 
 
 Mr. Pottle thought it would be a good time to go, 
 but he could think of no polite excuse for leaving. An 
 idea occurred to Mealy-mealy. 
 
 "Where your tribe, Pottle-pottle ?" 
 
 His tribe ? Mr. Pottle's eyes fell on his own scarlet 
 pareu and the brownish legs beneath it. Mealy-mealy 
 thought he was a cannibal, too. With all his terror, he 
 had a second or two of unalloyed enjoyment of the 
 thought. Like all barbers, he had played poker. He 
 bluffed. 
 
 "My tribe velly, velly, velly, velly, velly, velly big," 
 he cried. 
 
 "Where is?" asked Mealy-mealy, visibly moved by 
 this news. 
 
 "Velly near," cried Mr. Pottle; "hungry for long 
 pig; for long pig hungry- 
 There was suddenly a brown blur on the landscape. 
 With the agility of an ape, the huge savage had turned, 
 darted down the beach, plunged into the bush, and 
 disappeared. 
 
 "He's gone to get his tribe," thought Mr. Pottle, and 
 fled in the opposite direction. 
 
 When he reached his cave, panting, he tried to fit a 
 cartridge into his shot-gun; he'd die game, anyhow.
 
 Mr. Pottle and the Cannibals 43 
 
 But rust had ruined the neglected weapon, and he 
 flung it aside and took out his best razor. But no can- 
 nibals came. 
 
 He was scared, but happy. He had seen his canni- 
 bal ; more, he had talked with him ; more still, he had 
 escaped gracing the festal board by a snake's knuckle. 
 He prudently decided to stay in his cave until the 
 sails of Tiki Tiu's schooner hove in sight. 
 
 5 
 
 But an instinct stronger than fear drove him out into 
 the open: his stock of canned food ran low, and large 
 red ants got into his flour. He needed cocoanuts and 
 breadfruit and baby fekes (or young octopi). He knew 
 that numerous succulent infant fekes lurked in holes 
 in his own cove, and thither he went by night to pull 
 them from their homes. Hitherto he had encountered 
 only small felces, with tender tentacles only a few feet 
 long; but that night Mr. Pottle had the misfortune to 
 plunge his naked arm into the watery nest when the 
 father of the family was at home. He realized his 
 error too late. 
 
 A clammy tentacle, as long as a fire hose, as strong 
 as the arm of a gorilla, coiled round his arm, and his 
 scream was cut short as the giant devil-fish dragged him 
 below the water. 
 
 The water was shallow. Mr. Pottle got a foothold, 
 forced his head above water, and began to yell for help 
 and struggle for his life. 
 
 The chances against a nude Ohio barber of 140 
 pounds in a wrestling match with an adult octopus are 
 exactly a thousand to one. The giant feJce so despised 
 his opponent that he used only two of his eight mus-
 
 44 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 cular arms. In their slimy, relentless clutch Mr. Pot- 
 tle felt his strength going fast. As his favorite authors 
 would have put it, "it began, to look bad for Mr. 
 Pottle." 
 
 The thought that Mr. Pottle thought would be his 
 last on this earth was, "I wouldn't mind being eaten 
 by cannibals, but to be drowned by a trick fish " 
 
 Mr. Pottle threshed about in one final, frantic floun- 
 der; his strength gave out; he shut his eyes. 
 
 He heard a shrill cry, a splashing in the water, felt 
 himself clutched about the neck from behind, and 
 dragged away from the feke. He opened his eyes and 
 struggled weakly. One tentacle released its grip. Mr. 
 Pottle saw by the tropic moon's light that some large 
 creature was doing battle with the feke. It was a man, 
 a large brown man who with a busy ax hacked the 
 gristly limbs from the felce as fast as they wrapped 
 around him. Mr. Pottle staggered to the dry beach; 
 a tentacle was still wound tight round his shoulder, but 
 there was no octopus at the other end of it. 
 
 The angry noise of the devil-fish for, when 
 wounded, they snarl like kicked curs stopped. The 
 victorious brown man strode out of the water to where 
 Mr. Pottle swayed on the moon-lit sand. It was Mealy- 
 mealy. 
 
 "Bad fishum !" said Mealy-mealy, with a grin. 
 
 "Good manum!" cried Mr. Pottle, heartily. 
 
 Here was romance, here was adventure, to be 
 snatched from the jaws, so to speak, of death by a can- 
 nibal ! It was unheard of. But a disquieting thought 
 occurred to Mr. Pottle, and he voiced it. 
 
 "Mealy-mealy, why you save me? Why save you 
 me? Why you me save?" 
 
 Mealy-mealy's grin seemed to fade, and in its place
 
 Mr. Pottle and the Cannibals 45 
 
 came another look that made Mr. Pottle wish he were 
 back in the anaconda grip of the feke. 
 
 "My tribe hungry for long pig," growled Mealy- 
 mealy. He seemed to be trembling with some powerful 
 emotion. Hunger ? 
 
 Mr. Pottle knew where his only chance for escape 
 lay. 
 
 "My tribe velly, velly, velly hungry, too/' he cried. 
 "Velly, velly, velly near." 
 
 He thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a pierc- 
 ing school-boy whistle. As if in answer to it there 
 came a crashing and floundering in the bushes. His 
 bluff had worked only too well; it must be the fellow 
 man-eaters of Mealy-mealy. 
 
 Mr. Pottle turned and ran for his life. Fifty yards 
 he sped, and then realized that he did not hear the 
 padding of bare feet on the sand behind him or feel hot 
 breath on the back of his neck. He dared to cast a look 
 over his shoulder. Far down the beach the moonlight 
 showed him a flying brown figure against the silver- 
 white sand. It was Mealy-mealy, and he was going in 
 the opposite direction as fast as ever his legs would take 
 him. 
 
 Surprise drove fear temporarily from Mr. Pottle's 
 mind as he watched the big cannibal become a blur, 
 then a speck, then nothing. As he watched Mealy- 
 mealy recede, he saw another dark figure emerge from 
 the bush where the noise had been, and move slowly 
 out on the moon-strewn beach. 
 
 It was a baby wild pig. It sniffed at the ocean, 
 squealed, and trotted back into the bush. 
 
 As he gnawed his morning cocoanut, Mr. Pottle was 
 still puzzled. He was afraid of Mealy-mealy ; that he 
 admitted. But at the same time it was quite clear
 
 46 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 that Mealy-mealy was afraid of him. He was excited 
 and more than a little gratified. What a book he could 
 write! Should he call it "Cannibal-Bound on 
 O-pip-ee," or, "Cannibals Who have almost Eaten Me" ? 
 
 Tiki Tiu's schooner would be coming for him very 
 soon now, he'd lost track of the exact time, and 
 he would be almost reluctant to leave the isle. Almost. 
 
 Mr. Pottle had another glimpse of a cannibal next 
 day. Toward evening he stole out to pick some supper 
 from a breadfruit-tree not far from his cave, a tree 
 which produced particularly palatable mei (or bread- 
 fruit). 
 
 He drew his pareu tight around him and slipped 
 through the bushes; as he neared the tree he saw an- 
 other figure approaching it with equal stealth from the 
 opposite direction; the setting sun was reflected from 
 the burnished brown of the savage's shoulders. At the 
 same time Mr. Pottle spied the man, the man spied 
 him. The savage stopped short, wheeled about, and tore 
 back in the direction from which he had come. Mr. 
 Pottle did not get a good look at his face, but he ran 
 uncommonly like Mealy-mealy. 
 
 6 
 
 Mr. Pottle thought it best not to climb the we^tree 
 that evening; he returned hastily to his cave, and fin- 
 ished up the breakfast cocoanut. 
 
 Over a pipe he thought. He was pleased, thrilled by 
 his sight of a cannibal; but he was not wholly satis- 
 fied. He had thought it would be enough for him to get 
 one fleeting glimpse of an undoubted man-eater in his 
 native state, but it wasn't. Before he left the Isle of 
 he wanted to see the whole tribe in a wild
 
 Mr. Pottle and the Cannibals 47 
 
 dance about a bubbling pot. Tiki Tiu's schooner might 
 come on the morrow. He must act. 
 
 He crept out of the cave and stood in the moon- 
 light, breathing the perfume of the jungle, feeling the 
 cool night air, hearing the mellow notes of the Poly- 
 nesian nightingale. Adventure beckoned to him. He 
 started in the direction Mealy-mealy had run. 
 
 At first he progressed on tiptoes, then he sank to all 
 fours, and crawled along slowly, pig-wise. On, on he 
 went; he must have crept more than a mile when a 
 sound stopped him a sound he had heard before. It 
 was faint, yet it seemed near: it was the sound of 
 some primitive musical instrument blending with the 
 low notes of a tribal chant. It seemed to come from 
 a sheltered hollow not two dozen yards ahead. 
 
 He crouched down among the ferns and listened. 
 The chant was crooned softly in a deep voice, and to the 
 straining ears of Mr. Pottle it seemed vaguely familiar, 
 like a song heard in dreams. The words came through 
 the thick tangle of jungle weeds: 
 
 "Eeet slon ay a teep a ari." 
 
 Mr. Pottle, fascinated, wiggled forward to get a look 
 at the tribe. Like a snake, he made his tortuous ap- 
 proach. The singing continued; he saw a faint glow 
 through the foliage the campfire. He eased himself 
 to the crest of a little hummock, pushed aside a great 
 fern leaf and looked. 
 
 Sitting comfortably in a steamer-chair was Mealy- 
 mealy. In his big brown hands was a shiny banjo at 
 which he plucked gently. Near his elbow food with 
 a familiar smell bubbled in an aluminum dish over a 
 trim canned-heat outfit; an empty baked-bean can with
 
 48 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 a gaudy label lay beside it. From time to time Mealy- 
 mealy glanced idly at a pink periodical popular in 
 American barber-stops. The song he sang to himself 
 burst intelligibly on Mr. Pottle's ears 
 
 "It's a long way to Tipperary." 
 
 Mealy-mealy stopped ; his eye had fallen on the star- 
 ing eyes of Mr. Pottle. He caught up his ax and was 
 about to swing it when Mr. Pottle stood up, stepped 
 into the circle of light, pointed an accusing finger at 
 Mealy-mealy and said: 
 
 "Are you a cannibal ?" 
 
 Mealy-mealy 's ax and jaw dropped. 
 
 "What the devil are you?" he sputtered in perfect 
 American. 
 
 "I'm a barber from Ohio," said Mr. Pottle. 
 
 Mealy-mealy emitted a sudden whooping roar of 
 laughter. 
 
 "So am I," he said. 
 
 Mr. Pottle collapsed limply into the steamer-chair. 
 
 "What's your name ?" he asked in a weak voice. 
 
 "Bert Lee, head barber at the Schmidt House, Bucy- 
 rus, Ohio," said the big man. He slapped his fat, 
 bare chest. "Me Lee," he said, and laughed till the 
 jungle echoed. 
 
 "Did you read 'Green Isles, Brown Man-Eaters, 
 and a White Man' ?" asked Mr. Pottle, feebly. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'd like to meet the man who wrote it," said Mr. 
 Pottle.
 
 Ill: Mr. Pottle and Culture
 
 Ill: Mr. Pottle and Culture 
 
 OUT of the bathtub, rubicund and rotund, stepped 
 Mr. Ambrose Pottle. He anointed his hair 
 with sweet spirits of lilac and dusted his 
 anatomy with crushed rosebud talcum. He donned a 
 virgin union suit ; a pair of socks, silk where it showed ; 
 ultra low shoes; white-flannel trousers, warm from 
 the tailor's goose; a creamy silk shirt; an impeccable 
 blue coat ; a gala tie, perfect after five tyings ; and then 
 went forth into the spring-scented eventide to pay a 
 call on Mrs. Blossom Gallup. 
 
 He approached her new-art bungalow as one might 
 a shrine, with diffident steps and hesitant heart, but 
 with delicious tinglings radiating from his spinal cord. 
 Only the ballast of a three-pound box of Choc-O-late 
 Cutties under his arm kept him on earth. He was in 
 love. 
 
 To be in love for the first time at twenty is passably 
 thrilling; but to be in love for the first time at thirty- 
 six is exquisitely excruciating. 
 
 Mr. Pottle found Mrs. Gallup in her living room, a 
 basket of undarned stockings on her lap. With a pretty 
 show of confusion and many embarrassed murmur- 
 ings she thrust them behind the piano, he protesting 
 that this intimate domesticity delighted him. 
 
 She sank back with a little sigh into a gay-chintzed 
 wicker chair, and the rosy light from a tall piano lamp 
 
 Si
 
 52 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 fell gently on her high-piled golden hair, her surprised 
 blue eyes, and the ripe, generous outlines of her figure. 
 To Mr. Pottle she was a dream of loveliness, a poem, 
 an idyl. He would have given worlds, solar systems 
 to have been able to tell her so. But he couldn't. He 
 couldn't find the words, for, like many another sterling 
 character in the barbers' supply business, he was not 
 eloquent; he did not speak with the fluent ease, the mas- 
 terful flow that comes, one sees it often said, from 
 twenty-one minutes a day of communion with the great 
 minds of all time. His communings had been largely 
 with boss barbers ; with them he was cheery and chatty. 
 But Mrs. Gallup and her intellectual interests were a 
 world removed from things tonsorial ; in her presence he 
 was tongue-tied as an oyster. 
 
 Mr. Pottle's worshiping eye roved from the lady to 
 her library, and his good-hearted face showed tiny 
 furrows of despair ; an array of fat crisp books in shiny 
 new bindings stared at him: Twenty-one Minutes' 
 Daily Communion With the Master Minds; Capsule 
 Chats on Poets, Philosophers, Painters, Novelists, In- 
 terior Decorators ; Culture for the Busy Man, six vol- 
 umes, half calf ; How to Build Up a Background ; Talk 
 Tips; YOU, Too, Can Be Interesting; Sixty Square 
 Feet of Self-Culture and a score more. "Culture" 
 always that wretched word ! 
 
 "Are you fond of reading, Mr. Pottle?" asked Mrs. 
 Gallup, popping a Choc-O-late RTuttie into her demure 
 mouth with a daintiness almost ethereal. 
 
 "Love it," he answered promptly. 
 
 "Who is your favorite poet ?" 
 
 "S-Shakspere," he ventured desperately. 
 
 "He's mine, too." Mr. Pottle breathed easier.
 
 Mr. Pottle and Culture 53 
 
 "But," she added, "I think Longfellow is sweet, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Very sweet," agreed Mr. Pottle. 
 
 She smiled at him with a sad, shy confidence. 
 
 "He did not understand," she said. 
 
 She nodded her blonde head toward an enlarged 
 picture of the late Mr. Gallup, in the full regalia of 
 Past Grand Master of the Beneficent Order of Beavers. 
 
 "Didn't he care for er literature?" asked Mr. 
 Pottle. 
 
 "He despised it," she replied. "He was wrapped 
 up in the hay-and-feed business. He began to talk 
 about oats and chicken gravel on our honeymoon." 
 
 Mr. Pottle made a sympathetic noise. 
 
 "In our six years of married life," she went on, "he 
 talked of nothing but duck fodder, carload lots, trade 
 discounts, selling points, bran, turnover " 
 
 How futile, how inadequate seem mere words in some 
 situations. Mr. Pottle said nothing; timidly he took 
 her hand in his ; she did not draw it away. 
 
 "And he only shaved on Saturday nights," she said. 
 
 Mr. Pottle's free hand went to his own face, smooth 
 as steel and art could make it. 
 
 "Blossom," he began huskily, "have you ever thought 
 of marrying again ?" 
 
 "I have," she answered, blushing his hand on hers 
 tightened "and I haven't," she finished. 
 
 "Oh, Blossom " he began once more. 
 
 "If I do marry again," she interrupted, "it will be 
 a literary man." 
 
 "A literary man ?" His tone was aghast. "A writ- 
 ing fella?" 
 
 "Oh, not necessarily a writer," she said. "They 
 usually live in garrets, and I shouldn't like that. I
 
 54 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 mean a man who has read all sorts of books, and who 
 can talk about all sorts of things." 
 
 "Blossom" Mr. Pottle's voice was humble "I'm 
 not what you might call " 
 
 There was a sound of clumping feet on the porch 
 outside. Mrs. Gallup started up. 
 
 "Oh, that must be him now !" she cried. 
 
 "Him? Who?" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Deeley." 
 
 "Who's he?" queried Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Oh, I forgot to tell you! He said he might call 
 to-night. Such a nice man ! I met him over in Xenia 
 last week. Such a brilliant conversationalist. I know 
 you'll like each other." 
 
 She hastened to answer the doorbell; Mr. Pottle sat 
 moodily in his chair, not at all sure he'd like Mr. 
 Deeley. 
 
 The brilliant conversationalist burst into the room 
 breezily, confidently. He was slightly smaller than a 
 load of hay in his belted suit of ecru pongee ; he wore a 
 satisfied air and a pleased mustache. 
 
 "Meet Mr. Pottle," said Mrs. Gallup. 
 
 "What name?" asked Mr. Deeley. His voice was 
 high, sweet and loud ; his handshake was a knuckle pul- 
 verizer. 
 
 "Pottle," said the owner of that name. 
 
 "I beg pardon ?" said Mr. Deeley. 
 
 "Pottle," said Mr. Pottle more loudly. 
 
 "Sorry," said Mr. Deeley affably, "but it sounds just 
 like 'Pottle' to me." 
 
 "That's what it is," said Mr. Pottle with dignity. 
 
 Mr. Deeley laughed a loud tittering laugh. 
 
 "Oh, well," he remarked genially, "you can't help 
 that. We're born with our names, but" he bestowed
 
 Mr. Pottle and Culture 55 
 
 a dazzling smile on Mrs. Gallup "we pick our own 
 teeth." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Deeley," she cried, "you do say the most 
 ridiculously witty things !" 
 
 Mr. Pottle felt a concrete lump forming in his bosom. 
 
 Mr. Deeley addressed him tolerantly. "What line 
 are you in, Mr. Bottle ?" he asked. 
 
 "Barbers' supplies," admitted Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Ah, yes. Barbers' supplies. How interesting," said 
 Mr. Deeley. "Climbing the lather of success, eh ?" 
 
 Mr. Pottle did not join in the merriment. 
 
 "What line are you in?" he asked. He prayed that 
 Mr. Deeley would say "Shoes," for by a happy inspira- 
 tion he was prepared to counter with, "Ah, starting 
 at the bottom," and thus split honors with the Xenian. 
 
 But Mr. Deeley did not say "Shoes." He said "Lit- 
 erature." Mrs. Gallup beamed. 
 
 "Oh, are you, Mr. Deeley? How perfectly thrill- 
 ing !" she said rapturously. "I didn't know that." 
 
 "Oh, yes indeed," said Mr. Deeley. He changed the 
 subject by turning to Mr. Pottle. "By the way, Mr. 
 Poodle, are you interested in Abyssinia ?" he inquired. 
 
 "Why, no that is, not particularly," confessed Mr. 
 Pottle. He looked toward her who had quickened his 
 pulse, but her eyes were fastened on Mr. Deeley. 
 
 "I'm surprised to hear you say that," said Mr. Dee-' 
 ley. "A most interesting place, Abyssinia rather a 
 specialty of mine." 
 
 He threw one plump leg over the other and leaned 
 back comfortably. 
 
 "Abyssinia," he went on in his high voice, "is an 
 inland country situated by the Eed Sea between 5 and 
 15 north latitude, and 35 and 42 east longitude. 
 Its area is 351,019 square miles. Its population is
 
 56 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 4,501,477. It includes Shoa, Kaffa, Gallaland and 
 Central Somaliland. Its towns include Adis-Ababa, 
 Adowa, Adigrat, Aliu- Amber, Debra-Derhan and Bon- 
 ger. It produces coffee, salt and gold. The inhabit- 
 ants are morally very lax. Indeed, polygamy is a com- 
 mon practice, and " 
 
 "Polly Gammy?" cried Mrs. Gallup in imitation of 
 Mr. Deeley's pronunciation. "Oh, what is that?" 
 
 Mr. Deeley smiled blandly. 
 
 "I think," he said, "that it is hardly the sort of thing 
 I care to discuss in er mixed company." 
 
 He helped himself to three of the Choc-0-late Nut- 
 ties. 
 
 "That reminds me," he said, "of abbreviations." 
 
 "Abbreviations ?" Mrs. Gallup looked her interest. 
 
 "The world," observed Mr. Deeley, "is full of them. 
 For example, Mr. Puttie, do you know what E. W. D. 
 G. M. stands for?" 
 
 "No" answered Mr. Pottle glumly. 
 
 "It stands for Right Worshipful Deputy Grand Mas- 
 ter," informed Mr. Deeley. "Do you know what ~N. U. 
 T. stands for?" 
 
 "I know what it spells," said Mr. Pottle pointedly. 
 
 "You ought to," said Mr. Deeley, letting off his 
 laugh. "But we were discussing abbreviations. Since 
 you don't seem very well informed on this point" 
 he shot a smile at Mrs. Gallup "I'll tell you that 
 N. U. T. stands for National Union of Teachers, just 
 as M. F. H. stands for Master of Fox Hounds, and 
 M. I. C. E. stands for Member of Institute of Civil 
 Engineers, and A. O. H. stands for 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Deeley, how perfectly thrilling!" Mrs. 
 Gallup spoke; Mr. Pottle writhed; Mr. Deeley smiled 
 complacently, and went on.
 
 Mr. Pottle and Culture 57 
 
 "I could go on indefinitely; abbreviations are rather 
 a specialty of mine." 
 
 It developed that Mr. Deeley had many specialties. 
 
 "Are you aware," he asked, focusing his gaze on 
 Mr. Pottle, "that there is acid in this cherry ?" He held 
 aloft a candied cherry which he had deftly exhumed 
 from a Choc-O-late Nuttie. 
 
 "My goodness !" cried Mrs. Gallup. "Will it poison 
 us ? I've eaten six." 
 
 "My dear lady" there was a world of tender reas- 
 surance in Mr. Deeley's tone "only the uninformed 
 regard all acids as poisonous. There are acids and 
 acids. I've taken a rather special interest in them. 
 Let's see there are many kinds acetic, benzoic, citric, 
 gallic, lactic, malic, oxalic, palmitic, picric but why 
 go on?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Pottle; "why?" 
 
 "Do not interrupt, Mr. Pottle, if you please," said 
 Mrs. Gallup severely. "I'm sure what Mr. Deeley 
 says interests me immensely. Go on, Mr. Deeley." 
 
 "Thank you, Mrs. Gallup ; thank you," said the bril- 
 liant conversationalist. "But don't you think alligators 
 are more interesting than acids ?" 
 
 "You know about so many interesting things," she 
 smiled. Mr. Pottle's very soul began to curdle. 
 
 "Alligators are rather a specialty of mine," remarked 
 Mr. Deeley. "Fascinating little brutes, I think. You 
 know alligators, Mrs. Gallup ?" 
 
 "Stuffed," said the lady. 
 
 "Ah, to be sure," he said. "Perhaps, then, you do 
 not realize that the alligator is of the family Croco- 
 dilidoe and the order Eusuchia." 
 
 "No? You don't tell me?" Mrs. Gallup's tone was 
 almost reverent.
 
 58 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "Yes," continued Mr. Deeley, in the voice of a lec- 
 turer, "there are two kinds of alligators the Indus, 
 found in the Mississippi ; and the sinensis, in the Yang- 
 tse-Kiang. It differs from the caiman by having a bony 
 septum between its nostrils, and its ventral scutes are 
 thinly, if at all, ossified. It is carnivorous and pis- 
 civorous " 
 
 "How fascinating!" Mrs. Gallup had edged her 
 chair nearer the speaker. "What does that mean ?" 
 
 "It means," said Mr. Deeley, "that they eat corn 
 and pigs." 
 
 "The strong tail of the alligator," he flowed on easily, 
 "by a lashing movement assists it in swimming, during 
 which exercise it emits a loud bellowing." 
 
 "Do alligators bellow ?" asked Mr. Pottle with open 
 skepticism. 
 
 "I wish I had a dollar for every time I've heard them 
 bellow," answered Mr. Deeley pugnaciously. "Appar- 
 ently, Mr. Puddle, you are not familiar with the works 
 of Ahn." 
 
 Mr. Pottle maintained a blank black silence. 
 
 "Oh, who was he ?" put in Mrs. Gallup. 
 
 "Johann Franz Ahn, born 1Y96, died 1865, was an 
 educationalist," said Mr. Deeley in the voice of au- 
 thority. "His chief work, of which I am very fond, is 
 a volume entitled, 'Praktischer Lehrgang zur Schnellen 
 und Leichten Erlergung der Franzosischen Sprache.' 
 You've read it, perhaps, Mr. Pobble ?" 
 
 "No," said Mr. Pottle miserably. "I can't say I 
 ever have." He felt that his case grew worse with every 
 minute. He rose. "I guess I'd better be going," he 
 said. Mrs. Gallup made no attempt to detain him. 
 
 As he left her presence with slow steps and a heart 
 of lead he heard the high voice of Mr. Deeley saying,,
 
 Mr. Pottle and Culture 59 
 
 "Now, take alcohol : That's rather a specialty of mine. 
 Alcohol is a term applied to a group of organic sub- 
 stances, including methyl, ethyl, propyl, butyl, 
 amyl " 
 
 Back in his bachelor home the heartsick Mr. Pottle 
 flung his new tie into a corner, slammed his ultra shoes 
 on the floor, and tossed his trousers, heedless of rum- 
 pling, at a chair, sat down, head in hand, and thought of 
 a watery grave. 
 
 For that he could not hope to compete conversation- 
 ally or otherwise with the literary Deeley of Xenia was 
 all too apparent. Mrs. Gallup he had called her Blos- 
 som but a few brief hours ago said she wanted a lit- 
 erary man, and here was one literary to his manicured 
 finger tips. 
 
 He would not give up. Pottles are made of stern 
 stuff. Reason told him his cause was hopeless, but his 
 heart told him to fight to the last. He obeyed his heart. 
 
 Arraying himself in his finest, three nights later he 
 went to call on Mrs. Gallup, a five-pound box of Choc- 
 0-late JsTutties hugged nervously to his silk-shirted 
 bosom. 
 
 A maid admitted him. He heard in the living room 
 a familiar high masculine voice that made his fists 
 double up. It was saying, "Aristotle, the Greek phi- 
 losopher, was born at Stagira in 384 B. C. and " 
 
 Mr. Deeley paused to greet Mr. Pottle casually; 
 Mrs. Gallup took the candy with only conventional 
 words of appreciation, and turned at once to listen, dis- 
 ciple-like, to the discourses of the sage from Xenia, who 
 for the rest of the evening held the center of the stage, 
 absorbed every beam of the calcium, and dispensed fact 
 and fancy about a wide variety of things. He was a 
 man with many and curious specialties. Mrs. Gallup
 
 60 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 was a willing, Mr. Pottle a most unwilling listener. 
 
 At eleven Mr. Pottle went home, having uttered but 
 two words all evening, and those monosyllables. He left 
 Mr. Deeley holding forth in detail on the science of 
 astronomy, with side glances at astrology and ancestor- 
 worship. 
 
 Mr. Pottle's heart was too full for sleep. Indeed, 
 as he walked in the moonlight through Eastman Park, 
 it was with the partially formed intent of flinging him- 
 self in among the swans that slept on the artificial 
 lake. 
 
 His mind went back to the conversation of Mr. Deeley 
 in Mrs. Gallup's salon. She had been Blossom to him 
 once, but now this loudly learned stranger ! Mr. Pot- 
 tle stopped suddenly and sat down sharply on a park 
 bench. The topics on which Mr. Deeley had conversed 
 so fluently passed in an orderly array before his mind : 
 Apes, acoustics, angels, Apollo, adders, albumen, auks, 
 
 Alexander the Great, anarchy, adenoids He had 
 
 it ! A light, bright as the sun at noon, dawned on Mr. 
 Pottle. 
 
 Next morning when the public library opened, Mr. 
 Pottle was waiting at the door. 
 
 A feverish week rushed by in Mr. Pottle's life. 
 
 "We'll be having to charge that little man with the 
 bashful grin, rent or storage or something," said Miss 
 Merk, the seventh assistant librarian, to Miss Heaslip, 
 the ninth assistant librarian. 
 
 Sunday night firm determined steps took Mr. Pottle 
 to the bungalow of Mrs. Gallup. He heard Mr. Dee- 
 ley's sweet resonant voice in the living room. He smiled 
 grimly. 
 
 "I was just telling Blossom about a curious little 
 animal I take rather a special interest in," began the
 
 Mr. Pottle and Culture 61 
 
 man from Xenia, with a condescending nod to Mr. Pot- 
 tle. 
 
 Mr. Pottle checked the frown that had started to 
 gather at "Blossom," and asked politely, "And what is 
 the beast's name?" 
 
 "The aard-vark," replied Mr. Deeley. "He is " 
 
 "The Cape ant bear," finished Mr. Pottle, "or earth 
 pig. He lives on ants, burrows rapidly, and can be 
 easily killed by a smart blow on his sensitive snout." 
 
 Mr. Deeley stared; Mrs. Gallup stared; Mr. Pottle 
 sailed on serenely. 
 
 "A very interesting beast, the aard-vark. But to my 
 mind not so interesting as the long-nosed bandicoot. 
 You know the long-nosed bandicoot, I presume, Mr. 
 Deeley?" 
 
 "Well, not under that name," retorted the Xenia 
 sage. "You don't mean antelope ?" 
 
 "By no means," said Mr. Pottle with a superior smile. 
 "I said bandicoot B-a-n-d-i-coot. He is a Peramelidce 
 of the Marsupial family, meaning he carries his young 
 in a pouch like a kangaroo." 
 
 "How cute !" murmured Mrs. Gallup. 
 
 "There are bandicoots and bandicoots," pursued Mr. 
 Pottle; "the Peragale, or rabbit bandicoot; the Nasuta, 
 or long-nosed bandicoot ; the Mysouros, or saddle-backed 
 bandicoot; the Clioeropus, or pig-footed bandicoot; 
 and " 
 
 "Speaking of antelopes " Mr. Deeley interrupted 
 
 loudly. 
 
 "By all means!" said Mr. Pottle still more loudly. 
 "I've always taken a special interest in antelopes. Let's 
 see now the antelope family includes the gnus, elands, 
 hartebeests, addax, klipspringers, chamois, gazelles, 
 chirus, pallas, saigas, nilgais, koodoos pretty name
 
 62 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlppn 
 
 that, isn't it, Blossom the blessboks, duikerboks, bone- 
 boks, gemsboks, steinboks " 
 
 He saw that the bright blue eyes of the lady of his 
 dreams were fastened on him. He turned toward Mr. 
 Deeley. 
 
 "You're familiar with Bambara, aren't you?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I beg pardon?" The brilliant conversationalist 
 seemed a little confused. "Did you say Arabia? I 
 should say I do know Arabia. Population 5,078,441; 
 area " 
 
 "One million, two hundred and twenty-two thousand 
 square miles," finished Mr. Pottle. "No, I did not say 
 Arabia; I said Bambara. B-a-m-b-a-r-a." 
 
 "Oh, Bambara," said Mr. Deeley feebly; his assur- 
 ance seemed to crumple. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Gallup. "Do tell us about Bam- 
 bara ; such an intriguing name." 
 
 "It is a country in Western Africa," Mr. Pottle 
 tossed off grandly, "with a population of 2,004,737, 
 made up of Negroes, Mandingoes and Foulahs. Its 
 principal products are rice, maize, cotton, millet, yams, 
 pistachio nuts, French beans, watermelons, onions, to- 
 bacco, indigo, tamarinds, lotuses, sheep, horses, alliga- 
 tors, pelicans, turtles, egrets, teals and Barbary ducks." 
 
 "Oh, how interesting! Do go on, Mr. Pottle." It 
 was the voice of Mrs. Gallup; to Mr. Pottle it seemed 
 that there was a tender note in it. 
 
 "Bambara reminds me of baboons," he went on 
 loudly and rapidly, checking an incipient remark from 
 Mr. Deeley. "Baboons, you know, are Cynocephali or 
 dog-headed monkeys; the species includes drills, man- 
 drills, sphinx, chacma and hamadryas. Most baboons 
 have ischial callosities "
 
 Mr. Pottle and Culture 63 
 
 "Oh, what do they do with them?" cried wide-eyed 
 Mrs. Gallup. 
 
 "They er sit on them/' answered Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "I don't helieve it," Mr. Deeley challenged. 
 
 Mr. Pottle froze him with a look. "Evidently," he 
 said, "you, Mr. Deeley, are not familiar with the works 
 of Dr. Oskar Baumann, author of 'Afrikanische Skiz- 
 zen.' Are you ?" 
 
 "I've glanced through it," said Mr. Deeley. 
 
 "Then you don't remember what he says on Page 
 489 ?" 
 
 "Can't say that I do," mumbled Mr. Deeley. 
 
 "And you appear unfamiliar with the works of Hosea 
 Ballou." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Hosea Ballou." 
 
 "I doubt if there is such a person," said Mr. Deeley 
 stiffly. He did not appear to be enjoying himself. 
 
 "Oh, you do, do you?" retorted Mr. Pottle. "Sup- 
 pose you look him up in your encyclopedia if," he 
 added with crushing emphasis "if you have one. 
 You'll find that Hosea Ballou was born in 1771, 
 founded the Trumpet Magazine, the Universalist Ex- 
 positor, the Universalist Quarterly Keview, and wrote 
 Notes on the Parables." 
 
 "What has that to do with baboons ?" demanded Mr. 
 Deeley. 
 
 "A lot more than you think," was Mr. Pottle's cryptic 
 answer. He turned from the Xenian with a shrug of 
 dismissal, and smiled upon Mrs. Gallup. 
 
 "Don't you think, Blossom," he said, "that Babylonia 
 is a fascinating country ?" 
 
 "Oh, very," she smiled back at him. "I dote on 
 Babylonia."
 
 64 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "Perhaps," suggested Mr. Pottle, "Mr. Deeley will 
 be good enough to tell us all about it." 
 
 Mr. Deeley looked extremely uncomfortable. 
 
 "Babylonia let's see now well, it just happens that 
 Babylonia is not one of my specialties." 
 
 "Well, tell us about Baluchistan, then," suggested 
 Mr. Pottle, 
 
 "Yes, do!" echoed Mrs. Gallup. 
 
 "I've forgotten about it," answered the brilliant con- 
 versationalist sullenly. 
 
 "Well, tell us about Beethoven, then," pursued Mr. 
 Pottle relentlessly. 
 
 "I never was there," growled Mr. Deeley. "Say, 
 when does the next trolley leave for Xenia ?" 
 
 "In seven minutes," answered Mrs. Gallup coldly. 
 "You've just got time to catch it." 
 
 The bungalow's front door snapped at the heels of 
 the departing sage from Xenia, 
 
 Mr. Pottle hitched his chair close to the sofa where 
 Mrs. Gallup sat. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Pottle," she said softly, "do talk some 
 more ! I just love to hear you. You surprised me. I 
 didn't realize you were such a well-read man." 
 
 Mr. Pottle looked into her wide blue eyes. 
 
 "I'm not," he said. "I was bluffing." 
 
 "Bluffing?" 
 
 "Yes," he said; "and so was your friend from Xenia. 
 He's no more in the literary line than I am. His 
 job is selling a book called 'Hog Culture.' " 
 
 "But he talks so well " began Mrs. Gallup. 
 
 "Only about things that begin with 'A,' " said Mr. 
 Pottle. "He memorized everything in the encyclopedia 
 under 'A.' I simply went him one better. I memo- 
 rized all of 'A/ and all of 'B' too."
 
 Mr. Pottle and Culture 65 
 
 "Oh, the deceitful wretch!" 
 
 "I'm sorry, Blossom. Can you forgive me?" he 
 pleaded. "I did it because " 
 
 She interrupted him gently. 
 
 "I know," she said, smiling. "You did it for me. I 
 wasn't calling you a wretch, Ambrose." 
 
 He found himself on the sofa beside her, his arm 
 about her. 
 
 "What I really want," she confessed with a happy 
 sigh, "is a good strong man to take care of me." 
 
 "We'll go through the rest of the encyclopedia to- 
 gether, dearest," said Mr. Pottle.
 
 IV: Mr. Pottle and the One Man 
 Dog
 
 IV: Mr. Pottle and the One 
 Man Dog 
 
 AMBROSE! Ambrose dear!" The new Mrs. 
 
 jLM Pottle put down the book she was reading 
 Volume Dec to Erd of the encyclopedia. 
 
 "Yes, Blossom dear." Mr. Pottle's tone was fraught 
 with the tender solicitude of the recently wed. He 
 looked up from his book Volume Ode to Pay of the 
 encyclopedia. 
 
 "Ambrose, we must get a dog!" 
 
 "A dog, darling?" 
 
 His tone was still tender but a thought lacking in 
 warmth. His smile, he hoped, conveyed the impression 
 that while he utterly approved of Blossom, herself, per- 
 sonally, her current idea struck no responsive chord in 
 his bosom. 
 
 "Yes, a dog." 
 
 She sighed as she gazed at a large framed steel- 
 engraving of Landseer's St. Bernards that occupied a 
 space on the wall until recently tenanted by a crayon 
 enlargement of her first husband in his lodge regalia. 
 
 "Such noble creatures," she sighed. "So intelligent 
 And so loyal." 
 
 "In the books they are," murmured Mr. Pottla 
 
 "Oh, Ambrose," she protested with a pout. "How 
 can you say such a thing ? Just look at their big eyes, 
 BO full of soul. "What magnificent animals! So full 
 
 of understanding and fidelity and and " 
 
 69
 
 70 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "Fleas ?" suggested Mr. Pottle. 
 
 Her glance was glacial. 
 
 "Ambrose, you are positively cruel," she said, tiny, 
 injured tears gathering in her wide blue eyes. He was 
 instantly penitent. 
 
 "Forgive me, dear," he begged. "I forgot. In the 
 books they don't have 'em, do they ? You see, precious, 
 I don't take as much stock in books as I used to. I've 
 been fooled so often." 
 
 "They're lovely books," said Mrs. Pottle, somewhat 
 mollified. "You said yourself that you adore dog 
 stories." 
 
 "Sure I do, honey," said Mr. Pottle, "but a man 
 can like stories about elephants without wanting to own 
 one, can't he ?" 
 
 "A dog is not an elephant, Ambrose." 
 
 He could not deny it. 
 
 "Don't you remember," she pursued, rapturously, 
 "that lovely book, 'Hero, the Collie Beautiful,' where 
 a kiddie finds a puppy in an ash barrel, and takes care 
 of it, and later the collie grows up and rescues the 
 kiddie from a fire; or was that the book where the 
 collie flew at the throat of the man who came to murder 
 the kiddie's father, and the father broke down and put 
 his arms around the collie's neck because he had kicked 
 the collie once and the collie used to follow him around 
 with big, hurt eyes and yet when he was in danger Hero 
 saved him because collies are so sensitive and so loyal ?" 
 
 "Uh huh," assented Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "And that story we read, 'Almost Human'," she rip- 
 pled on fluidly, "about the kiddie who was lost in a 
 snow-storm in the mountains and the brave St. Bernard 
 that came along with bottles of spirits around its neck 
 St. Bernards always carry them and "
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog 71 
 
 "Do the bottles come with the dogs?" asked Mr. 
 Pottle, hopefully. 
 
 She elevated disapproving eyebrows. 
 
 "Ambrose," she said, sternly, "don't always be mak- 
 ing jests about alcohol. It's so common. You know 
 when I married you, you promised never even to think 
 of it again." 
 
 "Yes, Blossom," said Mr. Pottle, meekly. 
 
 She beamed. 
 
 "Well, dear, what kind of a dog shall we get?" she 
 asked briskly. He felt that all was lost. 
 
 "There are dogs and dogs," he said moodily. "And 
 I don't know anything about any of them." 
 
 "I'll read what it says here," she said. Mrs. Pottle 
 was pursuing culture through the encyclopedia, and felt 
 that she would overtake it on almost any page now. 
 
 "Dog," she read, "is the English generic term for the 
 quadruped of the domesticated variety of cams." 
 
 "Well, I'll be darned !" exclaimed her husband. "Is 
 that a fact?" 
 
 "Be serious, Ambrose, please. The choice of a dog 
 is no jesting matter," she rebuked him, and then read 
 on, "In the Old and New Testaments the dog is spoken 
 of almost with abhorrence; indeed, it ranks among the 
 unclean beasts " 
 
 "There, Blossom," cried Mr. Pottle, clutching at a 
 straw, "what did I tell you ? Would you fly in the face 
 of the Good Book ?" 
 
 She did not deign to reply verbally; she looked re- 
 frigerators at him. 
 
 "The Egyptians, on the other hand," she read, a 
 note of triumph in her voice, "venerated the dog, and 
 when a dog died they shaved their heads as a badge of 
 mournii
 
 72 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "The Egyptians did, hey?" remarked Mr. Pottle, 
 open disgust on his apple of face. "Shaved their own 
 heads, did they? No wonder they all turned to mum- 
 mies. You can't tell me it's safe for a man to shave 
 his own head; there ought to be a law against it." 
 
 Mr. Pottle was in the barber business. 
 
 Unheedful of this digression, Mrs. Pottle read on. 
 
 "There are many sorts of dogs. I'll read the list so 
 we can pick out ours. You needn't look cranky, Am- 
 brose; we're going to have one. Let me see. Ah, yes. 
 'There are Great Danes, mastiffs, collies, dalmatians, 
 chows, New Foundlands, poodles, setters, pointers, re- 
 trievers Labrador and flat-coated spaniels, beagles, 
 dachshunds I'll admit they are rather nasty; they're 
 the only sort of dog I can't bear whippets, otter- 
 hounds, terriers, including Scotch, Irish, Welsh, Skye 
 and fox, and St. Bernards.' St. Bernards, it says, are 
 the largest; 'their ears are small and their foreheads 
 white and dome-shaped, giving them the well known 
 expression of benignity and intelligence.' Oh, Am- 
 brose" her eyes were full of dreams "Oh, Ambrose, 
 wouldn't it be just too wonderful for words to have a 
 great, big, beautiful dog like that?" 
 
 "There isn't any too much room in this bungalow as 
 it is," demurred Mr. Pottle. "Better get a chow." 
 
 "You don't seem to realize, Ambrose Pottle," the lady 
 replied with some severity, "that what I want a dog for 
 is protection." 
 
 "Protection, my angel ? Can't I protect you ?" 
 
 "Not when you're away on the road selling your 
 shaving cream. Then's when I need some big, loyal 
 creature to protect me." 
 
 "From what?" 
 
 "Well, burglars."
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog 73 
 
 "Why should they come here ?" 
 
 "How about all our wedding silver ? And then kid- 
 napers might come." 
 
 "Kidnapers ? What could they kidnap ?" 
 
 "Me," said Mrs. Pottle. "How would you like to 
 come home from Zanesville or Bucyrus some day and 
 find me gone, Ambrose?" Her lip quivered at the 
 thought. 
 
 To Mr. Pottle, privately, this contingency seemed 
 remote. His bride was not the sort of woman one 
 might kidnap easily. She was a plentiful lady of a 
 well developed maturity, whose clothes did not conceal 
 her heroic mold, albeit they fitted her as tightly as if 
 her modiste were a taxidermist. However, not for 
 worlds would he have voiced this sacrilegious thought; 
 he was in love; he preferred that she should think of 
 herself as infinitely clinging and helpless; he fancied 
 the role of sturdy oak. 
 
 "All right, Blossom," he gave in, patting her cheek. 
 "If my angel wants a dog, she shall have one. That 
 reminds me, Charley Meacham, the boss barber of the 
 Ohio House, has a nice litter. He offered me one or 
 two or three if I wanted them. The mother is as fine a 
 looking spotted coach dog as ever you laid an eye on and 
 the pups " 
 
 "What was the father ?" demanded Mrs. Pottle. 
 
 "How should I know? There's a black pup, and a 
 spotted pup, and a yellow pup, and a white pup and 
 a " 
 
 Mrs. Pottle sniffed. 
 
 "No mungles for me," she stated, flatly, "I hate mun- 
 gles. I want a thoroughbred, or nothing. One with a 
 pedigree, like that adorably handsome creature there."
 
 74 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 She nodded toward the engraving of 'the giant St. 
 Bernards. 
 
 "But, darling," objected Mr. Pottle, "pedigreed'pups 
 cost money. A dog can bark and bite whether he has a 
 family tree or not, can't he? We can't afford one of 
 these fancy, blue-blooded ones. I've got notes at the 
 bank right now I don't know how the dooce I'm going 
 to pay. My shaving stick needs capital. I can't be 
 blowing in hard-earned dough on pups." 
 
 "Oh, Ambrose, I actually believe you don't' care 
 whether I'm kidnaped or not!" his wife be- 
 gan, a catch in her voice. A heart of wrought iron 
 would have been melted by the pathos of her tone and 
 face. 
 
 "There, there, honey," said Mr. Pottle, hastily, with 
 an appropriate amatory gesture, "you shall have your 
 pup. But remember this, Blossom Pottle. He's 
 yours. You are to have all the responsibility and care 
 of him." 
 
 "Oh, Ambrose, you're so good to me," she breathed. 
 
 The next evening when Mr. Pottle came home he ol> 
 served something brown and fuzzy nestling in his Sun- 
 day velour hat. With a smothered exclamation of the 
 kind that has no place in a romance, he dumped the 
 thing out and saw it waddle away on unsteady legs, 
 leaving him sadly contemplating the strawberry silk 
 lining of his best hat. 
 
 "Isn't he a love? Isn't he just too sweet," cried 
 Mrs. Pottle, emerging from the living room and catch- 
 ing the object up in her arms. "Come to mama, 
 sweetie-pie. Did the nassy man frighten my precious 
 Pershing?" 
 
 "Your precious what ?"
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog- 75 
 
 "Pershing. I named him for a brave man and a 
 fighter. I just know he'll be worthy of it, when he 
 grows'up, and starts to protect me." 
 
 "In how many years?" inquired Mr. Pottle, cyni- 
 cally. 
 
 "The man said he'd be big enough to be a watch 
 dog in a very few months ; they grow so fast." 
 
 "What man said this ?" 
 
 "The kennel man. I bought Pershing at the Laddie- 
 brook-Sunshine Kennels to-day." She paused to kiss 
 the pink muzzle of the little animal ; Mr. Pottle winced 
 at this but she noted it not, and rushed on. 
 
 "Such an interesting place, Ambrose. Nothing but 
 dogs and dogs and dogs. All kinds, too. They even 
 had one mean, sneaky-looking dachshund there; I just 
 couldn't trust a dog like that. Ugh! Well, I looked 
 at all the dogs. The minute I saw Pershing I knew 
 he was my dog. His little eyes looked up at me as much 
 as to say, 'I'll be yours, mistress, faithful to the death,' 
 and he poit out the dearest little pink tongue and licked 
 my hand. The kennel man said, 'Now ain't that won- 
 derful, lady, the way he's taken to you? Usually he 
 growls at strangers. He's a one man dog, all right, all 
 right'." 
 
 "A one man dog?" said Mr. Pottle, blankly. 
 
 "Yes. One that loves his owner, and nobody else. 
 That's just the kind I want." 
 
 "Where do I come in ?" inquired Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Oh, he'll learn to tolerate you, I guess," she reas- 
 sured him. Then she rippled on, "I just had to have 
 him then. He was one of five, but he already had a 
 little personality all his own, although he's only three 
 weeks old. I saw his mother a magnificent creature, 
 Ambrose, big as a Shetland pony and twice as shaggy,
 
 76 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 and with the most wonderful appealing eyes, that looked 
 at me as if it stabbed her to the heart to have her little 
 ones taken from her. And such a pedigree ! It covers 
 pages. Her name is Gloria Audacious Indomitable; 
 the Audacious Indomitables are a very celebrated fam- 
 ily of St. Bernards, the kennel man said." 
 
 "What about his father?" queried Mr. Pottle, poking 
 the ball of pup with his finger. 
 
 "I didn't see him," admitted Mrs. Pottle. "I believe 
 they are not living together now." 
 
 She snuggled the pup to her capacious bosom. 
 
 "So," she said, "it's whole name is Pershing Auda- 
 cious Indomitable, isn't it, tweetums ?" 
 
 "It's a swell name," admitted Mr. Pottle. "Er 
 Blossom dear, how much did he cost ?" 
 
 She brought out the reply quickly, almost timidly. 
 
 "Fifty dollars." 
 
 his voice stuck in his larynx. "Great 
 
 Caesar's Ghost!" 
 
 "But think of his pedigree," cried his wifa 
 
 All he could say was : 
 
 "Great Caesar's Ghost! Fifty dollars! Great 
 Csesar's Ghost!" 
 
 "Why, we can exhibit him at bench shows," she 
 argued, "and win hundreds of dollars in prizes. And 
 his pups will be worth fifty dollars per pup easily, with 
 that pedigree." 
 
 "Great Caesar's Ghost," said Mr. Pottle, despon- 
 dently. "Fifty dollars ! And the shaving stick business 
 all geflooey." 
 
 "He'll be worth a thousand to me as a protector," 
 she declared, defiantly. "You wait and see, Ambrose 
 Pottle. Wait till he grows up to be a great, big, hand- 
 some, intelligent dog, winning prizes and protecting
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog- 77 
 
 jour wife. He'll be the best investment we ever made, 
 you mark my words." 
 
 Had Pershing encountered Mr. Pottle's eye at that 
 moment the marrow of his small canine bones would 
 have congealed. 
 
 "All right, Blossom," said her spouse, gloomily. 
 "He's yours. You take care of him. I wonder, I just 
 wonder, that's alL" 
 
 "What do you wonder, Ambrose?" 
 
 "If they'll let him visit us when we're in the poor 
 house." 
 
 To this his wife remarked, "Fiddlesticks," and began 
 to feed Pershing from a nursing bottle. 
 
 "Grade A milk, I suppose," groaned Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Cream," she corrected, calmly. "Pershing is no 
 mungle. Remember that, Ambrose Pottle," 
 
 It was a nippy, frosty night, and Mr. Pottle, after 
 much chattering of teeth, had succeeded in getting a 
 place warm in the family bed, and was floating peace- 
 fully into a dream in which he got a contract for ten 
 carload lots of Pottle's Edible Shaving Cream. "Just 
 Lather, Shave and Lick. That? s AIL" when his wife's 
 soft knuckles prodded him in the ribs. 
 
 "Ambrose, Ambrose, do wake up. Do you hear 
 that?" 
 
 He sleepily opened a protesting eye. He heard 
 faint, plaintive, peeping sounds somewhere in the house, 
 
 "It's that wretched hound," he said crossly. 
 
 "Pershing is not a hound, Ambrose Pottle." 
 
 "Oh, all right, Blossom, AT.T. RIGHT. If s that noble 
 creature, G'night." 
 
 But the knuckles tattooed on his drowsy ribs again. 
 
 "Ambrose, he's lonesome."
 
 78 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 ~No response. 
 
 "Ambrose, little Pershing is lonesome." 
 
 "Well, suppose you go and sing him to sleep." 
 
 "Ambrose ! And us married only a month !" 
 
 Mr. Pottle sat up in bed. 
 
 "Is he your pup," he demanded, oratorically, "or is 
 he not your pup, Mrs. Pottle ? And anyhow, why pam- 
 per him ? He's all right. Didn't I walk six blocks in 
 the cold to a grocery store to get a box for his bed? 
 Didn't you line it with some of my best towels ? Isn't 
 it under a nice, warm stove? What more can a 
 hound " 
 
 "Ambrose!" 
 
 " noble creature, expect ?" 
 
 He dived into his pillow as if it were oblivion. 
 
 "Ambrose," said his wife, loudly and firmly, "Persh- 
 ing is lonesome. Thoroughbreds have such sensitive 
 natures. If he thought we were lying here neglecting 
 him, it wouldn't surprise me a bit if he died of a broken 
 heart before morning. A pedigreed dog like Pershing 
 has the feelings of a delicate child." 
 
 Muffled words came from the Pottle pillow. 
 
 "Well, whose one man clog is he ?" 
 
 Mrs. Pottle began to sniffle audibly. 
 
 "I d-don't believe you'd c-care if I got up and c-caught 
 my d-death of c-cold," she said. "You know how easily 
 I c-chill, too. But I c-can't leave that poor motherless 
 little fellow cry his heart out in that big, dark, lonely 
 kitchen. I'll just have to get up and 
 
 She stirred around as if she really intended to. The 
 chivalrous Mr. Pottle heaved up from his pillow like 
 an irate grampus from the depths of a tank. 
 
 "I'll go," he grumbled, fumbling around with goose- 
 fleshed limbs for his chilly slippers. "Shall I toll
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog- 79 
 
 him about Little Eed Riding Hood or Goody Two 
 Shoes?" 
 
 "Ambrose, if you speak roughly to Pershing, I shall 
 never forgive you. And he won't either. No. Bring 
 him in here." 
 
 "Here?" His tone was aghast; barbers are aseptic 
 souls. 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 "In bed?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Oh, Blossom!" 
 
 "We can't leave him in the cold, can we ?" 
 
 "But, Blossom, suppose he's suppose he has " 
 
 The hiatus was expressive. 
 
 "He hasn't." Her voice was one of indignant denial. 
 "Pedigreed dogs don't. Why, the kennels were im- 
 maculate." 
 
 "Humph," said Mr. Pottle dubiously. He strode 
 into the kitchen and returned with Pershing in his 
 arms ; he plumped the small, bushy, whining animal in 
 bed beside his wife. 
 
 "I suppose, Mrs. Pottle," he said, "that you are 
 prepared to take the consequences." 
 
 She stroked the squirming thing, which emitted small, 
 protesting bleats. 
 
 "Don't you mind the nassy man, sweetie-pie," she 
 cooed. "Casting 'spersions on poor lil' lonesome dog- 
 gie." Then, to her husband, "Ambrose, how can you 
 suggest such a thing ? Don't stand there in the cold." 
 
 "Nevertheless," said Mr. Pottle, oracularly, as he 
 prepared to seek slumber at a point as remote as pos- 
 sible in the bed from Pershing, "I'll bet a dollar to a 
 doughnut that I'm right." 
 
 Mr. Pottle won his doughnut At three o'clock in
 
 8o The Sin of Monsieur Petti pon 
 
 the morning, with the mercury flirting with the freez- 
 ing mark, he suddenly surged up from his pillow, made 
 twitching motions with limbs and shoulders, and stalked 
 out into the living room, where he finished the night on 
 a hard-boiled army cot, used for guests. 
 
 As the days hurried by, he had to admit that the 
 kennel man's predictions about the rapid growth of the 
 animal seemed likely of fulfillment. In a very few 
 weeks the offspring of Gloria Audacious Indomitable 
 had attained prodigous proportions. 
 
 "But, Blossom," said Mr. Pottle, eyeing the animal 
 as it gnawed industriously at the golden oak legs of the 
 player piano, "isn't he growing in a sort of funny 
 way?" 
 
 "Funny way, Ambrose?" 
 
 "Yes, dear ; funny way. Look at his legs." 
 
 She contemplated those members. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "They're kinda brief, aren't they, Blossom ?" 
 
 "Naturally. He's no giraffe, Ambrose. Young thor- 
 oughbreds have small legs. Just like babies." 
 
 "But he seems so sorta long in proportion to his legs," 
 said Mr. Pottle, critically. "He gets to look more like 
 an overgrown caterpillar every day." 
 
 "You said yourself, Ambrose, that you know nothing 
 about dogs," his wife reminded him. "The legs always 
 develop last. Give Pershing a chance to get his growth ; 
 then you'll see." 
 
 Mr. Pottle shrugged, unconvinced. 
 
 "It's time to take Pershing out for his airing," Mrs. 
 Pottle observed. 
 
 A fretwork of displeasure appeared on the normally 
 bland brow of Mr. Pottle.
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog- 81 
 
 "Lotta good that does," he grunted. "Besides, I'm 
 getting tired of leading him around on a string. He's 
 so darn funny looking; the boys are beginning to kid me 
 about him." 
 
 "Do you want me to go out," asked Mrs. Pottle, 
 "with this heavy cold ?" 
 
 "Oh, all right," said Mr. Pottle blackly. 
 
 "Now, Pershing precious, let mama put on your lil' 
 blanket so you can go for a nice lil' walk with your 
 papa." 
 
 "I'm not his papa," growled Mr. Pottle, rebel- 
 liously. "I'm no relation of his." 
 
 However, the neighbors along Garden Avenue pres- 
 ently spied a short, rotund man, progressing with re- 
 luctant step along the street, in his hand a leathern leash 
 at the end of which ambled a pup whose physique was 
 the occasion of some discussion among the dog-fanciers 
 who beheld it. 
 
 "Blossom," said Mr. Pottle it was after Pershing 
 had outgrown two boxes and a large wash-basket "you 
 may say what you like but that dog of yours looks funny 
 to me." 
 
 "How can you say that ?" she retorted. "Just look 
 at that long heavy coat. Look at that big, handsome 
 head. Look at those knowing eyes, as if he understood 
 every word we're saying." 
 
 "But his legs, Blossom, his legs !" 
 
 "They are a wee, tiny bit short," she confessed. "But 
 he's still in his infancy. Perhaps we don't feed him 
 often enough." 
 
 "JSTo ?" said Mr. Pottle with a rising inflection which 
 had the perfume of sarcasm about it, "No ? I suppose
 
 82 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 seven times a day, including once in the middle of the 
 night isn't often enough ?" 
 
 "Honestly, Ambrose, you'd think you were an early 
 Christian martyr being devoured by tigers to hear all 
 the fuss you make about getting up just once for five or 
 ten minutes in the night to feed poor, hungry little 
 Pershing." 
 
 "It hardly seems worth it," remarked Mr. Pottle, 
 "with him turning out this way." 
 
 "What way ?" 
 
 "Bandy-legged." 
 
 "St. Bernards," she said with dignity, "do not run 
 to legs. Mungles may be all leggy, but not full blooded 
 St. Bernards. He's a baby, remember that, Ambrose 
 Pottle." 
 
 "He eats more than a full grown farm hand," said 
 Mr. Pottle. "And steak at fifty cents a pound !" 
 
 "You can't bring up a delicate dog like Pershing 
 on liver," said Mrs. Pottle, crushingly. "Now run 
 along, Ambrose, and take him for a good airing, while 
 I get his evening broth ready." 
 
 "They extended that note of mine at the bank, Blos- 
 som," said Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Don't let him eat out of ash cans, and don't let him 
 associate with mungles," said Mrs. Pottle. 
 
 Mr. Pottle skulked along side-streets, now dragging, 
 now being dragged by the muscular Pershing. It was 
 Mr. Pottle's idea to escape the attention of his friends, 
 of whom there were many in Granville, and who, of 
 late, had shown a disposition to make remarks about 
 his evening promenade that irked his proud spirit. But, 
 as he rounded the corner of Cottage Row, he encoun- 
 tered Charlie Meacham, tonsorialist, dog-fancier, wit.
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog 83 
 
 "Evening, Ambrose." 
 
 "Evening, Charlie." 
 
 Mr. Pottle tried to ignore Pershing, to pretend that 
 there was no connection between them, but Pershing 
 reared up on stumpy hind legs and sought to embrace 
 Mr. Meacham. 
 
 "Where'd you get the pt>och?" inquired Mr. 
 Meacham, with some interest. 
 
 "Wife's," said Mr. Pottle, briefly. 
 
 "Where'd she find it?" 
 
 "Didn't find him. Bought him at Laddiebrook-Sun- 
 shine Kennels." 
 
 "Oho," whistled Mr. Meacham. 
 
 "Pedigreed," confided Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "You don't tell me!" 
 
 "Yep. Name's Pershing." 
 
 "Name's what?" 
 
 "Pershing. In honor of the great general." 
 
 Mr. Meacham leaned against a convenient lamp- 
 post ; he seemed of a sudden overcome by some powerful 
 emotion. 
 
 "What's the joke ?" asked Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Pershing!" Mr. Meacham was just able to get out. 
 "Oh, me, oh my. That's rich. That's a scream." 
 
 "Pershing," said Mr. Pottle, stoutly, "Audacious In- 
 domitable. You ought to see his pedigree." 
 
 "I'd like to," said Mr. Meacham, "I certainly would 
 like to." 
 
 He was studying the architecture of Pershing with 
 the cool appraising eye of the expert. His eye rested 
 for a long time on the short legs and long body. 
 
 "Pottle," he said, thoughtfully, "haven't they got a 
 dachshund up at those there kennels ?" 
 
 Mr. Pottle knitted perplexed brows.
 
 84 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "I believe they have," he said. "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing," replied Mr. Meacham, struggling to 
 keep a grip on his emotions which threatened to choke 
 him, "Oh, nothing." And-he went off, with Mr. Pottle 
 staring at his shoulder blades which titillated oddly 
 as Mr. Meacham walked. 
 
 Mr. Pottle, after a series of tugs-of-war, got his 
 charge home. A worry wormed its way into his brain 
 like an auger into a pine plank. The worry became 
 a suspicion. The suspicion became a horrid certainty. 
 Gallant man that he was, and lover, he did not mention 
 it to Blossom. 
 
 But after that the evening excursion with Pershing 
 became his cross and his wormwood. He pleaded to 
 be allowed to take Pershing out after dark; Blossom 
 wouldn't hear of it; the night air might injure his 
 pedigreed lungs. In vain did he offer to hire a man 
 at no matter what cost to take his place as companion 
 to the creature which daily grew more pronounced and 
 remarkable as to shape. Blossom declared that she 
 would entrust no stranger with her dog ; a Pottle, and a 
 Pottle only, could escort him. The nightly pilgrimage 
 became almost unendurable after a total stranger, said 
 to be a Dubuque traveling man, stopped Mr. Pottle on 
 the street one evening and asked, gravely: 
 
 "I beg pardon, sir, but isn't that animal a peagle ?" 
 
 "He is not a beagle," said Mr. Pottle, shortly. 
 
 "I didn't say 'beagle'," the stranger smiled, "I said 
 'peagle' p-e-a-g-1-e." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "A peagle," answered the stranger, "is a cross be- 
 tween a pony and a beagle." It took three men to 
 stop the fight
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog 85 
 
 Pershing, as Mr. Pottle perceived all too plainly, was 
 growing more curious and ludicrous to the eye every- 
 day. He had the enormous head, the heavy body, the 
 shaggy coat, and the benign, intellectual face of his 
 mother; but alas, he had the bandy, caster-like legs of 
 his paitative father. He was an anti-climax. Every- 
 body in Granville, save Blossom alone, seemed to realize 
 the stark, the awful truth about Pershing's ancestry. 
 Even he seemed to realize his own sad state; he wore 
 a shamefaced look as he trotted by the side of Ambrose 
 Pottle; Mr. Pottle's own features grew hang-dog. De- 
 spite her spouse's hints, Blossom never lost faith in 
 Pershing. 
 
 "Just you wait, Ambrose," she said. "One of these 
 fine days you'll wake up and find he has developed a 
 full grown set of limbs." 
 
 "Like a tadpole, I suppose," he said grimly. 
 
 "Joke all you like, Ambrose. But mark my words: 
 you'll be proud of Pershing. Just look at him there, 
 taking in every word we say. Why, already he can do 
 everything but speak. I just know I could count on 
 him if I was in danger from burglars or kidnapers 
 or anything. I'll feel so much safer with him 
 in the house when you take your trip East next 
 month." 
 
 "The burglar that came on him in the dark would be 
 scared to death," mumbled Mr. Pottle. She ignored 
 this aside. 
 
 "Now, Ambrose," she said, "take the comb and give 
 him a good combing. I may enter him in a bench show 
 next month." 
 
 "You ought to," remarked Mr. Pottle, as he led 
 Pershing away, "he looks like a bench."
 
 86 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 It was with a distinct sense of escape that Mr. Pottle 
 some weeks later took a train for Washington where 
 he hoped to have patented and trade-marked his edible 
 shaving cream, a discovery he confidently expected to 
 make his fortune. 
 
 "Good-by, Ambrose," said Mrs. Pottle. "I'll write 
 you every day how Pershing is getting along. At the 
 rate he's growing you won't know him when you come 
 back. You needn't worry about me. My one man dog 
 will guard me, won't you, sweetie-pie? There now, 
 give your paw to Papa Pottle." 
 
 "I'm not his papa, I tell you," cried Mr. Pottle with 
 some passion as he grabbed up his suit-case and 
 crunched down the gravel path. 
 
 In all, his business in Washington kept him away 
 from his home for twenty-four days. While he missed 
 the society of Blossom, somehow he experienced a deli- 
 cious feeling of freedom from care, shame and respon- 
 sibility as he took his evening stroll about the capital. 
 His trip was a success ; the patent was secured, the trade- 
 mark duly registered. The patent lawyer, as he pock- 
 eted his fee, perhaps to salve his conscience for its size, 
 produced from behind a law book a bottle of an ancient 
 and once honorable fluid and pressed it on Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "I promised the wife I'd stay on the sprinkling 
 cart," demurred Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Oh, take it along," urged the patent lawyer. "You 
 may need it for a cold one of these days." 
 
 It occurred to Mr. Pottle that if there is one place 
 in the world a man may catch his death of cold it is on 
 a draughty railroad train, and wouldn't it be foolish of 
 him with a fortune in his grasp, so to speak, not to take 
 every precaution against a possibly fatal illness? Be- 
 sides he knew that Blossom would never permit him to
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog 87 
 
 bring the bottle into their home. He preserved it in the 
 only way possible under the circumstances. When the 
 train reached Granville just after midnight, Mr. Pottle 
 skipped blithely from the car, made a sweeping bow to 
 a milk can, cocked his derby over his eye, which was 
 uncommonly bright and playful, and started for home 
 with the meticulous but precarious step of the tight rope! 
 walker. 
 
 It was his plan, carefully conceived, to steal softly 
 as thistledown falling on velvet, into his bungalow with- 
 out waking the sleeping Blossom, to spend the night on 
 the guest cot, to spring up, fresh as a dewy daisy in 
 the morn, and wake his wife with a smiling and coher- 
 ent account of his trip. 
 
 Very quietly he tip-toed along the lawn leading to 
 his front door, his latch key out and ready. But as he 
 was about to place a noiseless foot on his porch, some- 
 thing vast, low and dark barred his path, and a bass and 
 hostile growl brought him to an abrupt halt. 
 
 "Well, well, well, if it isn't lil' Pershin'," said Mr. 
 Pottle, pleasantly, but remembering to pitch his voice 
 in a low key. "Waiting on the porch to welcome Papa 
 Pottle home ! Nice lil' Pershin'." 
 
 "Grrrrrrr Grrrrrrrrrr Grrrrrrr rrrrrrrrr," replied 
 Pershing. He continued to bar the path, to growl 
 ominously, to bare strong white teeth in the moonlight. 
 In Mr. Pottle's absence he had grown enormously in 
 head and body ; but not in leg. 
 
 "Pershin'," said Mr. Pottle, plaintively, "can it be 
 that you have forgotten Papa Pottle ? Have you for- 
 gotten nice, kind mans that took you for pretty walks ? 
 That fed you pretty steaks? That gave you pretty 
 baths ? Nice lil' Pershin', nice lil'- 
 
 Mr. Pottle reached down to pat the shaggy head
 
 88 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 and drew back his hand with something that would pass 
 as a curse in any language ; Pershing had given his fin- 
 ger a whole-hearted nip. 
 
 "You low-down, underslung brute," rasped Mr. Pot- 
 tle. "Get out of my way or I'll kick the pedigree outa 
 you." 
 
 Pershing's growl grew louder and more menacing. 
 Mr. Pottle hesitated; he feared Blossom more than 
 Pershing. He tried cajolery. 
 
 "Come, come, nice lil' St. Bernard. Great, big, 
 noble St. Bernard. Come for lil' walk with Papa Pot- 
 tle. Nice Pershin', nice Pershin', you dirty cur ' 
 
 This last remark was due to the animal's earnest but 
 only partially successful effort, to fasten its teeth in Mr. 
 Pottle's calf. Pershing gave out a sharp, disappointed 
 yelp. 
 
 A white, shrouded figure appeared at the window. 
 
 "Burglar, go away," it said, shrilly, "or I'll sic my 
 savage St. Bernard on you." 
 
 "He's already sicced, Blottom," said a doleful voice. 
 "It's me, Blottom. Your Ambrose." 
 
 "Why, Ambrose ! . How queer your voice sounds ! 
 Why don't you come in." 
 
 "Pershing won't let me," cried Mr. Pottle. "Call 
 him in." 
 
 "He won't come," she wailed, "and I'm afraid of him 
 at night like this." 
 
 "Coax him in." 
 
 "He won't coax." 
 
 "Bribe him with food." 
 
 "You can't bribe a thoroughbred." 
 
 Mr. Pottle put his hands on his hips, and standing in 
 the exact center of his lawn, raised a high, sardonic 
 voice.
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog- 89 
 
 "Oh, yes/ 7 he said, "oh, dear me, yes, I'll live to be 
 proud of Peishing. Oh, yes indeed. I'll live to love 
 the noble creature. I'll be glad I got up on cold nights 
 to pour warm milk into his dear little stummick. Oh, 
 yes. Oh, yes, he'll be worth thousands to me. Here 
 I go down to Washington, and work my head to the 
 bone to keep a roof over us, and when I get back I 
 can't get under it. If you ask me, Mrs. Blottom Pottle 
 nee Gallup, if you ask me, that precious animal of yours, 
 that noble creature is the muttiest mutt that ever " 
 
 "Ambrose !" Her edged voice clipped his oration 
 short. "You've been drinking!" 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Pottle in a bellowing voice, "I 
 guess a hound like that is enough to drive a person 
 to drink. G'night, Blottom. I'm going to sleep in the 
 flower bed. Frozen petunias will be my pillow. When 
 I'm dead and gone, be kind to little Pershing for my 
 sake." 
 
 "Ambrose! Stop. Think of the neighbors. Think 
 of your health. Come into the house this minute." 
 
 He tried to obey her frantic command, but the low- 
 lying, far-flung bulk of Pershing blocked the way, a 
 growling, fanged, hairy wall. Mr. Pottle retreated to 
 the flower bed. 
 
 "What was it the Belgiums said?" he remarked. 
 "They shall not pash." 
 
 "Oh, what'll I do, what'll I do?" came from the 
 window. 
 
 "Send for the militia," suggested Mr. Pottle with 
 savage facetiousness. 
 
 "I know," cried his wife, inspired, "I'll send for a 
 veterinarian. He'll know what to do." 
 
 "A veterinarian !" he protested loudly. "Five bones 
 a visit, and us the joke of Granville."
 
 9O The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 But lie could suggest nothing better and presently 
 an automobile discharged a sleepy and disgusted dog- 
 doctor at the Pottle homestead. It took the combined 
 efforts of the two men and the woman to entice Persh- 
 ing away from the door long enough for Mr. Pottle to 
 slip into his house. During the course of Mrs. Pot- 
 tle's subsequent remarks, Mr. Pottle said a number of 
 times that he was sorry he hadn't stayed out among the 
 petunias. 
 
 In the morning Pershing greeted him with an inno- 
 cent expression. 
 
 "I hope, Mr. Pottle," said his wife, as he sipped 
 black coffee, "that you are now convinced what a splen- 
 did watch dog Pershing is." 
 
 "I wish I had that fifty back again," he answered. 
 "The bank won't give me another extension on that note, 
 Blossom." 
 
 She tossed a bit of bacon to Pershing who muffed it 
 and retrieved it with only slight damage to the pink 
 roses on the rug. 
 
 "I can't stand this much longer, Blossom," he burst 
 out. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "You used to love me." 
 
 "I still do, Ambrose, despite all." 
 
 "You conceal it well. That mutt takes all your 
 time." 
 
 "Mutt, Ambrose?" 
 
 "Mutt," said Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "See ! He's heard you," she cried. "Look at that 
 hurt expression in his face." 
 
 "Bah," said Mr. Pottle. "When do we begin to get 
 fifty dollars per pup. I could use the money. Isn't it
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog 91 
 
 about time this great hulking creature did something to 
 earn his keep ? He's got the appetite of a lion." 
 
 "Don't mind the nassy mans, Pershing. We're not 
 a mutt, are we, Pershing? Ambrose, please don't say- 
 such things in his presence. It hurts him dreadfully. 
 Mutt, indeed. Just look at those big, gentle, knowing 
 eyes." 
 
 "Look at those legs, woman," said Mr. Pottle. 
 
 He despondently sipped his black coffee. 
 
 "Blossom," he said. "I'm going to Chicago to-night. 
 Got to have a conference with the men who are dicker- 
 ing with me about manufacturing my shaving cream. 
 I'll be gone three days and I'll be busy every second." 
 
 "Yes, Ambrose. Pershing will protect me." 
 
 "And when I come back," he went on sternly, "I 
 want to be able to get into my own house, do you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 "I warned you Pershing was a one man dog," she 
 replied. "You'd better come back at noon while he's 
 at lunch. You needn't worry about us." 
 
 "I shan't worry about Pershing," promised Mr. Pot- 
 tle, reaching for his suit-case. 
 
 He had not overstated how busy he would be in Chi- 
 cago. His second day was crowded. After a trip to 
 the factory, he was closeted at his hotel in solemn con- 
 ference in the evening with the president, a vice-presi- 
 dent or two, a couple of assistant vice-presidents and 
 their assistants, and a collection of sales engineers, pub- 
 licity engineers, production engineers, personnel engi- 
 neers, employment engineers, and just plain engineers; 
 for a certain large corporation scented profit in his shav- 
 ing cream. They were putting him through a business 
 third degree and he was enjoying it. They had even 
 reached the point where they were discussing his share
 
 92 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 in the profits if they decided to manufacture his dis- 
 covery. Mr. Pottle was expatiating on its merits. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, "there are some forty million 
 beards every morning in these United States, and forty 
 million breakfasts to be eaten by men in a hurry. Now, 
 my shaving cream being edible, combines " 
 
 "Telegram for Mr. Puddle, Mr. Puddle, Mr. Pud- 
 dle," droned a bell hop, poking in a head. 
 
 "Excuse me, gentlemen," said Mr. Pottle. He hoped 
 they would think it an offer from a rival company. As 
 he read the message his face grew white. Alarming 
 words leaped from the yellow paper. 
 
 "Come home. Very serious accident. Blossom." 
 
 That was all, but to the recently mated Mr. Pottle 
 it was enough. He crumpled the message with quiver- 
 ing fingers. 
 
 "Sorry, gentlemen," he said, trying to smile bravely. 
 "Bad news from home. We'll have to continue this 
 discussion later." 
 
 "You can just make the 10 :10 train," said one of the 
 engineers, sympathetically. "Hard lines, old man." 
 
 Granville's lone, asthmatic taxi coughed up Mr. Pot- 
 tle at the door of his house; it was dark; he did not 
 dare look at the door-knob. His trembling hand twisted 
 the key in the lock. 
 
 "Who's that?" called a faint voice. It was Blos- 
 som's. He thanked God she was still alive. 
 
 He was in her room in an instant, and had switched 
 on the light. She lay in bed, her face, once rosy, now 
 pale; her eyes, once placid, now red-lidded and tear- 
 swollen. He bent over her with tremulous anxiety. 
 
 "Honey, what's happened ? Tell your Ambrose." 
 
 She raised herself feebly in bed. He thanked God 
 she could move.
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog 93 
 
 "Oh, it's too awful," she said with a sob. "Too 
 dreadful for words." 
 
 "What? Oh, what? TeU me, Blossom dearest. Tell 
 me. I'll be brave, little woman. I'll try to bear it" 
 He pressed her fevered hands in his. 
 
 "I can hardly believe it," she sobbed. "I c-can hardly 
 believe it." 
 
 "Believe it ? Believe what ? Tell me, Blossom dar- 
 ling, in Heaven's name, tell me." 
 
 "Pershing," she sobbed in a heart-broken crescendo, 
 "Pershing has become a mother !" 
 
 Her sobs shook her. 
 
 "And they're all mungles," she cried, "all nine of 
 them." 
 
 Thunderclouds festooned the usually mild forehead 
 of Mr. Pottle next morning. He was inclined to be sar- 
 castic. 
 
 "Fifty dollars per pup, eh?" he said. "Fifty dol- 
 lars per pup, eh ?" 
 
 "Don't, Ambrose," his wife begged. "I can't stand 
 it. To think with eyes like that Pershing should de- 
 ceive me." 
 
 "Pershing ?" snorted Mr. Pottle so violently the toast 
 hopped from the toaster. "Pershing ? Not now. Vio- 
 let! Violet! Violet!" 
 
 Mrs. Pottle looked meek. 
 
 "The ash man said he'd take the pups away if I gave 
 him two dollars," she said. 
 
 "Give him five," said Mr. Pottle, "and maybe he'll 
 take Violet, too." 
 
 "I will not, Ambrose Pottle," she returned. "I will 
 not desert her now that she has gotten in trouble. How
 
 94 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 could she know, having been brought up so carefully? 
 After all, dogs are only human." 
 
 "You actually intend to keep that " 
 
 She did not allow him to pronounce the epithet that 
 was forming on his lips, but checked it, with 
 
 "Certainly I'll keep her. She is still a one man dog. 
 She can still protect me from kidnapers and burglars." 
 
 He threw up his hands, a despairing gesture. 
 
 In the days that followed hard on the heels of Vio- 
 let's disgrace, Mr. Pottle had little time to think of dogs. 
 More pressing cares weighed on him. The Chicago 
 men, their enthusiasm cooling when no longer under 
 the spell of Mr. Pottle's arguments, wrote that they 
 guessed that at this time, things being as they were, 
 and under the circumstances, they were forced to regret 
 that they could not make his shaving cream, but might 
 at some later date be interested, and they were his very 
 truly. The bank sent him a frank little message saying 
 that it had no desire to go into the barber business, but 
 that it might find that step necessary if Mr. Pottle did 
 not step round rather soon with a little donation for the 
 loan department. 
 
 It was thoughts of this cheerless nature that kept Mr. 
 Pottle tossing uneasily in his share of the bed, and with 
 wide-open, worried eyes doing sums on the moonlit ceil- 
 ing. He waited the morrow with numb pessimism. 
 For, though he had combed the town and borrowed every 
 cent he could squeeze from friend or foe, though he had 
 pawned his favorite case of razors, he was three hundred 
 dollars short of the needed amount. Three hundred 
 dollars is not much compared to all the money in the 
 world, but to Mr. Pottle, on his bed of anxiety, it looked 
 like the Great Wall of China.
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog 95 
 
 He heard the town clock boom a faint two. It oc- 
 curred to him that there was something singular, odd, 
 about the silence. It took him minutes to decide what 
 it was. Then he puzzled it out. Violet nee Pershing 
 was not barking. It was her invariable custom to make 
 harrowing sounds at the moon from ten in the evening 
 till dawn. He had learned to sleep through them, even- 
 tually. He pointed out to Blossom that a dog that barks 
 all the time is a dooce of a watch-dog, and she pointed 
 out to him that a dog that barks all the time thus 
 advertising its presence and its ferocity, would be cer- 
 tain to scare off midnight prowlers. He wondered why 
 Violet was so silent. The thought skipped through his 
 brain that perhaps she had run away, or been poisoned, 
 and in all his worry, he permitted himself a faint smile 
 of hope. No, he thought, I was born unlucky. There 
 must be another reason. It was borne into his brain 
 cells what this reason must be. 
 
 Slipping from bed without disturbing the dormant 
 Blossom, he crept on wary bare toes from the room and 
 down stairs. Ever so faint chinking sounds came from 
 the dining room. With infinite caution Mr. Pottle slid 
 open the sliding door an inch. He caught his breath. 
 
 There, in a patch of moonlight, squatted the chunky 
 figure of a masked man, and he was engaged in indus- 
 triously wrapping up the Pottle silver in bits of cloth. 
 Now and then he paused in his labors to pat caressingly 
 the head of Violet who stood beside him watching with 
 fascinated interest, and wagging a pleased tail. Mr. 
 Pottle was clamped to his observation post by a freezing 
 fear. The busy burglar did not see him, but Violet 
 did, and pointing her bushel of bushy head at him, she 
 let slip a deep "Grrrrrrrrrrr." The burglar turned 
 quickly, and a moonbeam rebounded from the polished
 
 96 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 steel of his revolver as lie leveled it at a place where 
 Mr. Pottle's heart would have been if it had not at that 
 precise second been in his throat, a quarter of an inch 
 south of his Adam's apple. 
 
 "Keep 'em up," said the burglar, "or I'll drill you 
 like you was an oil-well." 
 
 Mr. Pottle's hands went up and his heart went down. 
 The ultimate straw had been added ; the wedding silver 
 was neatly packed in the burglar's bag. Mr. Pottle cast 
 an appealing look at Violet and breathed a prayer that 
 in his dire emergency her blue-blood would tell and she 
 would fling herself with one last heroic fling at the 
 throat of the robber. Violet returned his look with a 
 stony stare, and licked the free hand of the thief. 
 
 A thought wave rippled over Mr. Pottle's brain. 
 
 "You might as well take the dog with you, too," 
 he said. 
 
 "Your dog ?" asked the burglar, gruffly. 
 
 "Whose else would it be?" 
 
 "Where'd you get her?" 
 
 "Raised her from a pup up." 
 
 "From a pup up ?" 
 
 "Yes, from a pup up." 
 
 The robber appeared to be thinking. 
 
 "She's some dog," he remarked. "I never seen one 
 just like her." 
 
 For the first time in the existence of either of them, 
 Mr. Pottle felt a faint glow of pride in Violet. 
 
 "She's the only one of her kind in the world," he 
 said. 
 
 "I believe you," said the burglar. "And I know a 
 thing or two about dogs, too." 
 
 "Really ?" said Mr. Pottle, politely. 
 
 "Yes, I do," said the burglar and a sad note had
 
 Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog- 97 
 
 softened the gruffness of his voice. "I used to be a dog 
 trainer." 
 
 "You don't tell me?" said Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Yes," said the burglar, with a touch of pride, "I 
 had the swellest dog and pony act in big time vaudeville 
 once." 
 
 "Where is it now ?" Mr. Pottle was interested. 
 
 "Mashed to bologny," said the burglar, sadly. "Train 
 wreck. Lost every single animal. Like that." He 
 snapped melancholy fingers to illustrate the sudden de- 
 mise of his troupe. "That's why I took to this," he 
 added. "I ain't a regular crook. Honest. I just want 
 to get together enough capital to start another show. 
 Another job or two and I'll have enough." 
 
 Mr. Pottle looked his sympathy. The burglar was 
 studying Violet with eyes that brightened visibly. 
 
 "If," he said, slowly, "I only had a trick dog like 
 her, I could start again. She's the funniest looking 
 hound I ever seen, bar none. I can just hear the audi- 
 ences roaring with laughter." He sighed reminiscently. 
 
 "Take her," said Mr. Pottle, handsomely. "She's 
 yours." 
 
 The burglar impaled him with the gimlet eye of sus- 
 picion. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said. "I could get away with a dog 
 like that, couldn't I ? You couldn't put the cops on my 
 trail if I had a dog like that with me, oh, no. Why, I 
 could just as easy get away with Pike's Peak or a flock 
 of Masonic Temples as with a dog as different looking 
 as her. No, stranger, I wasn't born yesterday." 
 
 "I won't have you pinched, I swear I won't," said 
 Mr. Pottle earnestly. "Take her. She's yours." 
 
 The burglar resumed the pose of thinker. 
 
 "Look here, stranger," he said at length. "Tell you
 
 98 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 what I'll do. Just to make the whole thing fair and 
 square and no questions asked, I'll buy that dog from 
 you." 
 
 "You'll what \ n Mr. Pottle articulated. 
 
 "I'll buy her," repeated the burglar. 
 
 Mr. Pottle was incapable of replying. 
 
 "Well," said the burglar, "will you take a hundred 
 for her?" 
 
 Mr. Pottle could not get out a syllable. 
 
 "Two hundred, then?" said the burglar. 
 
 "Make it three hundred and she's yours," said Mr. 
 Pottle. 
 
 "Sold!" said the burglar. 
 
 When morning came to Granville, Mr. Pottle waked 
 his wife by gently, playfully, fanning her pink and 
 white cheek with three bills of a large denomination. 
 
 "Blossom," he said, and the smile of his early court- 
 ing days had come back, "you were right. Violet was 
 a one man dog. I just found the man."
 
 V: Mr. Pottle and Pageantry
 
 V: Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 
 
 1 
 
 f TTE wouldn't give a cent," announced Mrs. Pot- 
 i i tie, blotting up the nucleus of a tear on her 
 cheek with the tip of her gloved finger. " 'Not 
 one red cent,' was the way he put it." 
 
 "What did you want a red cent for, honey ?" inquired 
 Mr. Pottle, absently, from out the depths of the sport- 
 ing page. "Who wouldn't give you a red cent ?" 
 
 "Old Felix Winterbottom," she answered. 
 
 Mr. Pottle put down his paper. 
 
 "Do you mean to say you tackled old frosty-face Felix 
 himself ?" he demanded with interest and some awe. 
 
 "I certainly did," replied his wife. "Right in his 
 own office." 
 
 Her spouse made no attempt to conceal his admira- 
 tion. 
 
 "What did you say; then what did he say; then what 
 did you say ?" he queried. 
 
 "I was very polite," Mrs. Pottle answered, "and tact- 
 ful. I said 'See here, now, Mr. Winterbottom, you are 
 the richest man in the county, and yet you have the 
 reputation of being the most careful with your 
 money ' r 
 
 "I'll bet that put him in a good humor," said Mr. 
 Pottle in a murmured aside. 
 
 101
 
 102 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "You know perfectly well, Ambrose, that old Felix 
 Winterbottom is never in a good humor," said his wife. 
 "After talking with him, I really believe the story that 
 he has never smiled in his life. Well, anyhow, I said 
 to him, 'See here now, Mr. Winterbottom, I'm going 
 to give you a chance to show people your heart is in the 
 right place, after all. The Day Nursery we ladies of 
 the Browning-Tagore Club of Granville are starting 
 needs just one thousand dollars. Won't you let me put 
 you down for that amount ?' ' 
 
 Mr. Pottle whistled. 
 
 "Did he bite you ?" he asked. 
 
 "I thought for a minute he was going to," admitted 
 Mrs. Pottle, "and then he said, 'Are the Gulicks inter- 
 ested in this?' I said, 'Of course, they are. Mrs. P. 
 Bradley Gulick is Chairman of the Pink Contribution 
 
 Team, and Mrs. Wendell Gulick is Chairman ' 
 
 'Stop,' said Mr. Winterbottom, giving me that fishy 
 look of his, like a halibut in a cake of ice, 'in that case, 
 I wouldn't give a cent, not one red cent. Good-day, 
 Mrs. Pottle.' I went." 
 
 Mr. Pottle wagged his head sententiously. 
 
 "You'll never get a nickel out of him now," he de- 
 clared. "Never. You might have known that Felix 
 Winterbottom would not go into anything the Gulicks 
 were in. And," added Mr. Pottle thoughtfully, "I 
 can't say that I blame old Felix much." 
 
 "Ambrose!" reproved Mrs. Pottle, but her rebuke 
 lacked a certain whole-heartedness, "The Gulicks are 
 nice people; the nicest people in Granville." 
 
 "That's the trouble with them," retorted Mr. Pottle, 
 "they never let you forget it. That's what ails this 
 town; too much Gulicks. I'm not the only one who 
 thinks so, either."
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 103 
 
 She did not attempt rebuttal, beyond saying, 
 
 "They're our oldest family." 
 
 "Bah," said Mr. Pottla He appeared to smolder, 
 and then he flamed out, 
 
 "Honest, Blossom, those Gulicks make me just a 
 little bit sick to the stummick. Just because some an- 
 cestor of theirs came over in the Mayflower, and be- 
 cause some other ancestor happened to own the farm 
 this town was built on, you'd think they were the Duke 
 of Kackiack, or something. The town grew up and 
 made 'em rich, but what did they ever do for the 
 town ?" 
 
 "Well," began Mrs. Pottle, more for the sake of de- 
 bate than from conviction, "there's Gulick Avenue, and 
 Gulick Street, and Gulick Park " 
 
 "Oh, they give their name freely enough," said Mr. 
 Pottle. "But what did they give to the Day Nursery 
 fund?" 
 
 "They did disappoint me," Mrs. Pottle admitted. 
 "They only gave fifty dollars, which isn't much for 
 the second wealthiest family in town, but Mrs. P. Brad- 
 ley Gulick said we could put her name at the head of 
 the list " 
 
 Mr. Pottle's affable features attained an almost sar- 
 donic look. 
 
 "Oho," he said, pointedly. "Oho." 
 
 He flamed up again, 
 
 "That's exactly the amount those pirates added to 
 the rent of my barber shop," he stated, and then, pas- 
 sion seething in his ordinarily amiable bosom, he went 
 on, "A fine lot, they are, to be snubbing a self-made man 
 like Felix Winterbottom, and turning up their thin, 
 blue noses at Felix Winterbottom's tannery." 
 
 "Ambrose," said his wife, with lifted blonde eye-
 
 104 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 brows, "please don't make suggestive jokes in my 
 presence." 
 
 "Honey swat key Molly pants," returned Mr. Pottle 
 with a touch of bellicosity. "It's no worse than other 
 tanneries; and it's the biggest in the state. Those 
 Gulicks give me a pain, I tell you. You can't pick up 
 a paper without reading, 'Mr. P. Bradley Gulick, one 
 of our leading citizens, unveiled a tablet in the Gulick 
 Hook and Ladder Company building yesterday in 
 honor of his ancestor, Saul Gulick, one of the pioneers 
 who hewed our great state out of the wilderness, and 
 whose cider-press stood on the ground now occupied by 
 the hook and ladder company.' Or 'Mrs. Wendell 
 Gulick read a paper before the Society of Descendants 
 of Officers Above the Rank of Captain on General 
 Washington's Staff on the heroic part played by her 
 ancestor, Major Noah Gulick, at the battle of Saratoga,' 
 If it isn't that it's 'The Spinning Wheel Club met at 
 Mrs. Gulick's palatial residence to observe the anniver- 
 sary of the birth of Phineas Gulick, the first red-headed 
 baby born in Massachusetts.' Bah, is what I say, Bah !" 
 
 He seethed and bubbled and broke out again. 
 
 "You'd think to hear them blow that the Gulicks 
 discovered ancestors and had 'em patented. I guess the 
 Pottles had an ancestor or two. Even Felix Winter- 
 bottom had ancestors." 
 
 "Probably haddocks," said Mrs. Pottle coldly. "He 
 can keep his old red cents. " 
 
 "He will, never fear," her husband assured her. 
 "After the way he and his family have been treated by 
 the Gulicks, I don't blame him." 
 
 Mrs. Pottle pumped up a sigh from the depths of a 
 deep bosom and sank tearfully to a divan. 
 
 "And I'd set my heart on it," she sobbed.
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 105 
 
 "What, dear?" 
 
 "The Day Nursery. And it's to fail for want of a 
 miserable thousand dollars." 
 
 "Don't speak disrespectfully of a thousand dollars, 
 Blossom," Mr. Pottle enjoined his spouse. "That's 
 five thousand shaves. And don't expect me to give 
 anything more. You know perfectly well the barber- 
 business is not what it used to be. I can't give an- 
 other red cent." 
 
 Mrs. Pottle sniffed. 
 
 "Who asked you for your red cents?" she inquired, 
 with spirit. "I'll make the money myself." 
 
 "You, Blossom?" 
 
 "Yes. Me." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 She rose majestically ; determination was in her pose, 
 and the light of inspiration was in her bright blue eyes. 
 
 "We'll give a pageant," she announced. 
 
 "A pageant ?" Mr. Pottle showed some dismay. "A 
 show, Blossom?" 
 
 "Evidently," she said, "you have not read your en- 
 cyclopedia under 'P.' ' 
 
 "I'm only as far as 'ostriches/' 1 he answered, 
 
 humbly. 
 
 " <A pageant,' " she quoted, " 'is an elaborate exhi- 
 bition or spectacle, a series of stately tableaux or living 
 pictures, frequently historic, and often with poetic 
 spoken interludes.' ' 
 
 "Ah," beamed Mr. Pottle, nodding understand- 
 
 ingly, "a circus!" 
 
 "Not in the least, Ambrose. Does your mind never 
 soar ? A pageant is a very beautiful and serious thing, 
 with lots of lovely costumes, hundreds of people, horses,
 
 Io6 The Sin of Monsieur Petnpon 
 
 historic scenes " she broke off suddenly. "When 
 
 was Granville founded ?" 
 
 He told her. Her eyes sparkled. 
 
 "Wonderful," she cried. "This year it will be; two 
 hundred years old. We'll give an historic pageant 
 the Growth of Civilization in Granville." 
 
 "It sounds expensive/' objected Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Don't be sordid, Ambrose," said his wife. 
 
 "I'm not sordid, Blossom," he returned. "I'm a 
 practical man. I know these kermesses and feats. My 
 cousin Julia Onderdonk got up a pageant in Peoria 
 once and now she hasn't a friend in the place. Besides 
 it only netted fourteen dollars for the Bide-a-wee Home. 
 !Nbw, honey, why not give a good, old-fashioned chicken 
 supper in the church hall, with perhaps a minstrel 
 show afterward ? That would get my money " 
 
 "Chicken supper! Minstrel show! Oh, Ambrose." 
 His wife's snort was the acme of refinement. "Have 
 you no soul ? This pageant will be an inspiring thing. 
 It will make for, I might almost say militate for, a 
 community spirit, Other communities give pageant 
 after pageant. Shall Granville lag behind? Here is 
 a chance for a real community get-together. Here is 
 a chance to give our young people the wonderful his- 
 tory of their native town " 
 
 "And also a chance for all the Gulick tribe to parade 
 around in colonial clothes with spinning wheels under 
 their arms," put in Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "I'm afraid we can't avoid that," admitted his wife, 
 ruefully. "After all, they are our oldest family." 
 
 She meditated. 
 
 "I suppose," she mused, "that Mrs. P. Bradley 
 Gulick would have to be the Spirit of Progress "
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 107 
 
 "Progress shouldn't be fat and wall-eyed," inter- 
 posed Mr. Pottle. She ignored this. 
 
 "And I suppose that odious freckled daughter of hers 
 would have to be the Spirit of Liberty or Civilization 
 or something important, and I suppose that pompous 
 Mr. Gulick would have to be the Pioneer Spirit still, 
 I think it could be managed. Now, you, Ambrose, 
 can be " 
 
 "I don't want to be the spirit of anything," he de- 
 clared. "Count me out, Blossom." 
 
 Mrs. Pottle assumed a hurt pout. 
 
 "For my sake?" she said. 
 
 "I'm no actor," he stated. 
 
 "Oh, I don't want you to act," she said. "You're 
 to be treasurer." 
 
 He wrinkled up his nose and brow into a frown. 
 
 "The dirty work," he exclaimed. "That's the way 
 the world over. Us Pottles do the dirty work and the 
 Gulicks get the glory. No, Blossom, no, no, no." 
 
 An appealing tear, and another, stole down her pink 
 cheek. 
 
 "Mr. Gallup wouldn't have treated me that way," 
 she said. Mr. Gallup had been her first husband. 
 
 Mr. Pottle knew resistance was futile. 
 
 "Oh, all right. I'll be treasurer." 
 
 She smiled. "Now one more tiny favor ?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I want you to be the Spirit of History and read 
 the historic epilogue." 
 
 "Me ? I'm no spirit. I'm a boss barber." 
 
 "Well, if you don't take the job, I suppose I can 
 get one of the Gulicks." 
 
 He considered a second.
 
 io8 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "All right," he said. "I'll be the Spirit of History. 
 But understand one thing, right here and now: I will 
 not wear tights." 
 
 She conceded him that point. 
 
 "Say," he asked, struck by a thought, "how do you 
 know what spirits are going to be in this? Who is 
 going to write this thing, anyhow?" 
 
 "I am," said Mrs. Pottle. 
 
 2 
 
 "It's not decent," objected Mr. Pottle fervidly. 
 "How can I keep the respect of the community if I go 
 round like this?" 
 
 He indicated his pink knees, which blushed like 
 spring rosebuds beneath a somewhat nebulous toga of 
 cheesecloth. 
 
 "If I can't wear pants, I don't want to be the Spirit 
 of History," he added. 
 
 "For the fifth and last time," said the tired and 
 harassed voice of Mrs. Pottle, "you cannot wear pants. 
 Spirits never do. That settles it. Not another word, 
 Ambrose. Haven't I trouble enough without my own 
 husband adding to it?" 
 
 She pressed her brow as if it ached. Piles of cos- 
 tumes, mostly tinsel and cheesecloth, shields, toma- 
 hawks, bridles and bits of scenery were strewn about 
 the Pottle parlor. She sank into a Morris chair, and 
 stitched fiercely at an angel's wing. Her eyes were 
 the eyes of one at bay. 
 
 "It's been one thing after another," she declaimed. 
 "Those Gulicks are making my life miserable. And 
 just now I had a note from Etta Kunkle's mother say-
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 109 
 
 ing that if in the Masque of the Fruits and Flowers of 
 Botts County her little Etta has to be an onion while 
 little Gertrude Crump is a violet, she won't lend us 
 that white horse for the Paul Revere's Ride Scene. So 
 I had to make that hateful stupid child of hers a violet 
 and change Gertrude Crump to an onion and now Mrs. 
 Crump is mad and won't let any of her children appear 
 in the pageant." 
 
 "Well," remarked Mr. Pottle, "I don't see why you 
 had to have Paul Revere's Ride anyhow. He didn't 
 ride all the way out here to Ohio, did he ?" 
 
 "I know he didn't," she replied, tartly, "I didn't 
 want to put him in. But Mrs. Gulick insisted. She 
 said it was her ancestor, Elijah Gulick, who lent PauT 
 Revere the horse. That's why I have to have Paul 
 Revere stop in the middle of his ride and say, 
 
 "Gallant stallion, swift and noble, 
 Lent me by my good friend Gulick, 
 Patriot, scholar, king of horsemen, 
 Speed ye, speed ye t speed ye onward!" 
 
 Mr. Pottle groaned. 
 
 "Is there anything in American history the Gulicks 
 didn't have a hand in ?" he asked. "But say, Blossom, 
 that horse of the Runkle's is no gallant stallion. She's 
 the one Matt Runkle uses on his milk route. Every 
 one in town knows Agnes." 
 
 "I can't help it," said Mrs. Pottle wearily. "Wen- 
 dell Gulick, Jr., who plays Paul Revere, insisted on 
 having a white horse, and Agnes was the only one I 
 could get." 
 
 "They're the insistingest people I ever knew," ob- 
 served Mr. Pottle.
 
 HO The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 His wife gave out the saddest sound in the world, 
 the short sob of thwarted authorship. 
 
 "They've just about ruined my pageant," she said. 
 "Mrs. Gulick insisted on having that battle between 
 the settlers and the Indians just because a great, great 
 uncle of hers was in it. I didn't want anything rough 
 like that in my pageant. Besides it happened in the 
 next county, and the true facts are that the Indiana 
 chased the settlers fourteen miles, and scalped three 
 of them. Of course it wouldn't do to show a Gulick 
 running from an Indian, so she insisted that I change 
 history around and make the settlers win the battle. 
 !N"one of the nice young men were willing to be Indians 
 and be chased, so I had to hire a tough young fellow 
 named Brannigan I believe they call him 'Beansy' 
 and nine other young fellows from the horseshoe works 
 to play Indian at fifty cents apiece." 
 
 Mr. Pottle looked anxious. 
 
 "I know that Beansy Brannigan," he said. "How is 
 that gang behaving?" 
 
 "Oh, pretty well. But ten Indians at fifty cents an 
 Indian is five dollars, and we c-can't afford it." 
 
 She was tearful again. 
 
 "Already the costumes have cost four hundred dollars 
 and more. We'll be lucky to make expenses if the 
 Gulicks keep on putting in expensive scenes," she 
 moaned. 
 
 She busied herself with the angel's wing, then paused 
 to ask, "Ambrose, have you learned your historical 
 epilogue ?" 
 
 For answer he sprang to his feet, wrapped his cheese- 
 cloth toga about him, struck a Ciceronian attitude, and 
 said loudly:
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry in 
 
 "Who am I, oh list'ning peoples? 
 His' try's spirit, stern and truthful! 
 Come I here to tell you fully, 
 Of our Granville's thrilling story, 
 How Saul and other noble Gulicks, 
 And a few who shall be nameless, 
 Hewed a city from the forests, 
 Blazed the way for civ'lization." 
 
 "Stop," cried Mrs. Pottle. "I can't bear to hear 
 another word about those Gulicks. You know it well 
 enough." 
 
 "There are a few things I wish I could have put 
 in," remarked Mr. Pottle, wistfully. 
 
 His tone made her look up with quick interest. 
 
 "What do you mean ?" she inquired. 
 
 "Oh, I found out a thing or two," he replied, "when 
 I was down at the capital last week. I happened to 
 drop into the state historical society's library and run, 
 over some old records. 
 
 He chuckled. 
 
 "P. Bradley Gulick told me I didn't have to go 
 down there to get the facts. He'd give them to me, he 
 said. So he did. Some of them." 
 
 "Ambrose, what do you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing. All I will say is this: I'm a patient 
 man and can be pestered a lot, but just let one of these 
 Gulicks pester me a little too much one of these days, 
 and I'll rear up on my hind legs, that's all." 
 
 There was a glint in his eye, and she saw it. 
 
 "Ambrose," she said, "if you do anything to spoil 
 my pageant, I'll never forgive you." 
 
 He snorted. 
 
 "Your pageant ? It's just as I said it would be. We
 
 112 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 Pottles will do the dirty work and the Gulicks will 
 grab the glory. They've behaved so piggish that every- 
 body in town is sore at them, and I don't see how the 
 pageant is going to come out on top. You'd probably 
 have gotten that thousand from old Felix Winterbottom 
 if it hadn't been for them. Then you wouldn't have 
 to be losing a pound a day over this pageant. Now if 
 you'd only gotten up a nice old-fashioned chicken sup- 
 per, and a minstrel show " 
 
 " Ambrose ! Go put on your trousers !" 
 
 3 
 
 Despite Mr. Pottle's pessimistic predictions, there 
 was not a vacant seat or an unused cubic foot of air in 
 the Granville Opera House that clinging Spring night, 
 when the asbestos curtain, tugged by tyro hands, 
 jerkily ascended on the prologue of the Grand Histori- 
 cal Pageant of the Growth of Civilization in Granville 
 for the Benefit of the Browning-Tagore Club's Day 
 Nursery. Those who did not have relatives in the cast 
 appeared to have been lured thither by a certain morbid 
 curiosity as to what a pageant was. Their faces said 
 plainly that they were prepared for anything. 
 
 After the orchestra had raced through "Poet and 
 Peasant," with the cornet winning by a comfortable 
 margin, Mrs. P. Bradley Gulick, somewhat short of 
 breath and rendered doubly wall-eyed by an inexpert 
 make-up, appeared in red, white and blue cheese-cloth, 
 and announced in a high voice that she was the Spirit 
 of Progress and would look on with a kindly, encour- 
 aging eye while history's storied page was turned and 
 spread before them, and, she added, in properly poetic 
 language, she would tell them what it was all about.
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 113 
 
 The audience gave her the applause due the dowager 
 of the town's leading family, and not one hand-clap 
 more. Mr. P. Bradley Gulick, bony but impressive, 
 in a Grecian robe, appeared and proclaimed that he was 
 the Spirit of Civilization. A Ballet of the "Waters fol- 
 lowed, and as a climax, Evelyn Gulick, age thirteen, in 
 appropriate green gauze, announced: 
 
 "Who am I, oh friends and neighbors? 
 I'm the Spirit of the Waters, 
 Lordly, swift, Monongahela; 
 Argosies float on my bosom " 
 
 She tapped her narrow chest, and a look of horror 
 crept into her face ; her mind seemed to be groping for 
 something. Tremulously she repeated, 
 
 "Argosies float on my bosom." 
 
 The voice of Mrs. Pottle prompted from the wings, 
 "And fleets of ships with treasures laden." 
 
 Evelyn clutched at the sound, but it slipped from 
 her, and she wildly began, 
 
 "Argosies float on my bosom (Slap, slap) 
 And sheeps of flits and sheeps of flits -" 
 
 She burst into tears, and turning a spiteful face 
 toward one of the boxes, she cried, 
 
 "You stop making faces at me, Jessie Winter- 
 bottom." 
 
 Then she fled to the wings. 
 
 This served to bring to the attention of the audience
 
 114 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 the fact that a strange thing had happened : Felix Win- 
 terbottom and his family had come to the pageant. He 
 was there, concealed as far as possible by the red plush 
 curtains of the box, defiant and forbidding. From the 
 glance he now and then cast at the decollete back of his 
 wife, it was evident that he had not come voluntarily. 
 
 Mrs. Pottle, in the wings, bit a newly manicured 
 fingernail. 
 
 "I begged Mrs. Gulick to make that dumb child of 
 hers learn her part/' she whispered wrathfully to her 
 husband. 
 
 "Mrs. Gulick says it's your fault for not prompting 
 loud enough," said Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "She did, did she?" Mrs. Pottle assumed what is 
 known in ring circles as a fighting face. 
 
 "I can't stand much more of their pestering," said 
 Mr. Pottle darkly. 
 
 "Ssssh," said his wife. "The Paul Revere scene ia 
 going to start." 
 
 In the wings, Wendell Gulick, Junior, was making 
 ready to mount his charger. The charger, as he had 
 specified, was white, peculiarly white, for it had been 
 found necessary at the last moment to conceal some 
 harness stains by powdering her liberally with crushed 
 lilac talcum. Agnes looked resentful but resigned. 
 Mr. Gulick, Junior, was a plump young man, with, 
 nose-glasses, and satisfied lips, who had the distinction 
 of being the only person in Granville who had ever 
 ridden to hounds. He cultivated a horsey atmosphere, 
 wore a riding crop pin in his tie, and was admittedly 
 the local authority on things equine. He looked most 
 formidable in hip-high leathern boots, a continental 
 garb, and a powdered wig. It was regretable that the 
 steed did not measure up to her rider. Save for being
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 115 
 
 approximately white, Agnes had little to recommend 
 her for the role. She had one of those long, sad, 
 philosophic faces, and she appeared to be considerably 
 taller in the hips than in the shoulders. She had a 
 habit of looking back over her shoulder with a sur- 
 prised expression, as if she missed her milk wagon. 
 
 Encouraged by a slap on the flank from a stage-hand, 
 Agnes advanced to the center of the stage at a brisk, 
 business-like trot, and there stopped, and nodded to the 
 audience. 
 
 "Whoa, Agnes," shouted some bad little boy in the 
 gallery. 
 
 Young Mr. Gulick, in the role of Paul Eevere, af- 
 fected to pat his mount's head, and in a voice of thun- 
 der, roared: 
 
 "Gallant stallion, swift and nolle" 
 
 Agnes reached out a long neck and nibbled at the 
 scenery. 
 
 "Lent me by my good friend, Gulick," 
 
 Agnes looked over her shoulder and smiled at her 
 rider. 
 
 "Patriot, scholar, Icing of horsemen," 
 Agnes scratched herself heartily on a property rock. 
 "Speed ye, speed ye, speed ye onward!" 
 
 The business of the scene called for a spirited exit 
 by Paul Eevere, waving his cocked hat. But Agnes 
 had other plans. She liked the taste of scenery. She
 
 Ii6 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 did not budge. In vain did the scion of the Gulicks 
 beat with frantic heels upon her flat flanks. 
 
 "Speed ye onward, or we'll be late," he improvised 
 cleverly. 
 
 She masticated a canvas leaf from a convenient shrub 
 and did not speed onward. 
 
 "Gid-ap, Agnes/' shrilled the boy in the gallery. 
 "The folks is waitin' for their milk." 
 
 The audience grew indecorous. 
 
 Even his ruddy make-up could not conceal the fact 
 that Mr. Wendell Gulick, Junior, was very red in the 
 face, and that his lips were forming words not in that, 
 or any other pageant. His leathern heels boomed hol- 
 lowly on Agnes's barrel of body. To ring down the 
 curtain was impossible; Agnes had taken her place 
 directly beneath it. 
 
 Paul Revere turned a passionate face to the wings, 
 
 "Hey, Pottle," he bellowed, "why don't you do 
 something instead of standing there grinning like a 
 baboon?" 
 
 Thus charged, Mr. Pottle's toga-clad figure came 
 nimbly from the wings, to great applause, and seized 
 Agnes by the bridle. Pottle tugged lustily. Agnes 
 smiled and did not give way an inch. 
 
 "Send for Matt Runkle," hissed Mr. Gulick, Junior. 
 
 "Send for Matt Runkle," echoed Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Send for Matt Runkle," cried voices in the audience. 
 
 "He's home in bed," wailed Mrs. Pottle from the 
 wings. 
 
 "Get one of the Runkle kids," shouted Mr. Pottle, 
 seeking to arouse Agnes with kicks of his sandal-shod 
 feet. 
 
 Little Etta Runkle, partly clad in the tinsel and 
 cheese-cloth of a violet, and partly in her everyday un-
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 117 
 
 derwear, was fetched from a dressing room. She was 
 a bright child and sensed the situation as soon as it had 
 been explained to her twice. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "Pa always says Agnes won't start 
 unless you clink two milk bottles together." 
 
 The audience was calling forth suggestions to Paul 
 Revere, astride, and Pottle, on foot. They included a 
 bonfire beneath Agnes, and dynamite. Even the rock- 
 bound face of old Felix Winterbottom, in the depths of 
 the box, showed the vestige of a crease that might, with 
 a little imagination, be considered the start of a smile. 
 
 A fevered search back stage netted two bottles, dusty 
 and smelling of turpentine and gin, respectively. Mr. 
 Pottle grasped their necks and clinked them together 
 with resounding clinks. The effect on Agnes was elec- 
 trical. From utter immobility she started with a 
 startled hop. The unready Mr. Gulick, Junior, after 
 one mad grasp at her mane, rolled ignominiously from 1 
 her broad back, and landed on the stage in a position 
 that was undignified for a Eevere and positively pain- 
 ful for a Gulick. Agnes bolted to the wings. The 
 curtain darted down. 
 
 The audience seemed to take this occurrence in a 
 spirit of levity, but not so Mrs. Pottle. Hot tears 
 gathered in her eyes. 
 
 "That wretch would have a white horse," she said. 
 "They would put Paul Revere's Ride in. Now look. 
 Now look!" 
 
 "There, there, honey," said ^Ir. Pottle, between 
 sympathetic teeth. "We'll fix 'em." 
 
 The pageant pursued its more or less majestic way, 
 but as the history of Granville was unfolded, scene 
 upon scene, it became all too apparent to Mrs. Pottle 
 that her poetic opus could not recapture the first serious
 
 Il8 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 mood of the audience. It positively jeered when Miss 
 Eltruda Gulick announced that she was the Spirit of 
 the Bogardus Canal. But it grew more interested as 
 the curtain slid up on the battle scene. This, Mrs. 
 Pottle felt, was her dramatic masterpiece. There lay 
 the peaceful pioneer settlement artfully fashioned 
 from pasteboard while the simple but virile settlers 
 strolled up and down the embryo Main Street and ex- 
 changed couplets. The chief settler, an adipose young 
 man with a lisp, was Mr. Gurnee Gulick, until then 
 noted as the most adept practitioner of the modern 
 dance-steps in that part of Ohio. Through a beard, he 
 announced, falsetto, 
 
 "I give thee greeting, neighbor Gulick, 
 Upon this blossom-burgeoning morning, 
 I trust 'tis not the wily red-skin 
 I just heard whooping in the forest." 
 
 His trust was misplaced. It was, indeed, the wily 
 red-skin in the persons of Mr. Edward Brannigan 
 known to intimates as "Beansy," and nine of his fel- 
 low horseshoe makers who had been hired to imper- 
 sonate red-men, in rather loose-fitting brown cotton 
 skins. Mr. Brannigan and fellow red-skins had done 
 their part dutifully at rehearsals, and had permitted 
 themselves to be knocked down, cuffed about a bit, and 
 finally put to inglorious rout by the settlers. But on 
 the fateful night of the pageant, while waiting for their 
 turn to appear, they had passed the moments with a jug 
 of cider that was standing with reluctant feet at that 
 high point in its career where it has ceased to be sweet 
 and has not yet become vinegar. That was no reason 
 why they should not do their part, for it was not an
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 119 
 
 intricate one. They were to rush on, with whoops, be 
 annihilated, and retire in confusion. 
 
 They did rush on with whoops that left nothing to 
 be desired from the standpoint of realism. Mrs. Pottle, 
 tense in the wings, was congratulating herself that one 
 scene at least had dramatic strength. It was at this 
 moment that Mr. Brannigan, as Chief Winipasuki, 
 sachem of the Algonquins, encountered Mr. Gulick, the 
 principal settler. In his enthusiasm, Mr. Gulick over- 
 acted his part. He smote the redskin warrior so ear- 
 nestly on the ear that Mr. Brannigan described a para- 
 bola and dented a papier-mache rock with his hundred 
 and seventy pounds of muscular body. His part called 
 for him to lie there, prone and impotent, while the 
 settlers drove off his band. 
 
 It may have been a sudden rebellion of a proud 
 spirit. It may have been the wraith of history in pro- 
 test; it may have been an inherently perverse nature; 
 or it may have been the cider. In any event, Chief 
 Winipasuki got to his feet, war-whooped, and knocked 
 the principal settler through the paste-board wall of 
 the block-house. Those in the audience who were fond 
 of realism enjoyed what ensued immensely. The set- 
 tlers of the town, who were the nice young men, and 
 the Indians, who were not so nice but were strong and 
 willing, had at one another, and although they had only 
 nature's weapons, the battle, as it waged up and down 
 and back and through the shattered scenery, was stir- 
 ring enough. When the curtain was at last brought 
 down, Chief Winipasuki had a half-nelson on Settler 
 Gulick, who was calling in a loud penetrating voice for 
 the police. 
 
 In all the hub-bub and confusion, in all the delirium 
 of the audience, Mr. Pottle remained calm enough to
 
 120 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 note that a miracle had taken place ; Kr. Felix "Winter- 
 bottom was chuckling. It was a dry, unpracticed 
 chuckle at best, but it was a chuckte, nevertheless. Mr. 
 Pottle was observing the phenomenon with wide eyes 
 when he felt his elbow angrily plucked. 
 
 "You're to blame for this. Pottle," rasped a voice. 
 It was Gurnee Gulick's irate father. 
 
 "Me?" sputtered Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Yes. You. You knew those ruffians had been 
 drinking." 
 
 "I did not." 
 
 "Don't contradict me, you miserable little hair-cut- 
 ting fool." 
 
 "What? How dare you " began Mr. Pottle. 
 
 "Bah. You wart!" said Mr. Gulick, and turned his 
 square yard of fat back on the incensed little man. 
 
 Mr. Pottle was taking a step after him as if he in- 
 tended to leap up and sink his teeth into the back of 
 Mr. Gulick's overflowing neck, when another hand 
 clutched him. It was his wife. 
 
 Her face was white and tear-stained, her lip 
 quivering. 
 
 "They've ruined it, they've ruined it," she exclaimed. 
 "I warned that simpleton Gurnee Gulick not to be rough 
 with those horseshoe boys. Oh, dear, oh, dear." She 
 pillowed her brimming eyes in his toga-draped shoulder. 
 
 "You've got to go out, now," she sobbed, "and give 
 the historical epilogue." 
 
 "Never," said Mr. Pottle. "A thousand nevers." 
 
 "Please, Ambrose. We've got to end it, somehow." 
 
 "Very well," announced Mr. Pottle. "I'll go. But 
 mind you, Blossom Pottle, I won't be responsible for 
 what I say." 
 
 "Neither will I," sobbed his spouse.
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 121 
 
 Mr. Pottle hitched his toga about him, and strode 
 out on the stage. There was some applause, but more 
 titters. He held up his hand for silence, as orators do, 
 and glared so fiercely at his audience that the theater 
 grew comparatively quiet. At the top of his voice, he 
 began, 
 
 "Who am I, oh list'ning peoples?'' 
 
 "Pottle the barber," answered a voice in the gallery. 
 
 Mr. Pottle paused, fastened an awful eye on the 
 owner of the voice, and, stepping out of character, re- 
 marked, succinctly: 
 
 "If you interrupt me again, Charlie Meacham, I'll 
 come up there and knock your block off." He swept the 
 house with a ferocious glance. "And that goes for the 
 rest of you," he added. The intimidated audience went 
 "ssssssh" at each other; Pottle was popular in Gran- 
 ville. He launched himself again. 
 
 "Who am I, oh list'ning peoples? 
 Hist'ry's spirit, stern and truthful! 
 Come I here to give you an earful f 
 Of our city's inside history, 
 How the Gulicks grabbed the real estate t 
 By foreclosing poor folk's mortgages." 
 
 He did not have to ask for silence now. The hush 
 of death was on the house, and the audience bent its 
 ears toward him; even old Felix Winterbottom, on the 
 edge of his chair, cupped a gnarled, attentive ear. Mr. 
 Pottle went on, 
 
 "You have heard the Gulick's Uowing, 
 Of their wonderful relations.
 
 122 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 Lend an ear, and I will slip you, 
 What the real, true, red-hot dope is" 
 
 He gave his toga a hitch, advanced to the foot-lights, 
 and continued, 
 
 "Old Saul Gulick was a drinker, 
 Always full of home-made liquor f 
 And he got the town of Granville, 
 From the Indians, by cheating, 
 Got 'em drunk, the records tell us, 
 Got 'em boiled and stewed and glassy; 
 Ere they sobered up, they sold him, 
 All the land in this fair county, 
 For a dollar and a quarter, 
 Which, my friends, he never paid them." 
 
 The audience held its breath; Felix Winterbottom 
 cupped both ears. Pottle hurried on, 
 
 "Now we come to 'Lijah Gulick, 
 Him that lent the noble stallion 
 To Revere, the midnight rider. 
 Honest, folks, you'll bust out laughing f 
 When I tell you 'Lijah stole him. 
 For Elijah was a horsethief, 
 And, as such, was hanged near Boston. 
 "Patriot, scholar, Icing of horsemen" 
 Honest, folks, that makes me snicker. 
 Yes, he let Paul ride his stallion 
 And charged him seven bucks an hour! 
 If you think that I am lying, 
 You will find all this in writing, 
 In the library in the state house."
 
 Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 123 
 
 Sensation! Gasps in the audience. Commotion in 
 the wings. Felix Winterbottom made no attempt to 
 conceal the fact that he was chuckling. Pottle drew 
 in a deep breath, and spoke again. 
 
 "Then you've heard of Noah Gulick, 
 Him that won the Revolution. 
 If he ever was a major, 
 George J. Washington never knew it. 
 When they charged at Saratoga, 
 He was hiding in a cellar. 
 Was he on the staff of Washington? 
 Sure he was but in the kitchen. 
 I'll admit he made good coffee 
 But a soldier? Quit your kidding. 
 Now I'll take up Nathan Gulick, 
 His descendants never mention 
 That he spent a month in prison 
 More than once, for stealing chickens " 
 
 Here Mr. Pottle abruptly stopped. The curtain had 
 been dropped with a crashing bang by unseen hands 
 in the wings. 
 
 As it fell, there was a curious, cackling noise in one 
 of the boxes, the like of which had never before been 
 heard in Granville. It was Felix Winterbottom laugh- 
 ing as if he were being paid a dollar a guffaw. 
 
 4 
 
 Mr. Pottle sat beside the bedside of Mrs. Pottle, 
 sadly going over a column of figures, as she lay there, 
 wan, weak, tear-marred, sipping pale tea. 
 
 He cleared his throat.
 
 124 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "As retiring treasurer of the Granville Pageant," he 
 announced, "I regret to report as follows: 
 
 Eeceipts from tickets $1,250.00 
 
 Expenses, including rent, music, 
 
 scenery, costumes, and damages, $1,249.17 
 
 "This leaves a total net profit of eighty-three cents." 
 
 Mrs. Pottle wept softly into her pillow. A whistle 
 outside caused her to lift a woeful head. 
 
 "There's the postman," she said, feebly. "Another 
 bill, I suppose. We won't even make eighty-three 
 cents." 
 
 Mr. Pottle returned with the letter; he opened it; 
 he read it; he whistled; he read it again; then he read 
 it aloud. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Pottle: 
 
 "I never laughed at anything in my life till I saw 
 your pageant I pay for what I get. 
 
 "Yours, 
 
 "FELIX WlNTERBOTTOM. 
 
 "P. S. Inclosed is my check for one thousand dol- 
 lars for the Day Nursery." 
 
 Mrs. Pottle sat up in bed. She smiled.
 
 VI: The Cage Man
 
 VI : The Cage Man 
 
 J LL day long they kept Horace Nimms in a steel- 
 
 /j barred cage. For twenty-one years he had 
 
 perched on a tall stool in that cage, while 
 
 various persons at various times poked things at him 
 
 through a hole about big enough to admit an adult 
 
 guinea pig. 
 
 Every evening round five-thirty they let Horace out 
 and permitted him to go over to his half of a double- 
 barreled house in Flatbush to sleep. At eight-thirty 
 the next morning he returned to his cage, hung his 
 two-dollar-and-eighty-nine-cent approximately Panama 
 hat on a peg and changed his blue-serge-suit coat for 
 a still more shiny alpaca. Then he sharpened two 
 pencils to needle-point sharpness, tested his pen by 
 writing "H. Mmms, Esq.," in a small precise hand, 
 gave his adding machine a few preparatory pokes and 
 was ready for the day's work. 
 
 Horace was proud, in his mild way, of being shut 
 up in the cage with all that money. It carried the 
 suggestion that he was a dangerous man of a possibly 
 predatory nature. He wasn't. A more patient and 
 docile five feet and two inches of cashier was not to be 
 found between Spuyten Duyvil and Tottenville, Staten 
 Island. Cashiers are mostly crabbed. It sours them 
 somehow to hand out all that money and retain so little 
 for their own personal use. But Horace was not of 
 this ilk. 
 
 127
 
 128 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 The timidest stenographer did not hesitate to take 
 the pettiest petty-cash slip to his little window and 
 twitter, according to custom: "Forty cents for carbon 
 paper, and let me have it in large bills, please, Uncle 
 Horace." 
 
 He would peer at the slip, pretend it was for forty 
 dollars, smile a friendly smile that made little ripples 
 round his eyes and according to custom reply: 
 "Here you be. Now don't be buying yourself a flivver 
 with it." 
 
 When the office force in a large corporation calls the 
 office cashier "uncle" it is a pretty good indication of 
 the sort of man he is. 
 
 For the rest, Horace Nimms was slightly bald, wore 
 convict eyeglasses the sort you shackle to your head 
 with a chain kept his cuffs up with lavender sleeve 
 garters, carried a change purse, kept a small red pocket 
 expense book, thought his company the greatest in the 
 world and its president, Oren Hammer, the greatest 
 man, was devoted to a wife and two growing daugh- 
 ters, dreamed of a cottage on Long Island with a few 
 square yards of beets and beans and, finally, earned 
 forty dollars a week. 
 
 Horace Nnrnns had a figuring mind. Those ten little 
 Arabic symbols and their combinations and permuta- 
 tions held a fascination for him. To his ears six times 
 six is thirty-six was as perfect a poem as ever a master 
 bard penned. When on muggy Flatbush nights he 
 tossed in his brass bed he lulled himself to sleep by di- 
 viding 695,481,239 by 433. At other and more wake- 
 ful moments he amused himself by planning an elabo- 
 rate cost-accounting system for his firm, the Amalga- 
 mated Soap Corporation, known to the ends of the 
 earth as the Suds Trust. Sometimes he went so far
 
 The Cage Man 129 
 
 as to play the entertaining game of imaginary conver- 
 sations. He pictured himself sitting in one of the fat 
 chairs in the office of President Hammer and saying 
 between puffs on one of the presidential perfectos: 
 "Now, looky here, Mr. Hammer. My plan for a cost- 
 accounting system is " 
 
 And he limned on his mental canvas that great man, 
 spellbound, enthralled, as he, Horace Nimms, dazzled 
 him with an array of figures, beginning: "Now, let's 
 see, Mr. Hammer. Last year the Western works at 
 Purity City, Iowa, made 9,576,491 cakes of Pink Petal 
 Toilet and 6,571,233 cakes of Lily White Laundry at 
 a manufacturing cost of 3.25571 cents a cake, unboxed; 
 now the selling cost a cake was" and so on. The in- 
 terview always ended with vigorous hand-shakings on 
 the part of Mr. Hammer and more salary for Mr. 
 !N"imms. But actually the interview never took place. 
 
 It wasn't that Horace didn't have confidence in his 
 system. He did. But he didn't have an equal amount 
 in Horace Kimms. So he worked on in his little cage 
 and enjoyed a fair measure of contentment there, be- 
 cause to him it was a temple of figures, a shrine of sub- 
 traction, an altar of addition. Figures swarmed in his 
 head as naturally as bees swarm about a locust tree. 
 He could tell you off-hand how many cakes of Grade-B 
 soap the Southern Works at Spotless, Louisiana, made 
 in the month of May, 1914. He simply devoured sta- 
 tistics. When the door of the cage clanged shut in the 
 morning he felt soothed, at home; he immersed his 
 own small worries in a bath of digits and decimal 
 points. He ate of the lotus leaves of mathematics. He 
 could forget, while juggling with millions of cakes of 
 soap and thousands of dollars, that his rent was due 
 next week; that Polly, his wife, needed a new dress;
 
 130 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 and that on forty a week one must live largely on beef 
 liver and hope. 
 
 He sometimes thought, while Subwaying to his of- 
 fice, that if he could only get the ear of Oren Hammer 
 some day and tell him about that cost-accounting system 
 he might get his salary raised to forty-five. But Presi- 
 dent Hammer, whose office was on the floor above the 
 cage, was as remote from Horace as the Pleiades. To 
 get to see him one had to run a gantlet of superior, 
 inquisitive secretaries. Besides Mr. Hammer was re- 
 puted to be the busiest man in New York City. 
 
 "I wash the faces of forty million people every 
 morning," was the way he put it himself. 
 
 But the chief reason why Horace ISTimms did not 
 approach Mr. Hammer was that Horace held him in 
 genuine awe. The president was so big, so masterful, 
 so decisive. His invariable cutaway intimidated 
 Horace; the magnificence of his top hat dazzled the 
 little cashier and benumbed his faculties of speech. 
 Once in a while Horace rode down in the same ele- 
 vator with him and unobserved admired his firm 
 profile, the concentration of his brow and the jutting 
 jaw that some one had once said was worth fifty thou- 
 sand a year in itself, merely as a symbol of determina- 
 tion. Horace would sooner have slapped General 
 Pershing on the back or asked President Wilson to 
 dinner in Flatbush than have addressed Oren Hammer. 
 An uncommendable attitude? Yes. But after all 
 those years behind bars, perhaps subconsciously his 
 spirit had become a little caged. 
 
 One cool September morning Horace entered the 
 cage humming "Annie Rooney." Coming over in the 
 Subway he had straightened out a little quirk in his 
 cost-accounting system that would save the company
 
 The Cage Man 131 
 
 one-ninety-fifth of a cent a cake. He took off his worn 
 serge coat, was momentarily concerned at the prospect 
 of having to make it last another season and then with 
 a hitch on his lavender sleeve garters he slipped into 
 his alpaca office coat and added up a few numbers on 
 the adding machine for the sheer joy of it. 
 
 He had not been sitting on his high stool long when 
 he became aware that a man, a stranger, was regarding 
 him fixedly through the steel screen. The man had 
 calmly placed a chair just outside the cage and was 
 examining the little cashier with the scrutinizing eye 
 of an ornithologist studying a newly discovered species 
 of emu. 
 
 Horace was a bit disconcerted. He knew his ac- 
 counts were in order and accurate to the last penny. He 
 had nothing to fear on that score. Nevertheless, he 
 didn't like the way the man stared at him. 
 
 "If he has something to say to me," thought Horace, 
 "why does he say it with glowers?" 
 
 He would have asked the starer what the devil he was 
 looking at, but Horace was incapable of incivility. He 
 began nervously to total up a column of figures and 
 was not a little upset to find that under the cold gaze he 
 had made his first mistake in addition since the spring 
 of '98. He cast a furtive glance or two through the 
 steel netting at the stranger outside, who continued to 
 focus a pair of prominent blue eyes on the self-conscious 
 cashier. Horace couldn't have explained why those 
 particular eyes rattled him; some mysterious power- 
 black art perhaps. 
 
 The staring man was quite bald, and his head, shaped 
 like a pineapple cheese, had been polished until it 
 seemed almost to glitter in the September sun. 
 eyes, light blue and bulgy, reminded Horace of poached
 
 132 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 eggs left out in the cold for a week. They had also a 
 certain fishy quality; impassive, yet hungry, like a 
 shark's. Without being actually fat, the mysterious 
 starer had the appearance of being plump and soft ; per- 
 haps it was the way he clasped two small, perfectly 
 manicured hands over a perceptible rotundity at his 
 middle, an unexpected protuberance, as if he were 
 attempting to conceal a honeydew melon under his vest. 
 
 Horace JSTimms did his best to concentrate on the 
 little columns of figures he was so fond of drilling and 
 parading, but his glance strayed, almost against his 
 will, to the bald-headed man with the fishy blue eyes, 
 who continued to fasten on Horace the glance a python 
 aims at a rabbit before he bolts him. 
 
 At length, after half an hour, Horace could stand 
 it no longer. He addressed the stranger politely. 
 
 "Is there anything I can do for you ?" asked Horace 
 with his avuncular smile. 
 
 The starer, without once taking his eyes off Horace, 
 rose, advanced to the little window and thrust through 
 it an oversized card. 
 
 "You may go on with your work," he said, "just as 
 if you were not under observation. I am here under 
 Mr. Hammer's orders." 
 
 His voice was peculiar a nasal purr. 
 
 The caged cashier glanced at the card. It read : 
 
 S. WALMSLEY COWAST 
 
 EFFICIENCY EXPERT EXTRAORDINARY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "PEP, PERSONALITY, PERSONNEL," 
 
 "HOW TO ENTHUSE EMPLOYEES" 
 
 Horace Nimms had a disquieting sensation. He had 
 heard rumors of a man prowling about in the company,
 
 The Cage Man 133 
 
 subjecting random employees to strange tests, firing 
 some, moving others to different jobs, but he had always 
 felt that twenty-one years of service and the steel bars 
 of his cage protected him. And now here was the man, 
 and he, Horace Nimms, was under observation. He 
 had always associated the phrase with reports of lunacy 
 cases in the newspapers. Mr. Cowan returned to hia 
 seat near the cage and resumed his silent watch on its 
 inmate. Horace tried to do this work, but he couldn't 
 remember when he had had such a poor day. The fig- 
 ures would come wrong and his hand would tremble 
 a little no matter how hard he tried to forget the vigi- 
 lant Mr. Cowan who sat watching him. 
 
 At the end of a trying day Horace dismounted from 
 his high stool, hitched up his lavender sleeve garters 
 and inserted himself into his worn blue serge coat. He 
 would be glad to get back to Flatbush. Polly would 
 have some fried beef liver and a bread pudding for 
 supper, and they would discuss for the hundredth time 
 just what the ground-floor plan of that cottage would 
 be if it ever was. 
 
 But Mr. Cowan was waiting for him. 
 
 "Step this way, will you ple-e-ese," said the expert. 
 
 Horace never remembered when he had heard a word 
 that retained so little of its original meaning as Mr. 
 Cowan's "ple-e-ese." Clearly it was tossed in as a sop 
 to the hypersensitive. His "ple-e-ese" could have been 
 translated as "you worm." 
 
 Horace, with a worried brow, followed Mr. Cowan 
 into one of those goldfish-bowl offices affected by large 
 companies with many executives and a limited amount 
 of office space. It contained only a plain table and 
 two stiff chairs. 
 
 "Sit down," said Mr. Cowan, "ple-e-ese."
 
 134 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 It is a difficult linguistic feat to purr and snap at 
 the same time, but Mr. Cowan achieved it. 
 
 Horace sat down and Mr. Cowan sat opposite him, 
 with his unwinking blue eyes but two feet from Hor- 
 ace's mild brown ones and with no charitable steel 
 screen between them. 
 
 "I am going to put you to the test," said Mr. Cowan. 
 
 Horace wildly thought of thumbscrews. He sat bolt 
 upright while Mr. Cowan whipped from his pocket a 
 tape measure and, bending over, measured the breadth 
 of Horace Nimms' brow. With an ominous clucking 
 noise the expert set down the measurement on a chart 
 in front of him. Then he carefully measured each of 
 Horace's ears. The measurements appeared to shock 
 him. He wrote them down. He applied his tape to 
 Horace's nose and measured that organ. He surveyed 
 Horace's forehead from several different angles. He 
 measured the circumference of Horace's head. The 
 result caused Mr. Cowan acute distress, for he set it 
 down on his elaborate chart and glowered at it a full 
 minute. 
 
 Then he transferred his attention and tape to Hor- 
 ace's stubby hands. He measured them, counted the 
 fingers, contemplated the thumb gravely and wrote sev- 
 eral hundred words on the chart. Horace thought he 
 recognized one of the words as "mechanical." 
 
 "Now," said Mr. Cowan solemnly, "we will test your 
 mental reactions." 
 
 He said this more to himself than to Horace ISTimms, 
 on whose brow tiny pearls of perspiration were appear- 
 ing. Mr. Cowan drew forth a stop watch and spread 
 another chart on the table before him. 
 
 "Fill this out ple-e-ese," he said, pushing the chart 
 toward Horace. "You have just five minutes to do it."
 
 The Cage Man 135 
 
 Horace Mmms, dismayed, almost dazed, seized the 
 paper and started to work at it with feverish confusion. 
 He boggled through a maze full of pitfalls for a tired, 
 rattled man: 
 
 If George Washington discovered America, write the 
 
 capital of Nebraska in this space. But if 
 
 he was called the Father of His Country, how much is 
 
 49 X 7 ? Now name three presidents of the 
 
 United States in alphabetical order, including Jefferson, 
 
 but do not do so if ice is warm. If Adam 
 
 was the first man, dot all the "i's" in "eleemosynary" 
 
 and write your last name backward. Omit 
 
 the next three questions with the exception of the last 
 
 two: How much is 6 X 9 = 54? What is 
 
 the capital of Omaha? How many "e's" 
 
 are there in the sentence, "Tell me, pretty maiden, are 
 
 there any more at home like you ?" Put a 
 
 cross over all the consonants in the foregoing sentence. 
 Now fill in the missing words in the following sen- 
 tences : "While picking I was stung in the 
 
 _ ty a "Don't bite the 
 
 that feeds you." 
 
 How old are you? Multiply your age by the year 
 you were born in. Erase your answer. If a pound of 
 steel is heavier than a pound of oyster crackers, don't 
 
 write anything in this space. Otherwise 
 
 write three words that rhyme with "icicle." Now 
 write your name, and then cross out all the consonants. 
 
 Name three common garden vegetables. 
 
 It seemed to Horace Nimms that he had floundered 
 along for less than a minute when Mr. Cowan said 
 briskly, "Time," and took the paper from Horace. 
 
 "Now the association test," said Mr. Cowan, drawing
 
 136 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 forth still another chart, very much as a magician draws 
 forth a rabbit from a hat. 
 
 "I'll say a word," he went on, seeming to grow 
 progressively more affable as Horace grew more dis- 
 comfited, "and you will say the word it suggests imme- 
 diately after ple-e-ese," he added as an afterthought. 
 
 Horace Nimms moistened his dry lips. Mr. Cowan 
 pulled out his stop watch. 
 
 "Oyster P said Mr. Cowan. 
 
 "S-stew!" quavered Horace. 
 
 "Flat?" 
 
 "Bush!" 
 
 "Hammer?" 
 
 "President!" 
 
 "Soap?" 
 
 "Cakes!" 
 
 "Money?" 
 
 "Forty-five!" 
 
 "Up?" 
 
 "Down!" 
 
 "Man?" 
 
 "Cage!" 
 
 "Most peculiar," muttered Mr. Cowan as he noted 
 down the answers. "We'll have to look into this." 
 
 Horace could not suppress a shudder. 
 
 "That's all," said Mr. Cowan. 
 
 When Horace arrived at his Flatbush flat, late for 
 supper, he did not enjoy the bread pudding, though it 
 was a particularly good one with raisins. Nor did he 
 go to sleep quickly, no matter how many numbers he 
 multiplied. He was thinking what it would mean to 
 him at his age if Mr. Cowan should have him put out 
 of his cage. His dreams were haunted by a pair of 
 eyes like those of a frozen owl.
 
 The Cage Man 137 
 
 The next afternoon Horace Mmms, busy in his cage, 
 received a notice that there would be an organization 
 meeting at the end of the day. He went. The meeting 
 had been called by S. Walmsley Cowan, who in his 
 talks to large groups adopted the benevolent big-brother 
 manner and turned on and off a beaming smile. 
 
 "My friends," he began, "it is no secret to some of 
 you that Mr. Hammer has not been pleased with the 
 way things are going in the company. He has felt that 
 there has been a great deal of waste of time and money ; 
 that neither the volume of business nor the profits on 
 it are what they should be. He has commissioned me 
 to find out what is wrong in the company and to put 
 pep, efficiency, enthusiasm into our organization." 
 
 He smiled a modest smile. 
 
 "I rather fancy," he continued, "that I'll succeed. I 
 have been conducting the tests with which you are all 
 doubtless familiar through reading my books, 'Pep, Per- 
 sonality, Personnel,' and 'How to Enthuse Employees.' 
 I have made a most interesting and startling discovery. 
 Most of you are in the wrong jobs !" 
 
 He paused. The men and women looked at each 
 other uneasily. Then he went on. 
 
 "I'll cite just one instance. Yesterday I tested the 
 mentality of one of you. I found that he was of the 
 cage, or solitary, type of worker. See Page 239 of my 
 book on Getting Into Men's Brains. But he was already 
 working in a cage ! Here was a problem. Could it be 
 that that was where he would do best ? No I Then a 
 happy solution struck me. He was in the wrong cage. 
 So I am going to transfer him from a mathematical 
 cage to a mechanical cage. I am going to transfer him 
 to be an elevator operator. This may surprise you, my 
 friends, but science is always surprising. Just fancy!
 
 138 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 This man has been working with figures for more than 
 twenty years, and I discover by measuring that hia 
 thumbs are of the purely mechanical type, and all that 
 time he would have been much happier running an 
 elevator. Now by an odd coincidence I found that one 
 of the elevator operators has a pure type of mathemati- 
 cal ear, so I am transferring him to the cashier's cage. 
 He may seem a bit awkward there at first, but we shall 
 see, we shall see." 
 
 He turned on his smile. But the eyes of the em- 
 ployees had turned sympathetically to the pale face of 
 Horace Nimms. How old and tired Uncle Horace 
 looked, they thought. In a nightmare Horace heard 
 his doom pronounced. After twenty-one years! His 
 temple of figures! 
 
 S. Walmsley Cowan unconcernedly began one of hia 
 celebrated pep-and-punch talks calculated to send 
 morale up as a candle sends up the mercury in a ther- 
 mometer. 
 
 "Friends," he said, thumping the table before him, 
 "when Opportunity comes to knock be on the front 
 porch ! Don't hold back ! He who hesitates is lost. It 
 may be that the humble will inherit the earth, but that 
 will be when all the bold have died. Don't hide your 
 light under a basket; don't keep your ideas locked up 
 in your skulls. Bring 'em out! Let's have a look at 
 them. You wouldn't wear a diamond ring inside your 
 shirt, would you?- Be sure you're right, then holler 
 your head off. Get what is coming to you! Nobody 
 will bring it on a platter; you've got to step up and 
 grab it. When you have an impulse, think it over. 
 If it looks like the real goods, obey it. Get me ? Obey 
 it ! Nobody will bite you. Think all you like, but for 
 heaven's sake, act!"
 
 The Cage Man 139 
 
 It was for such talks that Mr. Cowan was famous. 
 Even Horace Nimms forgot his impending fall as the 
 efficiency expert extraordinary declaimed the gospel of 
 action and boldness. 
 
 But when the meeting was over, silent misery came 
 into the heart of the little cashier and like an automa- 
 ton he stumbled into the Subway. He ate his bread 
 pudding without tasting it and tried to talk to Polly 
 about the proposed living room in the Long Island cot- 
 tage. He hadn't the courage to tell her what had hap- 
 pened; indeed he hardly realized what had happened 
 himself. 
 
 In the morning he tried to pretend to himself that 
 it was all a joke; surely Mr. Cowan couldn't have 
 meant it. But when he reached his cage he saw an- 
 other figure already in that temple of addition and sub- 
 traction. He rattled the wire door timidly. The figure 
 turned. 
 
 "Wadda yah want?" it asked bellicosely. 
 
 Horace Nimms recogized the bluish jaw of Gus, one 
 of the elevator men. 
 
 Sick at heart, Horace turned away. In the blur of 
 his thoughts was the one that he must keep his job, 
 some job, any job. One can't save much on forty a 
 week in Flatbush. And that he should work for any 
 one but the Amalgamated Soap Corporation was un- 
 thinkable. So without knowing exactly how it hap- 
 pened, he found himself in a blue-and-gray uniform 
 clumsily trying to vindicate his mechanical hands and 
 attempting to stop his car within six inches of the floors. 
 All morning he patiently escorted his car up and down 
 the elevator shaft twenty stories up, twenty stories 
 down, twenty stories up, twenty stories down. He 
 thought of the Song of the Shirt.
 
 140 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 At noon he stopped his car at the eighteenth floor 
 and two passengers got on. Horace recognized them. 
 One was Jim Wright, assistant to President Hammer; 
 the other was Mr. Perrine, Western sales manager. 
 They were in animated conversation. 
 
 "That fellow has the crust of a mud turtle and the 
 tact of a rattlesnake," Mr. Perrine was saying. 
 
 "Kemember," Jim Wright reminded him, "he is an 
 efficiency expert extraordinary. The big boss seems to 
 have confidence in him." 
 
 "He won't have quite so much," said Mr. Perrine, 
 "when he hears that he put an elevator man in as 
 cashier. I hear he walked off with six hundred dollars 
 before he'd been on the job an hour." 
 
 Horace pricked up his ears. He made the car go 
 as slowly as possible. 
 
 "He did ?" Jim Wright was excited. "And this is 
 one of the boss' bad days too ! Just before I left him 
 he was saying, 'The Amalgamated has about as much 
 system as a piece of cheese. Why, these high-salaried 
 executives can't tell me how much it costs them to make 
 and sell a cake of soap!" 
 
 Then Horace reluctantly let them out of the elevator 
 at the street floor. 
 
 All that afternoon he struggled with an impulse. 
 The words of Mr. Cowan's oration of the night before 
 began to come back to him. If only he had obeyed his 
 impulses 
 
 As he was a new man, they gave him the late shift. 
 At one minute to six the indicator in his car gave two 
 short, sharp, peremptory buzzes. Horace, who was mas- 
 tering the elements of elevator operating, shot up to 
 the eighteenth floor. A single passenger got on. With
 
 The Case Man 141 
 
 a little gasp Horace recognized the cutaway coat and 
 top hat of the president of the Amalgamated. 
 
 Horace set his teeth. His small frame grew tense. 
 He turned the lever and the car started to glide down- 
 ward. Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, 
 twelve ! Then with a quick twist of his wrist Horace 
 stalled the car between the twelfth and eleventh floors 
 and slipped the controlling key into his pocket. Then 
 he turned and faced the big president. 
 
 "You don't know a hell of a lot about running an 
 elevator," remarked Oren Hammer. 
 
 "No, I don't," said Horace Nimms in a strange, loud 
 voice that he didn't recognize. "But I do know how 
 much it costs a cake to make Pink Petal Toilet." 
 
 "What's that ? Who the devil are you ?" The great 
 man was more surprised than angry. 
 
 "Nimms," said Horace briefly. "Office cashier on 
 seventeenth floor twenty-one years. Elevator operator 
 one day. Mr. Cowan's orders." 
 
 Mr. Hammer's brow contracted. 
 
 "So you think you can tell me how much Pink Petal 
 costs a cake to make, eh?" he said. 
 
 He had the reputation of never overlooking an 
 opportunity. 
 
 The imaginary conversations that Horace had been 
 having crowded back into his mind. 
 
 "Now, looky here, Mr. Hammer," he began. "The 
 Western works made 9,576,491 cakes of Pink Petal 
 Toilet last year. Now the cost a cake was " and so on. 
 Horace was on familiar ground now. Figures and 
 statistics tripped from his tongue; the details he had 
 bottled up inside him so long came pouring forth. He 
 knew the business of the Amalgamated down to the 
 last stamp and rubber band. Oren Hammer, listening
 
 142 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 with keen interest, now and then put in a short, direct 
 question. Horace Nimms snapped back short, direct 
 answers. Once launched, he forgot all about the cut- 
 away coat and the dazzling top hat and even about the 
 big-jawed man who washed the faces of forty million 
 people every morning. Horace was talking to get back 
 into his cage and words came with a new-found elo- 
 quence. 
 
 "By George," exclaimed President Hammer, "you 
 know more about the business than I do myself ! And 
 Cowan told you you didn't have a figuring mind, did 
 he? I want you to report at my office the first thing 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 Horace Nimms, in the black suit he saved for 
 funerals and weddings, and a new tie, was ushered 
 into the big office of President Hammer the next morn- 
 ing. Outwardly, it was his hope, he was calm; in- 
 wardly, he knew, he was quaking. 
 
 "Have a cigar, Nimms," said Oren Hammer, pass- 
 ing Horace one of the presidential perfectos of his 
 dreams. Then he summoned a secretary. 
 
 "Ask Mr. Cowan to come in, will you?" he said. 
 
 The efficiency expert extraordinary entered, beaming 
 affably. 
 
 "Good morning to you, Mr. Hammer," he called out 
 in a cheery voice. Then he stopped short as he recog- 
 nized Horace. 
 
 "Oh, come here, Cowan," said President Hammer 
 genially. "Before you go I want you to meet Mr. 
 Nimms, He is going to install a new cost-accounting 
 system for us. Just step down to the cashier's cage 
 with him, will you, and get your salary to date."
 
 VII: Where is the Tropic of 
 Capricorn?
 
 VII: Where is the Tropic 
 of Capricorn ? 
 
 , two, three, bend! One, two, three, bend!" 
 So barked the physical instructor, a bulgy 
 man with muscles popping out all over him as 
 if his skin had been stuffed with hard-boiled eggs. 
 
 Little Peter Mullaney oned, twoed, threed and bent 
 with such earnest and whole-hearted violence that his 
 blue eyes seemed likely to be jostled from their sockets 
 and the freckles to be jarred loose from his thin, wiry 
 arms. Though breathless, and not a little sinew-sore 
 from the stiff setting-up exercises, his small, sharp- 
 jawed face wore a beatified look, the look that bespeaks 
 the rare, ecstatic thrill that comes to mortals so seldom 
 in this life of taxes, prohibitions and denied ambitions. 
 Such a look might a hero-worshiping boy wear if seen 
 by his gang in the company of Jack Dempsey, or a 
 writer if caught in the act of taking tea with Shaw. 
 Peter Mullaney was standing at the very door of his 
 life's ambition ; he was about to be taken "on the cops." 
 
 To be taken "on the cops" the phrase is depart- 
 mental argot and is in common use by those who enjoy 
 that distinction this had been the ideal of Peter Mul- 
 laney since the days when he, an undersized infant, had 
 tottered around his Christopher Street back-yard, an 
 improvised broom-stick billy in his hand, solemnly ar- 
 resting and incarcerating his small companions. Ta 
 
 US
 
 146 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 wear that spruce, brass-button studded blue uniform, 
 and that glittering silver shield, to twirl a well-trained 
 night-stick on its cord, to eye the layman with the cold, 
 impassive eye of authority, to whisper mysterious mes- 
 sages into red iron signal boxes on street-corners, to 
 succor the held-up citizen and pursue the crook to his 
 underworld lair, to be addressed as "Officer" he had 
 lived for this dream. 
 
 And here he was, the last man on a row of thirty 
 panting, perspiring probationary patrolmen, ranged, 
 according to height, across the gymnasium of the police 
 training school. From big Dan Mack, six feet four in 
 his socks, they graded down as gently as a ramp to 
 little Peter on the end of the line a scant, a bare five 
 feet five and seven-eighths inches tall including the de- 
 fiant bristle of his red pompadour. 
 
 Peter was happy, and with reason. It was by no 
 generous margin that Peter had gained admission to 
 the school that was to prepare him for his career. By 
 the sheerest luck he had escaped being cast into the 
 exterior darkness; by the slimmest degree he had wig- 
 gled into the school, and whether he could attain the 
 goal on which he had kept his eye for twenty years 
 or ever since he was four was still decidedly in doubt. 
 The law said in plain, inexorable black and white that 
 the minimum height a policeman can be is five feet and 
 six inches. Peter Mullaney lacked that stature by the 
 distance between a bumble-bee's eyes ; and this, despite 
 the fact that for years he had sought most strenuously, 
 by exercise, diet and even torture to stretch out his 
 body to the required five feet six. When he was 
 eighteen and it seemed certain that an unsympathetic 
 fate had meant him to be a short man, his father found 
 him one day in the attic, lashed to a beam, with a box
 
 Where is the Tropic of Capricorn? 147 
 
 full of window-weights tied to liis feet, and his face 
 gray with pain. 
 
 "Shure, me bye," remarked old man Mullaney as he 
 cut Peter down, "are ye after thinkin' that the Mul- 
 laneys is made of Injy rubber? Don't it say in the 
 Bible, 'What man by takin' thought can add a Cupid 
 to his statue ?' " 
 
 Peter, in hot and anguished rebellion against this 
 all too evident law of nature had sought relief by going 
 straight out of the house and licking the first boy he 
 met who was twice as big as he was, in a fight that is 
 still remembered in the Second Ward. But stretching 
 and wishing and even eating unpleasant and expensive 
 tablets, alleged by their makers to be made from 
 giraffes' glands, did not bring Peter up to a full and 
 unquestionable five feet six. 
 
 When Peter came up for a preliminary examination 
 which was to determine whether he possessed the mate- 
 rial from which policemen are made, Commissioner 
 Kondorman, as coldly scientific as his steel scales and 
 measures, surveyed the stricken Peter, as he stood there 
 on the scales, his freckles in high relief on his skin, 
 for he was pale all over at the thought that he nrght 
 be rejected. 
 
 "Candidate Hullaney," said the Commissioner, 
 "you're too short." 
 
 Peter felt marble lumps swelling in his throat. 
 
 "If you'd only give me a chance, Commissioner," he 
 was able to gulp out, "I'd " 
 
 Commissioner Kondorman, who had been studying 
 the records spread on his desk, cut the supplicant short 
 with: 
 
 "Your marks in the other tests are pretty good, 
 though you seem a little weak in general education.
 
 148 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 But your strength test is unusually high, for a small 
 man. However, regulations are regulations and I be- 
 lieve in sticking to them. Next candidate !" 
 
 Peter did not go. 
 
 "Commissioner," he hegan urgently, "all I ask is a 
 chance " 
 
 His eyes were tense and pleading. 
 
 The Chief Inspector, grizzled Matthew McCabe, 
 plucked at the Commissioner's coat-sleeve. 
 
 "Well, Chief?" inquired Commissioner Kondorman, 
 a little impatiently. 
 
 "He's a good lad," put in the Chief Inspector, "and 
 well spoke of in the Second Ward." 
 
 "He's under height," said the Commissioner, briefly. 
 
 "But he knows how to handle his fists," argued the 
 old Chief Inspector. 
 
 "Does he ?" said the Commissioner, skeptically. "He 
 looks rather small." He examined Peter through his 
 eye-glasses; beneath that chill and critical gaze Peter 
 felt that he had shrunk to the size of a bantam rooster ; 
 the lumps in his throat were almost choking him ; in an 
 agony of desperation, he cried, 
 
 "Bring in the biggest man you got. I'll fight him." 
 
 The Commissioner's face was set in hard, and one 
 would have thought, immovable lines, yet he achieved 
 the feat of turning up, ever so slightly, the corners of 
 his lips in an expression which might pass as the germ 
 of a smile, as he gazed at the small, nude, freckled 
 figure before him with its vivid shaving-brush hair, its 
 intense eyes and its clenched fists posed in approved 
 prize-ring form. Again the official bent over the reo- 
 ords and studied them. 
 
 "Character recommendations seem pretty good," he 
 mused. "Never has used tobacco or liquor "
 
 Where Is the Tropic of Capricorn? 149 
 
 " 'Fraid it might stunt me," muttered Peter, "so I 
 couldn't get on the cops." 
 
 The commissioner stared at him with one degree 
 more of interest. 
 
 "Give the lad a chance," urged the Chief Inspector. 
 "He only lacks a fraction of an inch. He may grow." 
 
 "Now, Chief," said the Commissioner turning to 
 the official by his side, "you know I'm a stickler for 1 , 
 the rules. What's the good of saying officers must be 
 five feet six and then taking men who are shorter ?" 
 
 "You know how badly we need men," shrugged the 
 Chief Inspector, "and Mullaney here strikes me as 
 having the making of a good cop. It will do no harm 
 to try him out." 
 
 The Commissioner considered for a moment. Then 
 he wheeled round and faced Peter Mullaney. 
 
 "You've asked for a chance," he shot out. "You'll 
 get it. You can attend police training school for three 
 months. I'll waive the fact that you're below the re- 
 quired height, for the time being. But if in your final 
 examinations you don't get excellent marks in every 
 branch, by the Lord Harry, you get no shield from 
 me. Do you understand? One slip, and good-by to 
 you. Next candidate!" 
 
 They had to guide Peter Mullaney back to his 
 clothes ; he was in a dazed blur of happiness. 
 
 Next day, with the strut of a conqueror and with 
 pride shining from every freckle, little Peter Mullaney 
 entered the police training school. To fit himself 
 physically for the task of being a limb of the law, he 
 oned, twoed, threed and bent by the hour, twisted the 
 toes of two hundred pound fellow students in frantic 
 jiu jitsu, and lugged other ponderous probationers 
 about on his shoulders in the practice of first aid to
 
 150 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 the injured. This physical side of his schooling Peter 
 enjoyed, and, despite his lack of inches, did extremely 
 well, for he was quick, tough and determined. But it 
 was the book-work that made him pucker his brow and 
 press his head with his hands as if to keep it from 
 bursting with the facts he had to jam into it. 
 
 It was the boast of Commissioner Kondorman that 
 he was making his police force the most intelligent in 
 the world. Give him time, he was fond of saying, and 
 there would not be a man on it who could not be called 
 well-informed. He intended to see to it that from 
 chief inspector down to the greenest patrolman they 
 could answer, off-hand, not only questions about routine 
 police matters, but about the whole range of the 
 encyclopedia. 
 
 "I want well-informed men, intelligent men," he 
 said. "Men who can tell you the capital of Patagonia, 
 where copra comes from, and who discovered the cotton- 
 gin. I want men who have used their brains, have 
 read and thought a bit. The only way I can find that 
 out is by asking questions, isn't it?" 
 
 The anti-administration press, with intent to slight, 
 called the policemen "Kondorman's Encyclopedias 
 bound in blue," but he was not in the least perturbed; 
 he made his next examination a l)it stiffer. 
 
 Peter Mullaney, handicaped by the fact that hia 
 span of elementary schooling had been abbreviated by 
 the necessity of earning his own living, struggled 
 valiantly with weighty tomes packed with statutes, or- 
 dinances, and regulations what a police officer can 
 and cannot do about mayhem, snow on the sidewalks, 
 arson, dead horses in the street, kidnaping, extricating 
 intoxicated gentlemen from man-holes, smoking auto- 
 mobiles, stray goats, fires, earthquakes, lost children,
 
 Where is the Tropic of Capricorn? 151 
 
 blizzards, disorderly conduct and riots. He prepared 
 himself, by no small exertion, to tell an inquiring public 
 where Bedford street is, if traffic can go both ways on 
 Commerce street, what car to take to get from Hudson 
 street to Chatham Square, how to get to the nearest 
 branch library, quick lunch, p/ublic bath, zoo, dispen- 
 sary and garage, how to get to the Old Slip Station, 
 Flower Hospital, the St. Regis, Coney Island, Duluth 
 and Grant's Tomb. He stuffed himself with these per- 
 tinent facts ; he wanted to be a good cop. He could not 
 see exactly how it would help him to know in addition 
 to an appalling amount of local geography and history, 
 the name of the present ruler of Bulgaria, what a zebu 
 is, and who wrote "Home, Sweet Home." But since 
 questions of this sort were quite sure to bob up on the 
 examination he toiled through many volumes with a 
 zeal that made his head ache. 
 
 When he had been working diligently in the training 
 school for three months lacking a day, the great moment 
 came when he was given a chance to put theory into 
 practice, by being sent forth, in a uniform slightly too 
 large for him, to patrol a beat in the company of a 
 veteran officer, so that he might observe, at first hand, 
 how an expert handled the many and varied duties of 
 the police job. Except that he had no shield, no night 
 stick, and no revolver, Peter looked exactly like any of 
 the other guardians of law. He trudged by the side of 
 the big Officer Gaffney, trying to look stern, and finding 
 it hard to keep his joy from breaking out in a smile. 
 If Judy McMty could only see him now ! They were 
 to be married as soon as he got his shield. 
 
 But joy is never without its alloy. Even as Peter 
 strode importantly through the streets of the upper 
 [West Side, housing delicious thrills in every corpuscle
 
 152 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 from the top of his blue cap to the thick soles and rubber 
 heels of his shiningly new police shoes, a worry kept 
 plucking at his mind. On the morrow lie was to take 
 his final examination in general education, and that 
 was no small obstacle between him and his shield. He 
 had labored to be ready, but he was afraid. 
 
 That worry grew as he paced along, trying to remem- 
 ber whether the Amazon is longer than the Ganges and 
 who Gambetta was. He did not even pay close atten- 
 tion to his mentor, although on most occasions those 
 five blue service stripes on Officer Gaffney's sleeve, rep- 
 resenting a quarter of a century on the force, would 
 have caused Peter to listen with rapt interest to Officer 
 Gaffney's genial flow of reminiscence and advice. 
 Dimly he heard the old policeman rumbling: 
 
 "When I was took on the cops, Pether, all they ex- 
 pected of a cop was two fists and a cool head. But 
 sthyles in cops changes like sthyles in hats, I guess. 
 I've seen a dozen commissioners come and go, and they 
 all had their own ideas. The prisint comish is the 
 queerest duck of the lot, wid his "Who was Pernam- 
 buco and what the divil ailed him, and who invinted 
 the gin rickey and who discovered the Gowanus Canal." 
 Not that I'm agin a cop bein' a learned man. Divil a 
 bit. Learnin' won't hurt him none if he has two fists 
 and a clear head." 
 
 He paused to take nourishment from some tabloid 
 tobacco in his hip-pocket, and rumbled on, 
 
 "Whin I was took on the cops, as I say, they was no 
 graduatin' exercises like a young ladies' siminary. The 
 comish it waa auld Malachi Bannon looked ye 
 square in the eye and said, 'Young fella, ye're about to 
 go forth and riprisint the majesty of the law. Whin 
 on juty be clane and sober and raisonably honest. Keep
 
 Where is the Tropic of Capricorn? 153 
 
 a civil tongue in your head for ivrybody, even Repub- 
 licans. Get to know your precinct like a book. Don't 
 borrow trouble. But above all, rimimber this: a cop 
 can do a lot of queer things and square himself wid me 
 afterward, but there's one sin no cop can square the 
 sin of runnin' away whin needed. Go to your post/ " 
 
 Little Peter nodded his head. 
 
 They paced along in silence for a time. Then Peter 
 asked, 
 
 "Jawn " 
 
 "What, Pether?" 
 
 "Jawn, where is the Tropic of Capricorn ?" 
 
 Officer Gaffney wrinkled his grey eyebrows quizzi- 
 cally. 
 
 "The Tropic of Whichicorn ?" he inquired. 
 
 "The Tropic of Capricorn," repeated Peter. 
 
 "Pether," said Officer Gaffney, dubiously, scratching 
 his head with the tip of his night-stick, "I disrimimber 
 but I think I think, mind ye, it's in the Bronx." 
 
 They continued their leisurely progress. 
 
 " 'Tis a quiet beat, this," observed Officer Gaffney. 
 "Quiet but responsible. Rich folks lives in these houses, 
 Pether, and that draws crooks, sometimes. But mostlv 
 it's as quiet as a Sunday in Dooleyville." He laughed 
 deep in his chest. 
 
 "It makes me think," he said, "of Tommie Toohy, 
 him that's a lieutinant now over in Canarsie. 'Tis 
 a lesson ye'd do well to mind, Pether." 
 
 Peter signified that he was all ears. 
 
 "He had the cop bug worse than you, even, PetHer, w 
 said the veteran. 
 
 Peter flushed beneath his freckles. 
 
 "Yis, he had it bad, this Tommie Toohy," pursued 
 Officer Gaffney. "He was crazy to be a cop as soon as
 
 154 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 he could walk. I never seen a happier man in me life 
 than Toohy the day he swaggers out of the station- 
 house to go on post up in the twenty-ninth precinct. 
 In thim days there was nawthin' up there but rows of 
 little cottages wid stoops on thim ; nawthin but dacint, 1 
 respictable folks lived there and they always give that 
 beat to a recruity because it was so quiet. Well, 
 Toohy goes on juty at six o'clock in the evenin', puffed 
 up wid importance and polishing his shield every min- 
 ute or two. 'Tis a short beat up one side of Garden 
 Avenue and down on the other side. Toohy paces up 
 and down, swingin' his night-stick and lookin' hard 
 and suspicious at every man, woman or child that 
 passes him. He was just bustin' to show his authority. 
 But nawthin' happened. Toohy paced up and back, 
 up and back, up and back. It gets to be eight o'clock. 
 Nawthin happens. Toohy can stand it no longer. He 
 spies an auld man sittin' on his stoop, peacefully 
 imokin' his evenin' pipe. Toohy goes up to the old 
 fellow and glares at him. 
 
 " 'What are you doin' there ?' says Toohy. 
 
 " 'Nawthin,' says the auld man. 
 
 " 'Well,' says Toohy, wid a stern scowl, shakin' his 
 night-stick at the scared auld gazabo, 'You go in the 
 house.' " 
 
 Peter chuckled. 
 
 "But Toohy lived to make a good cop for all that," 
 finished the veteran. "Wid all his recruity monkey- 
 shines, he never ran away whin needed." 
 
 "I wonder could he bound Bolivia," said Peter 
 Mullaney. 
 
 "I'll bet he could," said Officer Gaffney, "if it was 
 in his precinct."
 
 Where is the Tropic of Capricorn? 155 
 
 Late next afternoon, Peter sat gnawing his knuckles 
 in a corner of the police schoolroom. All morning he 
 had battled with the examination in general education. 
 It had not been as hard as he had feared, but he waa 
 worried nevertheless. So much was at stake. 
 
 He was quivering all over when he was summoned 
 to the office of the Commissioner, and his quivering 
 grew as he saw the rigid face of Commissioner Kondor- 
 man, and read no ray of hope there. Papers were 
 strewn over the official desk. Kondorman looked up, 
 frowned. 
 
 "Mullaney," he said, bluntly, "you've failed." 
 
 "F-f ailed ?" quavered Peter. 
 
 "Yes. In general education. I told you if you made 
 excellent marks we'd overlook your deficiency in height. 
 Your paper" he tapped it with his finger "isn't bad. 
 But it isn't good. You fell down hard on question 
 seventeen." 
 
 "Question seventeen?" 
 
 "Yes. The question is, 'Where is the Tropic of 
 Capricorn ?' And your answer is" the Commissioner 
 paused before he pronounced the damning words 
 " 'The Tropic of Capricon is in the Bronx.' ' 
 
 Peter gulped, blinked, opened and shut his fists, 
 twisted his cap in hisihands, a picture of abject misery. 
 The Commissioner's -voice was crisp and final. 
 
 "That's all, Mullaney. Sorry. Turn in your uni- 
 form at once. Well ?" 
 
 Peter had started away, had stopped and was facing 
 the commissioner. 
 
 "Commissioner," he begged 
 
 "That will do," snapped the Commissioner. I gave 
 you your chance; you understood the conditions." 
 
 "It it isn't that," fumbled out Peter Mullaney,
 
 156 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "but but wouldn't you please let me go out on post 
 once more with Officer Gaffney?" 
 
 "I don't see what good that would do," said Commis- 
 sioner Kondorman, gruffly. 
 
 Tears were in Peter's eyes. 
 
 "You see you see " he got out with an effort, "it 
 
 would be my last chance to wear the uniform and I 
 wanted somebody to see me in it 
 just once." 
 
 The Commissioner stroked his chin reflectively. 
 
 "Were you scheduled to go out on post for instruc- 
 tion," he asked, "if you passed your examination?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. From eight to eleven." 
 
 The Commissioner thought a moment. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I'll let you go. It won't alter the 
 case any, of course. You're through, here. Turn in 
 your uniform by eleven thirty, sure." 
 
 Peter mumbled his thanks, and went out of the 
 office with shoulders that drooped as if he were carry- 
 ing a safe on them. 
 
 It waa with heavy steps and a heavier heart that 
 little Peter Mullaney, by the side of his mentor, passed 
 the corner where Judy McNulty stood proudly waiting 
 for him. He saluted her gravely with two fingers to his 
 visor police officers never bow and kept his eyes 
 straight ahead. He did not have the heart to stop, to 
 speak to her, to tell her what had happened to him. 
 He hadn't even told Officer Gaffney. He stalked along 
 in bitter silence; his eyes were fixed on his shoes, the 
 stout, shiny police shoes he had bought to wear at his 
 graduation, the shoes he was to have worn when he
 
 Where is the Tropic of Capricorn? 157 
 
 stepped up to the Commissioner and received his shield, 
 with head erect and a high heart. His empty hands 
 hung heavily at his sides; there was no baton of author- 
 ity in them; there never would be. Beneath the place 
 his silver shield would never cover now was a cold 
 numbness. 
 
 "Damn the Tropic of Capricorn," came from between 
 clenched teeth, "Damn the Tropic of Capricorn." 
 
 Gaffney's quick ears heard him. 
 
 "Still thinkin' about the Tropic of Capricorn?" he 
 asked, not knowing that the words made Peter wince. 
 "Well, me bye, 'twill do no harm to know where it is. 
 I'm not denyin' that it's a gran' thing for a cop to be a 
 scholar. But just the same 'tis me firm belief that a 
 man may be able to tell the difference bechune a be- 
 gonia and a petunia, he may be able to tell where the 
 now Tropic of Unicorn is, he may know who wrote 
 "In the Sweet Bye and Bye," and who invented the 
 sprinklin' cart, he may be able to tell the population of 
 Peking and Pann Yann, but he ain't a cop at all if he 
 iver runs away whin needed. Ye can stake your shield 
 on that, me bye." 
 
 His shield ? Peter dug 1 his nails into the palm of his 
 band. Blind hate against the Commissioner, against 
 the whole department, flared up in him. He'd strip 
 the uniform off on the spot, he'd hurl it into the gutter, 
 he'd 
 
 Officer Gaffney had stopped short. A woman was 
 coming through the night, running. As she panted up 
 to them in the quiet, deserted street, the two men saw 
 that she was a middle-aged woman in a wrapper, and 
 that she was white with fright.
 
 158 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "Burglars," she gasped. 
 
 "Where ?" rapped out Officer Gaffney. 
 
 "Number 97." 
 
 "Be calm, ma'am. What makes ye think they're 
 burglars ?" 
 
 "I heard them. . . . Moving around. ... In the 
 drawing room. . . . Upstairs." 
 
 "Who are you ?" asked the old policeman, imperturb- 
 ably. 
 
 "Mrs. Finn caretaker. The family is away." 
 
 "Pether," said Officer Gaffney, "you stay here and 
 mind the beat like a good bucko, while I stroll down 
 to ninety-sivin wid Mrs. Finn." 
 
 "Let me come too, Jawn," cried Peter. 
 
 Gaffney laid his big hand on little Peter's chest. 
 
 " 'Tig probably a cat movin' around," he said softly 
 so that Mrs. Finn could not hear. "Lonely wimmin 
 is always hearin' things. Besides me ambitious but 
 diminootive frind, if they was yeggs what good could 
 ye do wid no stick and no gun ? You stay here on the 
 corner like I'm tellin' you and I'll be back in ten min- 
 utes by the clock." 
 
 Peter Mullaney waited on the corner. He saw the 
 bulky figure of Officer Gaffney proceed at a dignified 
 but rapid waddle down the block, followed by the 
 smaller, more agitated figure of the woman. He saw 
 Officer Gaffney go into the basement entrance, and he 
 saw Mrs. Finn hesitate, then timidly follow. He 
 waited. A long minute passed. Another. Another. 
 Then the scream of a woman hit his ears. He saw Mrs. 
 Finn dart from the house, wringing her hands, scream- 
 ing. He sprinted down to her.
 
 Where is the Tropic of Capricorn? 159 
 
 "They've kilt him/' screamed the woman. "Oh, 
 they've kilt the officer." 
 
 "Who ? Tell me. Quick !" 
 
 "The yeggs," she wailed. "There's two of them. 
 The officer went upstairs. They shot him. He rolled 
 down. Don't go in. They'll shoot you. Send for 
 help." 
 
 Peter stood still. He was not thinking of the yeggs, 
 or of Gaffney. He was hearing Kondorman ask, 
 "Where is the Tropic of Capricorn ?" He was hearing 
 Kondorman say, "You've failed." Something had him 
 tight. Something was asking him, "Why go in that 
 house ? Why risk your life ? You're not a cop. You'll 
 never be a cop. They threw you out. They made a 
 fool of you for a trifle." 
 
 Peter started back from the open door; he looked 
 down; the street light fell on the brass buttons of his 
 uniform; the words of the old policeman darted across 
 his brain : "A cop never runs away when needed." 
 
 He caught his breath and plunged into the house. 
 At the foot of the stairs leading up to the second floor 
 he saw by the street light that came through the opened 
 door, the sprawling form of a big man ; the light glanced 
 from the silver badge on his broad chest. Peter bent 
 over hastily. 
 
 "Is it you, Pether?" breathed Gaffney, with diffi- 
 culty. "They got me. Got me good. Wan of thim 
 knocked me gun from me hand and the other plugged 
 me. Through the chist. I'm done for, Pether. I can't 
 breathe. Stop, Pether, stop!" 
 
 The veteran tried to struggle to his feet, but sank 
 back, holding fiercely to Peter's leg. 
 
 "Let me go, Jawn. Let me go," whispered Peter 
 hoarsely.
 
 160 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "They'll murder you, Pether. It's two men to wan, 
 and they're armed." 
 
 "Let me go in, I tell you, Jawn. Let me go. A good 
 cop never runs you said it yourself let me go " 
 
 Slowly the grip on Peter's leg relaxed ; the dimming 
 eyes of the wounded man had suddenly grown very 
 bright. J 
 
 "Ye're right, me little bucko," he said faintly. "Ye'll 
 be a credit to the foorce, Pether." And then the light 
 died out of his eyes and the hand that had grasped 
 Peter fell limp to the floor. 
 
 Peter was up the stairs that led to the second floor 
 in three swift, wary jumps. He heard a skurry of 
 footsteps in the back of the house. Dashing a potted 
 fern from its slender wooden stand, he grasped the end 
 of the stand, and swinging it like a baseball bat, he 
 pushed through velvet curtains into a large room. There 
 was enough light there from the moon for him to see 
 two black figures prying desperately at a door. They 
 wheeled as he entered. Bending low he hurled him- 
 self at them as he had done when playing football on 
 a back lot. There was a flash so near that it burned 
 his face; he felt a sharp fork of pain cross his head 
 as if his scalp had been slashed by a red-hot knife. 
 With all the force in his taut body he swung the stand 
 at the nearest man; it caught the man across the face 
 and he went down with a broken, guttural cry. A sec- 
 ond and a third shot from the revolver of the other 
 man roared in Peter's ears. Still crouching, Peter 
 dived through the darkness at the knees of the man with 
 the gun; together they went to the floor in a cursing, 
 grunting tangle. 
 
 The burglar struggled to jab down the butt of his 
 revolver on the head of the small man who had fas-
 
 Where is the Tropic of Capricorn? 161 
 
 tened himself to him with the death grip of a mongoose 
 on a cobra. They thrashed about the room. Peter had 
 gotten a hold on the man's pistol wrist and he held to 
 it while the man with his free hand rained blow after 
 blow on the defenseless face and bleeding head of the 
 little man. As they fought in the darkness, the burglar 
 with a sudden violent wrench tore loose the clinging 
 Peter, and hurled him against a table, whicli crashed 
 to the floor with the impact of Peter's one hundred and 
 thirty pounds of muscle and bone. 
 
 As Peter hurtled back, his arms shot out mechanically 
 to break his fall; one groping hand closed on a heavy 
 iron candle-stick that had stood on the table. He was 
 up in a flash, the candle-stick in his hand. His eyes 
 were blinded by the blood from his wound ; he dashed 
 the blood away with his coat-sleeve. With a short, 
 sharp motion he hurled the candle-stick at his oppo- 
 nent's head, outlined against a window, not six feet 
 away. At the moment the missile flew from Peter's 
 hand, the yegg steadied himself and fired. Then he 
 reeled to the floor as the candle-stick's heavy base struck 
 him between the eyes. 
 
 For the ghost of a second, Peter Mullaney stood 
 swaying; then his hands clawed at the place on his 
 chest where his shield might have been as if his heart 
 had caught fire and he wished to tear it out of himself ; 
 then, quite gently, he crumpled to the floor, and there 
 was the quiet of night in the room. 
 
 As little Peter Mullaney lay in the hospital trying 
 to see through his bandages the flowers Judy MdSTulty 
 had brought him, he heard the voice of the doctor say- 
 ing: 
 
 "Here he is. Nasty chest wound. We almost lost
 
 162 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 him. He didn't seem to care much whether he pulled 
 through or not. Was delirious for hours. Kept mut- 
 tering something about the Tropic of Capricorn. But 
 I think he'll come through all right now. You just 
 can't kill one of these tough little micks." 
 
 Peering through his bandages, Peter Mullaney saw 
 the square shoulders and stern face of Commissioner 
 Kondorman. 
 
 "Good morning, Mullaney," the Commissioner said, 
 in his formal official voice. "I'm glad to hear that 
 you're going to get better." 
 
 "Thank you, Commissioner," murmured Peter, 
 watching him with wondering eyes. 
 
 Commissioner Kondorman felt round in an inside 
 pocket and brought out a small box from which he 
 carefully took something that glittered in the morning 
 sunlight. Bending over the bed, he pinned it on the 
 night-shirt of Peter Mullaney. Peter felt it; stopped 
 breathing; felt it again; slowly pulled it out so that 
 he could look at it. 
 
 "It was Officer John Gaffney's," said the Commis- 
 sioner, and his voice was trying hard to be official and 
 formal, but it was getting husky. "He was a brave 
 officer. I wanted another brave officer to have his 
 shield." 
 
 "But, Commissioner," cried Peter, winking very hard 
 with both eyes, for they were blurring, "haven't you 
 made a mistake? You must have got the wrong man. 
 Don't you remember ? I'm the one that said the Tropic 
 of Capricorn is in the Bronx !" 
 
 "Officer Mullaney," said Commissioner Kondorman 
 in an odd voice, "if a cop like you says the Tropic of 
 Capricorn is in the Bronx, then, by the lord Harry, 
 that's where the Tropic of Capricorn is."
 
 VIII : Mr. Braddys Bottle
 
 VIII: Mr. Braddy's Bottle 
 
 1 
 
 /TTfHIS," said Mr. William Lum solemnly, "is the 
 
 I very las' bottle of this stuff in these United 
 -* States!" 
 
 It was a dramatic moment. He held it aloft with the 
 pride and tender care of a recent parent exhibiting 
 a first-born child. Mr. Hugh Braddy emitted a long, 
 low whistle, expressive of the awe due the occasion. 
 
 "You don't tell me!" he said. 
 
 "Yes, siree ! There ain't another bottle of this won- 
 derful old hooch left anywhere. Not anywhere. A man 
 couldn't get one like it for love nor money. Not for 
 love nor money." He paused to regard the bottle 
 fondly. "Nor anything else," he added suddenly. 
 
 Mr. Braddy beamed fatly. His moon face like a 
 two-hundred-and-twenty-pound Kewpie's wore a look 
 of pride and responsibility. It was his bottle. 
 
 "You don't tell me !" he said. 
 
 "Yes, siree. Must be all of thirty years old, if it's a 
 day. Mebbe forty. Mebbe fifty. Why, that stuff 13 
 worth a dollar a sniff, if it's worth a jit. And you not 
 a drinking man ! Wadda pity ! Wadda pity !" 
 
 There was a shade of envy in Mr. Lum's tone, for 
 Mr. Lum was, or had been, a drinking man ; yet Fate, 
 ever perverse, had decreed that Mr. Braddy, teetotaler, 
 should find the ancient bottle while poking about in the 
 
 165
 
 166 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 cellar of his very modest new house rented in that 
 part of Long Island City where small, wooden cottages 
 break out in clusters, here and there, in a species of 
 municipal measles. 
 
 Mr. Braddy, on finding the treasure, had immediately 
 summoned Mr. Lum from his larger and more preten- 
 tious house near by, as one who would be able to ap- 
 praise the find, and he and Mr. Lum now stood on the 
 very spot in the cellar where, beneath a pile of old win- 
 dow blinds, the venerable liquor had been found. Mr. 
 Braddy, it was plain, thought very highly of Mr. Lum's 
 opinions, and that great man was good-naturedly tol- 
 erant of the more placid and adipose Mr. Braddy, who 
 was known behind his back in the rug department 
 of the Great Store as "Ole Hippopotamus." Not that 
 he would have resented it, had the veriest cash boy called 
 him by this uncomplimentary but descriptive nickname 
 to his face, for Mr. Braddy was the sort of person who 
 never resents anything. 
 
 "Y'know, Mr. Lum," he remarked, crinkling his pink 
 brow in philosophic thought, "sometimes I wish I had 
 been a drinking man. I never minded if a man took a 
 drink. Not that I had any patience with these here 
 booze fighters. No. Enough is enough, I always say. 
 But if a fella wanted to take a drink, outside of busi- 
 ness hours, of course, or go off on a spree once in a 
 while well, I never saw no harm in it. I often wished 
 I could do it myself." 
 
 "Well, why the dooce didn't you?" inquired Mr. 
 Lum. 
 
 "As a matter of solid fact, I was scared to. That's 
 the truth. I was always scared I'd get pinched or fall 
 down a manhole or something. You see, I never did 
 have much nerve." This was an unusual burst of con-
 
 Mr. Braddy s Bottle 167 
 
 fidence on the part of Mr. Braddy, who, since he had 
 moved into Mr. Lum's neighborhood a month before, 
 had played a listening role in his conferences with Mr. 
 Lum, who was a thin, waspy man of forty-four, in am- 
 bush behind a fierce pair of mustachios. Mr. Braddy, 
 essence of diffidence that he was, had confined his re- 
 marks to "You don't tell me!" or, occasionally, "Ain't 
 it the truth?" in the manner of a Greek chorus. 
 
 Now inspired, perhaps, by the discovery that he was 
 the owner of a priceless bottle of spirits, he unbosomed 
 himself to Mr. Lum. Mr. Lum made answer. 
 
 "Scared to drink? Scared of anything? Bosh! 
 Tommyrot! Everybody's got nerve. Only some don't 
 use it," said Mr. Lum, who owned a book called "The 
 Power House in Man's Mind," and who subscribed 
 for, and quoted from, a pamphlet for successful men, 
 called "I Can and I Will." 
 
 "Mebbe," said Mr. Braddy. "But the first and only 
 time I took a drink I got a bad scare. When I was a 
 young feller, just starting in the rugs in the Great 
 Store, I went out with the gang one night, and, just 
 to be smart, I orders beer. Them was the days when 
 beer was a nickel for a stein a foot tall. The minute 
 I taste the stuff I feel uncomfortable. I don't dare not 
 drink it, for fear the gang would give me the laugh. 
 So I Tips and drinks it, every drop, although it tastes 
 worse and worse. Well, sir, that beer made me sicker 
 than a dog. I haven't tried any drink stronger than 
 malted milk since. And that was all of twenty years 
 ago. It wasn't that I thought a little drinking a sin. 
 I was just scared ; that's all. Some of the other fellows 
 in the rugs drank till they passed a law against it. 
 Why, I once seen Charley Freedman sell a party a gen-
 
 168 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 nine, expensive Bergamo rug for two dollars and a half 
 when he was pickled. But when he was sober there 
 wasn't a better salesman in the rugs." 
 
 Mr. Lum offered no comment; he was weighing the 
 cob-webbed bottle in his hand, and holding it to the 
 light in a vain attempt to peer through the golden- 
 brown fluid. Mr. Braddy went on : 
 
 "I guess I was born timid. I dunno. I wanted 
 to join a lodge, but I was scared of the 'nitiation. I 
 wanted to move out to Jersey, but I didn't. Why, 
 all by life I've wanted to take a Turkish bath; but 
 somehow, every time I got to the door of the place I 
 got cold feet and backed out. I wanted a raise, too, 
 and by golly, between us, I believe they'd give it to me ; 
 but I keep putting off asking for it and putting off and 
 putting off " 
 
 "I was like that once," put in Mr. Lum. "But 
 it don't pay. I'd still be selling shoes in the Great 
 Store and looking at thousands of feet every day and 
 saying thousands of times, 'Yes, madam, this is a 
 three-A, and very smart, too,' when it is really a six-D 
 and looks like hell on her. ~No wonder I took a drink 
 or two in those days." 
 
 He set down the bottle and flared up with a sudden, 
 fierce bristling of his mustaches. 
 
 "And now they have to come along and take a man's 
 liquor away from him drat 'em ! What did our boys 
 fight for? Liberty, I say. And then, after being 
 mowed down in France, they come home to find the 
 country dry! It ain't fair, I say. Of course, don't 
 think for a minute that I mind losing the licker. Not 
 me. I always could take it or leave it alone. But what 
 I hate is having them say a man can't drink this and 
 Be can't drink that. They'll be getting after our smokes,
 
 Mr. Braddy s Bottle 169 
 
 next. I read in the paper last night a piece that asked 
 something that's been on my mind a long time : 'Whither 
 are we drifting ?' ' 
 
 "I dunno," said Mr. Braddy. 
 
 "You'd think," went on Mr. Lum, not heeding, as a 
 sense of oppression and injustice surged through him, 
 "that liquor harmed men. As if it harmed anybody but 
 the drunkards! Liquor never hurt a successful man; 
 no, siree. Look at me !" 
 
 Mr. Braddy looked. He had heard Mr. Lum make 
 the speech that customarily followed this remark a num- 
 ber of times, but it never failed to interest him. 
 
 "Look at me!" said Mr. Lum, slapping his chest. 
 "Buyer in the shoes in the Great Store, and that ain't 
 BO worse, if I do say it myself. That's what nerve did. 
 What if I did used to get a snootf ul now and then ? I 
 had the self-confidence, and that did the trick. When 
 old man Briggs croaked, I heard that the big boss 
 was looking around outside the store for a man to take 
 his place as buyer in the shoes. So I goes right to the 
 boss, and I says, 'Look here, Mr. Berger, I been in the 
 shoes eighteen years, and I know shoes from A to Z, 
 and back again. I can fill Briggs' shoes/ I says. And 
 that gets him laughing, although I didn't mean it that 
 way, for I don't think humor has any place in busi- 
 ness. 
 
 " 'Well,' he says, 'you certainly got confidence in 
 yourself. I'll see what you can do in Briggs' job. It 
 will pay forty a week.' I knew old Briggs was getting 
 more than forty, and I could see that Berger needed 
 me, so I spins on him and I laughs in his face. 'Forty 
 popcorn balls!' I says to him. 'Sixty is the least that 
 job's worth, and you know it.' Well, to make a long 
 story short, he comes through with sixty 1"
 
 170 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 This story never failed to fascinate Mr. Braddy, for 
 two reasons. First, he liked to be taken into the con- 
 fidence of a man who made so princely a salary; and, 
 second, it reminded him of the tormenting idea that 
 he was worth more than the thirty dollars he found 
 every Friday in his envelope, and it bolstered up his 
 spirit. He felt that with the glittering example of Mr. 
 Lum and the constant harassings by his wife, who had 
 and expressed strong views on the subject, he would 
 some day conquer his qualms and demand the raise he 
 felt to be due him. 
 
 "I wish I had your crust," he said to Mr. Lum in 
 tones of frank admiration. 
 
 "You have," rejoined Mr. Lum. "I didn't know 
 that I had, for a long, long time, and then it struck me 
 one day, as I was trying an Oxford-brogue style K6 
 on a dame, 'How did Schwab get where he is ? How did 
 Rockefeller? How did this here Vanderlip? Was it 
 by being humble? Was it by setting still?' You bet 
 your sweet boots it wasn't. I just been reading an 
 article in 'I Can and I Will/ called 'Big Bugs And 
 How They Got That Way/ and it tells all about those 
 fellows and how most of them wasn't nothing but 
 newspaper reporters and puddlers whatever that is 
 until one day they said, 'I'm going to do something 
 decisive!' And they did it. That's the idea. Do 
 something decisive. That's what I did, and look at 
 me! Braddy, why the devil don't you do something 
 decisive ?" 
 
 "What?" asked Mr. Braddy meekly. 
 
 "Anything. Take a plunge. Why, I bet you never 
 took a chance in your life. You got good stuff in you, 
 Braddy, too. There ain't a better salesman in the rugs. 
 Why, only the other day I overheard Berger say, 'That
 
 Mr. Braddy s Bottle 171 
 
 fellow Braddy knows more about rugs than the Mayor 
 of Bagdad himself. Too bad he hasn't more push in 
 him." 
 
 "I guess mebbe he's right," said Mr. Braddy. 
 
 "Eight? Of course, he's right about you being a 
 crack salesman. Why, you could sell corkscrews in 
 Kansas," said Mr. Lum. "You got the stuff, all right. 
 But the trouble is you can sell everything but yourself. 
 Get busy! Act! Do something! Make a decision! 
 Take a step!" 
 
 Mr. Braddy said nothing. Little lines furrowed his 
 vast brow ; he half closed his small eyes ; his round face 
 took on an intent, scowling look. He was thinking. 
 Silence filled the cellar. Then, with the air of a man 
 whose mind is made up, Hugh Braddy said a decisive 
 and remarkable thing. 
 
 "Mr. Bill Lum," he said, "I'm going to get drunk !" 
 
 "What? You? Hugh Braddy? Drunk? My 
 God !" The idea was too much even for the mind of 
 Mr. Lum. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Braddy, in a hollow voice, like 
 Cesar's at the Kubicon, "I'm going to drink what's in 
 that bottle this very night." 
 
 "Not all of it?" Mr. Lum, as an expert in such 
 things, registered dismay. 
 
 "As much as is necessary," was the firm response. 
 Mr. Lum brightened considerably at this. 
 
 "Better let me help you. There's enough for both of 
 us. Plenty," he suggested. 
 
 "Are you sure ?" asked Mr. Braddy anxiously. 
 
 "Sure," said Mr. Lum.
 
 172 The Sin of Monsieur Petti pon 
 
 2 
 
 And he was right There wag more than enough. It 
 was nine o'clock that night when the cellar door of 
 Mr. BraddVs small house opened cautiously, and Mr. 
 Braddy followed his stub nose into the moonlight. Mr. 
 Lum, unsteady but gay, followed. 
 
 Mr. Braddy, whose customary pace was a slow, digni- 
 fied waddle, immediately broke into a brisk trot. 
 
 "Doan' go so fas', Hoo," called Mr. Lum, for they 
 had long since reached the first-name stage. 
 
 "Gotta get to city, N'Yawk, b'fore it's too late," 
 explained Mr. Braddy, reining down to a walk. 
 
 "Too late for what, Hoo ?" inquired Mr. Lum. 
 
 "I dunno," said Mr. Braddy. 
 
 They made their way, by a series of skirmishes and 
 flank movements, to the subway station, and caught a 
 train for Manhattan. Their action in doing this was 
 purely automatic. 
 
 Once aboard, they began a duet, which they plucked 
 out of the dim past: 
 
 "Oh, dem golden slippers! Oh, dem golden slip- 
 pers!" 
 
 This, unfortunately, was all they could remember 
 of it, but it was enough to supply them with a theme 
 and variations that lasted until they arrived in the cata- 
 combs far below the Grand Central Station. There they 
 were shooed out by a vigilant subway guard. 
 
 They proceeded along the brightly lighted streets. 
 Mr. Braddy's step was that of a man walking a tight- 
 rope. Mr. Lum's method of progression was a series 
 of short spurts. Between the Grand Central and Times 
 Square they passed some one thousand eight hundred 
 and twenty-nine persons, of whom one thousand eight
 
 Mr. Braddy s Bottle 173 
 
 hundred and twenty-nine remarked, "Where did they 
 get it?" 
 
 On Broadway they saw a crowd gathered in front of 
 a building. 
 
 "Fight," said Mr. Braddy hopefully. 
 
 " '^accident," thought Mr. Lum. At least a hun- 
 dred men and women were industriously elbowing each 
 other and craning necks in the hope of seeing the center 
 of attraction. Mr. Braddy, ordinarily the most timid 
 of innocent bystanders, was now a lion in point of cour- 
 age. 
 
 "Gangway," he called. "We're 'tectives," he added 
 bellicosely to those who protested, as he and Mr. Lum 
 shoved and lunged their way through the rapidly grow- 
 ing crowd. The thing which had caused so many peo- 
 ple to stop, to crane necks, to push, was a small news- 
 boy who had dropped a dime down through an iron grat- 
 ing and who was fishing for it with a piece of chewing 
 gum tied on the end of a string. 
 
 They spent twenty minutes giving advice and sugges- 
 tions to the fisher, such as: 
 
 "A leetle to the left, now. Naw, naw. To the right. 
 Now you got it. Shucks ! You missed it. Try again." 
 At length they were rewarded by seeing the boy retrieve 
 the dime, just before the crowd had grown to such pro- 
 portions that it blocked the traffic. 
 
 The two adventurers continued on their way, pausing 
 once to buy four frankfurters, which they ate noisily, 
 one in each hand. 
 
 Suddenly the veteran drinker, Mr. Lum, was struck 
 by a disquieting thought. 
 
 " "Hoo, I gotta go home. My wife'll be back from the 
 movies by eleven, and if I ain't home and in bed when
 
 174 The Sin of Monsieur Petti pon 
 
 she gets there, she'll skin me alive; that's what she'll 
 do." 
 
 Mr. Braddy was struck by the application of this to 
 his own case. 
 
 "Waddabout me, hey ? Waddabout me, B'lum ?" he 
 asked plaintively. "Angelica will just about kill me." 
 
 Mr. Lum, leaning against the Automat, darkly con- 
 sidered this eventuality. At length he spoke. 
 
 "You go getta Turkish bath. Tell 'Gellica f hadda 
 stay in store all night to take inventory. Turkish 
 bath'll make you fresh as a daisy. Fresh as a li'l' daisy 
 
 fresh as a li'l' daisy " Saying which Mr. Lum 
 
 disappeared into the eddying crowd and was gone. Mr. 
 Braddy was alone in the great city. 
 
 But he was not dismayed. While disposing of the 
 ancient liquor, he and Mr. Lum had discussed philoso- 
 phies of life, and Mr. Braddy had decided that his was, 
 "A man can do what he is a-mind to." And Mr. Braddy 
 was very much a-mind to take a Turkish bath. To him 
 it represented the last stroke that cut the shackles of 
 timidity. "I can and I will," he said a bit thickly, in 
 imitation of Mr. Lum's heroes. 
 
 3 
 
 There was a line of men, mostly paunchy, waiting to 
 be assigned dressing rooms when Mr. Braddy entered 
 the Turkish bath, egged sternly on by his new philoso- 
 phy. He did not shuffle meekly into the lowest place 
 and wait the fulfillment of the biblical promise that 
 some one would say, "Friend, go up higher." IsTot he. 
 "I can and I will," he remarked to the man at the end 
 of the line, and, forthwith, with a majestic, if rolling, 
 gait, advanced to the window where a rabbit of a man,
 
 Mr. Braddy s Bottle 175 
 
 with nose glasses chained to his head, was sleepily deal- 
 ing out keys and taking in valuables. The other men 
 in line were too surprised to protest. Mr. Braddy took 
 off his huge derby hat and rapped briskly on the coun- 
 ter. 
 
 "Service, here. LiT service!" 
 
 The Rabbit with the nose glasses blinked mildly. 
 
 "Wotja want?" he inquired. 
 
 "Want t' be made fresh as a KT daisy," said Mr. 
 Braddy. 
 
 "Awright," said the Rabbit, yawning. "Here's a 
 key for locker number thirty-six. Got any valuables? 
 One dollar, please." 
 
 Mr. Braddy, after some fumbling, produced the dol- 
 lar, a dog-eared wallet, a tin watch, a patent cigar cut- 
 ter, a pocket piece from a pickle exhibit at the World's 
 Fair in Chicago, and some cigar coupons. 
 
 The Rabbit handed him a large key on a rubber 
 band. 
 
 "Put it on your ankle. Next," he yawned. 
 
 And then Mr. Braddy stepped through the white 
 door that, to him, led into the land of adventure and 
 achievement. 
 
 He found himself in a brightly lighted corridor per- 
 vaded by an aroma not unlike the sort a Chinese hand 
 laundry has. There were rows of little, white doors, 
 with numbers painted on them. Mr. Braddy began at 
 once a search for his own dressing room, No. 36 ; but 
 after investigating the main street and numerous side 
 alleys, in a somewhat confused but resolute frame of 
 mind, he discovered that he was lost in a rabbit warren 
 of white woodwork. He found Nos. 96, 66, 46, and 6, 
 but he could not find No. 36. He tried entering one of 
 the booths at random, but was greeted with a not-too-
 
 176 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 cordial, "Hey, bo; wrong stall. Back out!" from an 
 ample gentleman made up as grandpa in the advertise- 
 ments of Non-Skid underwear. He tried bawling, 
 "Service, li'l' service," and rapping on the woodwork 
 with his derby, but nothing happened, so he replaced his 
 hat on his head and resumed his search. He came to a 
 door with no number on it, poished it open, and stepped 
 boldly into the next room. 
 
 Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat it was 
 the shower bath on Mr. Braddy's hat. 
 
 " 'Srainin'," he remarked affably. 
 
 An attendant, clad in short, white running pants, 
 spied him and came bounding through the spray. 
 
 "Hey, mister, why don't you take your clothes off?" 
 
 "Can't find it," replied Mr. Braddy. 
 
 "Can't find what ?" the attendant demanded. 
 
 "Thirry-sizz." 
 
 "Thirry sizz ?" 
 
 "Yep, thirry-sizz." 
 
 "Aw, he means room number thoity-six," said a voice 
 from under one of the showers. 
 
 The attendant conducted Mr. Braddy up and down 
 the white rabbit warren, across an avenue, through a 
 lane, and paused at last before No. 36. Mr. Braddy 
 went in, and the attendant followed. 
 
 "Undress you, mister ?" 
 
 The Mr. Braddy of yesterday would have been too 
 weak-willed to protest, but the new Mr. Braddy was the 
 master of his fate, the captain of his soul, and he replied 
 with some heat : 
 
 "Say, wadda you take me for ? Can undress m'self ." 
 He did so, muttering the while: "Undress me ? Wadda 
 they take me for ? Wadda they take me for ?" 
 
 Then he strode, a bit uncertainly, out into the cor-
 
 Mr. Braddy s Bottle 177 
 
 ridor, pink, enormous, his key dangling from his ankle 
 like a ball and chain. The man in the white running 
 pants piloted Mr. Braddy into the hot room. Mr. 
 Braddy was delighted, intrigued by it On steamer 
 chairs reclined other large men, stripped to their dia- 
 mond rings, which glittered faintly in the dim-lit room. 
 They made guttural noises, as little rivulets glided down 
 the salmon-pink mounds of flesh, and every now and 
 then they drank water from large tin cups. Mr. Braddy 
 seated himself in the hot room, and tried to read a 
 very damp copy of an evening paper, which he decided 
 was in a foreign language, until he discovered he was 
 holding it upside down. 
 
 An attendant approached and offered him a cup of 
 water. The temptation was to do the easy thing to 
 take the proffered cup ; but Mr. Braddy didn't want a 
 drink of anything just then, so he waved it away, re- 
 marking lightly, "Never drink water," and was re- 
 warded by a battery of bass titters from the pink moun- 
 tains about him, who, it developed from their conversa- 
 tion, were all very important persons, indeed, in the 
 world of finance. But in time Mr. Braddy began to 
 feel unhappy. The heat was making him ooze slowly 
 away. Hell, he thought, must be like this. He must 
 act. He stood up. 
 
 "I doan like this," he bellowed. An attendant came 
 in response to the roar. 
 
 "What, you still in the hot room? Say, mister, it's 
 a wonder you ain't been melted to a puddle of gravy. 
 Here, come with me. I'll send you through the steam 
 room to Gawge, and Gawge will give you a good rub." 
 
 He led Mr. Braddy to the door of the steam room, 
 full of dense, white steam. 
 
 "Hey, Gawge," he shouted.
 
 The Sin of Monsieur Petti pon 
 
 "Hello, Al, wotj a want ?" came a voice faintly from 
 the room beyond the steam room. 
 
 "Oh, Gawge, catch thoity-six ;when he comes 
 through," shouted Al. 
 
 He gave Mr. Braddy a little push and closed the door. 
 Mr. Braddy found himself surrounded by steam which 
 seemed to be boiling and scalding his very soul. He 
 attempted to cry "Help," and got a mouthful of rich 
 steam that made him splutter. He started to make a 
 dash in the direction of Gawge's door, and ran full tilt 
 into another mountain of avoirdupois, which cried in- 
 dignantly, "Hey, watch where you're going, will you? 
 You ain't back at dear old Yale, playing football." 
 Mr. Braddy had a touch of panic. This was serious. 
 To be lost in a labyrinth of dressing rooms was dis- 
 tressing enough, but here he was slowly but certainly 
 being steamed to death, with Gawge and safety waiting 
 for him but a few feet away. An idea! Firemen, 
 trapped in burning buildings, he had read in the news- 
 papers, always crawl on their hands and knees, because 
 the lower air is purer. Laboriously he lowered himself 
 to his hands and knees, and, like a flabby pink bear, 
 with all sense of direction gone, he started through the 
 steam. 
 
 "Hey!" 
 
 "Lay off me, guy!" 
 
 "Ouch, me ankle !" 
 
 "Wot's the big idea ? This ain't no circus." 
 
 "Leggo me shin," 
 
 "Ouf!" 
 
 The "ouf" came from Mr. Braddy, who had been 
 soundly kicked in the mid-riff by an angry dweller in the 
 steam room, whose ankle he had grabbed as he careered
 
 Mr. Braddys Bottle 179 
 
 madly but futilely around the room. Then, success! 
 The door ! He opened it. 
 
 "Where's Gawge?" he demanded faintly. 
 
 "Well, I'll be damned! It's thoity-six back again!" 
 
 It was Al's voice ; not Gawge. Mr. Braddy had come 
 back to the same door he started from ! 
 
 He was unceremoniously thrust by Al back into the 
 steaming hell from which he had just escaped, and once 
 more Al shouted across, "Hey, Gawge, catch thoity-six 
 when he comes through." 
 
 Mr. Braddy, on his hands and knees, steered as 
 straight a course as he could for the door that opened 
 to Gawge and fresh air, but the bewildering steam once 
 again closed round him, and he butted the tumid-calves 
 of one of the Moes and was roundly cursed. Veering 
 to the left, he bumped into the legs of another Moe so 
 hard that this Moe went down as if he had been sub- 
 marined, a tangle of plump legs, arms, and profanity. 
 Mr. Braddy, in the confusion, reached the door and 
 pushed it open. 
 
 "Holy jumpin' mackerel! Thoity-six again! Say, 
 you ain't supposed to come back here. You're supposed 
 to keep going straight across the steam room to Gawge." 
 It was Al, enraged. 
 
 Once more Mr. Braddy was launched into the steam 
 room. How many times he tried to traverse it bear 
 fashion he never could remember, but it must have 
 been at least six times that he reappeared at the long- 
 suffering Al's door, and was returned, too steamed, 
 now, to protest. Mr. Braddy's new-found persistence 
 was not to be denied, however, and ultimately he 
 reached the right door, to find waiting for him a large, 
 genial soul who was none other than Gawge, and who
 
 180 The Sin of Monsieur Petti pon 
 
 asked, with untimely facetiousness, Mr. Braddy 
 thought : 
 
 "Didja enjoy the trip?" 
 
 Gawge placed Mr. Braddy on a marble slab and 
 scrubbed him with a large and very rough brush, which 
 made Mr. Braddy scream with laughter, particularly 
 when the rough bristles titillated the soles of his feet. 
 
 "Wot's the joke ?" inquired Gawge. 
 
 <r 5Tou ticker me," gasped Mr. Braddy. 
 
 He was rather enjoying himself now. It made him 
 feel important to have so much attention. But he 
 groaned and gurgled a little when Gawge attacked him 
 with cupped hands and beat a tattoo up and down his 
 spine and all over his palpitating body. Wop, wop, 
 wop, wop, wop, wop, wop, wop wop went Gawge's 
 hands. 
 
 Then he rolled Mr. Braddy from the slab, like jelly 
 from a mold. Mr. Braddy jelled properly and was 
 stood in a corner. 
 
 "All over?" he asked. Zizzzzzz! A stream of icy 
 water struck him between his shoulder blades. 
 
 "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!" he cried. The stream, 
 as if in response to his outcries, immediately became 
 boiling hot. First one, then the other played on him. 
 Then they stopped. An attendant appeared and dried 
 Mr. Braddy vigorously with a great, shaggy towel, and 
 then led him to a dormitory, where, on white cots, rows 
 of Moes puffed and wheezed and snored and dreamed, 
 dreams of great profits. 
 
 Mr. Braddy tumbled happily into his cot, boiled but 
 triumphant. He had taken a Turkish bath! The 
 world was at his feet! He had made a decision ! He 
 had acted on it ! He had met the demon Timidity in 
 fair fight and downed him. He had been drunk, in-
 
 Mr. Braddy's Bottle 181 
 
 dubitably drunk, for the first and last time. He assured 
 himself that he never wanted to taste the stuff again. 
 But he couldn't help but feel that his one jamboree had 
 made a new man of him, opening new lands of adven- 
 ture, showing him that "he could if he would." As he 
 buried his head in the pillow, he rehearsed the speech 
 he would make to Mr. Berger, the manager, in the morn- 
 ing. Should he begin, "Mr. Berger, if you think I'm 
 worth it, will you please raise my pay five dollars a 
 week?" No, by Heaven, a thousand noes! He was 
 worth it, and he would say so. Should he begin, "See 
 here, Mr. Berger, the time has come for you to raise 
 my salary ten dollars ?" No, he'd better ask for twenty 
 dollars while he was about it, and compromise on ten 
 dollars as a favor to his employers. But then, again, 
 why stop at twenty dollars ? His sales in the rugs war- 
 ranted much more. "I can have thirty dollars, and I 
 will," he said a number of times to the pillow. Care- 
 fully he rehearsed his speech: "Now, see here, Ber- 
 ger " and then he was whirled away into a dream 
 
 in which he saw a great hand take down the big sign 
 from the front of the Great Store, and put up in its 
 place a still larger sign, reading: 
 
 BRADDY'S GKEATEE STORE 
 
 Dry Goods and Turkish Baths 
 Hugh Braddy, Sole Prop. 
 
 4 
 
 He woke feeling very strange, and not exactly as 
 fresh as a daisy. He felt much more like a cauli- 
 flower cooled after boiling. His head buzzed a bit, with 
 a sort of gay giddiness, but for all that he knew that
 
 182 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 he was not the same Hugh. Braddy that had been cata- 
 pulted from bed by an alarm clock in his Long Island 
 City home the morning before. 
 
 "A man can do what he's a mind to," he said to him- 
 self in a slightly husky voice. His first move was to 
 get breakfast. The old Hugh Braddy would have gone 
 humbly to a one-armed beanery for one black coffee 
 and one doughnut price, one dime. The new Hugh 
 Braddy considered this breakfast, and dismissed it as 
 beneath a man of his importance. Instead, he went to 
 the Mortimore Grill and had a substantial club break- 
 fast. He called up Angelica, his wife, and cut short 
 her lecture with "Unavoidable, m'dear. Inventory at 
 the store." His tone, somehow, made her hesitate to 
 question him further. "It'll be- all right about that 
 raise," he added grandly. "Have a good supper to- 
 night. G'by." 
 
 He bought himself an eleven-cent cigar, instead of 
 his accustomed six-center, and, puffing it in calm de- 
 fiance of a store rule, strode into the employees' en- 
 trance of the Great Store a little after nine. Without 
 wavering, he marched straight to the office of Mr. Ber- 
 ger, who looked up from his morning mail in surprise. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Braddy?" 
 
 Mr. Braddy blew a smoke ring, playfully stuck his 
 finger through it, and said : 
 
 "Mr. Berger, I'm thinking of going with another 
 concern. A fellow was in to see me the other day, 
 and he says to me, 'Braddy, you are the best rug man 
 in this town.' And he hinted that if I'd come over with 
 his concern they'd double my salary. ISTow, I've been 
 with the Great Store more than twenty years, and I like 
 the place, Mr. Berger, and I know the ropes, so natu- 
 rally I don't want to change. But, of course, I must
 
 Mr. Braddy s Bottle 183 
 
 go where the most money is. I owe that to Mrs. B. 
 But I'm going to do the square thing. I'm going to 
 give you a chance to meet the ante. Sixty's the figure." 
 
 He waved his cigar, signifying the utter inconse- 
 quence of whether Mr. Berger met the ante or not. Be- 
 fore the amazed manager could frame a reply, Mr. 
 Braddy continued: 
 
 "You needn't make up your mind right away, Mr. 
 Berger. I don't have to give my final decision until 
 to-night. You can think it over. I suggest you look 
 up my sales record for last year before you reach any 
 decision." And he was gone. 
 
 All that day Mr. Braddy did his best not to think of 
 what he had done. Even the new Mr. Braddy 
 philosophy and all could not entirely banish the vision 
 of Angelica if he had to break the news that he had 
 issued an ultimatum for twice his salary and had been 
 escorted to the exit. 
 
 He threw himself into the work of selling rugs so 
 vigorously that his fellow salesmen whispered to each 
 other, "What ails the Ole Hippopotamus?" He even 
 got rid of a rug that had been in the department for 
 uncounted years showing a dark-red lion browsing on 
 a field of rich pink roses by pointing out to the woman 
 who bought it that it would amuse the children. 
 
 At four o'clock a flip office boy tapped him on the 
 shoulder and said, "Mr. Boiger wants to see you." 
 Mr. Braddy, whose head felt as if a hive of bees 
 were establishing a home there, but whose philosophy 
 still burned clear and bright, let Mr. Berger wait a full 
 ten minutes, and then, with dignified tread that gave 
 no hint of his inward qualms, entered the office of the 
 manager.
 
 184 The Sin of Monsieur Petti pon 
 
 It seemed an age before Mr. Berger spoke. 
 
 "Pve been giving your proposition careful considera- 
 tion, Mr. Braddy," lie said. "I have decided that we'd 
 like to keep you in the rugs. We'll meet thai ante."
 
 IX: Gretna Greenhorns
 
 IX: Gretna Greenhorns 
 
 1 
 
 FfJRE brown eyes of Chester Arthur Jessup, Jr., 
 m were fixed on the maroon banner of the Clin- 
 tonia High School which adorned his bedroom 
 wall, but they did not see that vivid emblem of the 
 institution in whose academic halls he was a senior. 
 Kather, they appeared to look through it, beyond it, 
 into some far-away land. Bright but unseeing, they 
 proclaimed that their owner was in that state of mild 
 hypnosis known as "turkey-dreaming." His lips were 
 parted in a slight smile, and the shoe which he had been 
 in the act of removing as he sat on his bed was poised 
 in mid-air above the floor, for reverie had overcome 
 him in the very midst of preparations for an evening 
 call. 
 
 The object of his pensive musings was at that mo- 
 ment eating her evening meal some blocks away in the 
 home of her parents. Fondly, with that inward eye 
 which is alleged to be the bliss of solitude, Chester 
 followed the process. It had only been lately that he 
 could bring himself to admit that she ate at all. She 
 was so dainty, so ethereal. And yet reason, and the 
 course he was taking in physiology, told him that she, 
 even she, must sometimes give way to the unworthy 
 promptings of necessity, and eat. But that she should 
 eat as ordinary mortals do, was unthinkable. It waa 
 
 187
 
 l88 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 not the first time that Chester, in reverie, had permitted 
 her a slight refection. The menu of her meals never 
 varied. To-night, as on other occasions, it consisted 
 of watercress salad, a mere nibble of it; a delicate dab 
 of ice-cream, no bigger than a thimble; a small cup 
 of tea, and, perhaps, a lady-finger. The lady-finger 
 was a concession. On the occasion of his last call, 
 Mildred had confessed that she could die eating lady- 
 fingers. Of course, later in the evening she might have 
 a candy or two, but then, candy can hardly be consid- 
 ered food. 
 
 A mundane clatter of dishes in the kitchen below 
 caused Chester to start from his dream, and drop the 
 shoe. He leaped up and began to make elaborate and 
 excited preparations for dressing. 
 
 From an ancient, battered chest of drawers he care- 
 fully took a tissue-paper package containing a Union 
 Forever Suit, whose label proclaimed that "From Fac- 
 tory to You, No Human Hand Touches It." With 
 brow puckered in abstract thought, Chester broke the 
 seal and laid the crisp, immaculate garment on the bed. 
 With intense seriousness, he regarded it for a moment ; 
 apparently it passed his searching examination, for he 
 turned again to the chest of drawers and drew forth a 
 smaller package, from which he extracted new socks of 
 lustrous blue. These he placed on the bed. From be- 
 neath the bed he drew a pair of low shoes, which 
 gleamed in the gaslight from arduous polishing. On. 
 their toes, fanciful artisans had pricked curves and 
 loops and butterfly designs. Chester gave them a few 
 final rubs with the shirt he had just discarded and 
 placed them on the bed. At this point there was a 
 hiatus in the wardrobe. He went out into the hall and 
 shouted down the back stairs.
 
 Gretna Greenhorns 189 
 
 "Oh, Ma. Oh, Ma!" 
 
 "Well?" came his mother's voice from the regions 
 below. 
 
 "Are my trousers pressed yet ?" 
 
 "My goodness, Chester," she called, "I haven't had 
 time yet. It's only a little after six. Do come down 
 and eat some supper." 
 
 "But I don't want any supper," protested Chester. 
 
 "There's apple pudding with cream," she announced. 
 
 "Oh, well," said Chester, reluctantly, "I suppose I'd 
 better. Can I have a dish of it on the back stairs? 
 I'm not dressed." 
 
 "Yes. But you have plenty of time. You know 
 you shouldn't make an evening call before eight-fifteen 
 at the very earliest," said Mrs. Jessup. 
 
 After he had disposed of two helpings of apple pud- 
 ding, Chester returned to his room and spent some 
 moments analyzing the comparative merits of a dozen 
 neckties hanging in an imitation brass stirrup. He 
 had eliminated all but two, a black one and a red one, 
 when his mother's voice floated up the back stairs. 
 
 "For goodness' sake, Chester, do be careful of that 
 bathtub. It's running over again. How many times do 
 1 have to tell you to watch it ?" 
 
 Chester bounded to the bathroom and shut off the 
 water. It had, indeed, started to overflow the tub, and 
 Chester, accepting the Archimedian principle without 
 ever having heard of it, perceived that he must let some 
 of the water out before he could put himself in. Ac- 
 cordingly he pulled out the plug and returned to his own 
 room to wait for a little of the water to run off. 
 
 He made the most of this idle moment. Throwing 
 off his multi-hued Navajo bathrobe, he surveyed the
 
 190 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 reflection of his torso in the mirror. He contracted his 
 biceps and eyed the resulting egg-like bulges with some 
 satisfaction. Suddenly, his ordinarily amiable face 
 took on a fierce, dark scowl. He crouched until he was 
 bent almost double. He lowered at the mirror. Hia 
 left fist was extended and his right drawn back in the 
 most approved scientific style of the prize-ring. 
 
 "You will, will you?" came from between his 
 clenched teeth, and his left fist darted out rapidly, 
 three, four, five times, and then he shot out his right 
 fist with such violence that he all but shattered the 
 mirror. 
 
 This last blow seemed to have a cataclysmic effect on 
 Chester's opponent, for the victorious Chester backed 
 off and waited, still crouching and lowering, for his 
 victim to rise. 
 
 The opponent apparently was a tough one, and not 
 the man to succumb easily. Chester waited for him to 
 regain his feet and then they were at it again. Chester 
 let loose a shower of savage uppercuts. From the way 
 he leaped six inches into the air to deliver his blows it 
 was evident that his opponent was considerably bigger 
 than he. At length, when all but breathless from his 
 exertions, Chester with one prodigious punch, a coup 
 de grace that there was no withstanding, knocked all the 
 fight out of his foe. But, seemingly, he was not satisfied 
 with flooring his giant opponent; with stern, set face, 
 Chester walked to the corner where the fellow was 
 sprawling, seized him by his collar, and dragged him 
 across the room. Then, shaking him fiercely, Chester 
 hissed : 
 
 "Now, you cad, apologize to this lady for daring to 
 offer her an affront by passing remarks about her." 
 
 The apology would, no doubt, have been forthcoming
 
 Gretna Greenhorns 191 
 
 had not Chester at that moment heard an unmistakable 
 sound from the bathroom. He abandoned his prostrate 
 foe and rushed in just in time to see the last of his 
 bath-water go gargling and gurgling out of the tub. 
 
 Chester sat moodily on the edge of the tub until 
 enough hot water had bubbled into it for him to per- 
 form ablutions of appalling thoroughness. He was red 
 almost to rawness from his efforts with the bath brush, 
 and was redolent of scented soap and talcum powder 
 when he again returned to his bedroom. 
 
 He dressed with a sort of feverish calmness, now and 
 again pausing to sigh gently and gaze for a moment 
 into nothingness. By now she had finished her lady- 
 finger 
 
 His mother had laid his freshly pressed trousers 
 on the bed, and he ran an appreciative eye along their 
 razor-blade crease. From the chest of drawers he* 
 brought forth a snowy shirt, which, from the piece of 
 cardboard shoved down its throat and the numerous 
 pins which Chester extracted impatiently, one could 
 surmise was fresh from the laundry. When he came to 
 the collar-and-tie stage, he was halted for a time. Three 
 collars of various shapes were tried and deemed un- 
 worthy, and then, at the last minute, yielding to a 
 sudden wild impulse, he discarded the black tie in favor 
 of the red one. He slipped on a blue serge coat, the cut 
 of which endeavored to promote his waist-line to his 
 shoulder blades, and was all dressed but for the crown- 
 ing task to comb his hair. 
 
 By dint of many dismal experiences, Chester knew 
 that this would be trying, for his hair was abundant 
 but untamed. He tried first to induce it to part while 
 it was still dry, but the results of this operation, as he 
 had feared, were negligible. He then attempted to
 
 192 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 achieve a part with his hair slightly moistened with 
 witch hazel. For fully five seconds it looked like a 
 success, but as Chester started to leave, one parting 
 look told him that little spikes and wisps were rearing 
 rebellious heads and quite ruining the perfection of his 
 handiwork. With a sigh he fell back upon his last re- 
 sort, the liberal application of a sticky, jelly-like sub- 
 stance derived from petroleum, which imparted to his 
 brown hair an unwonted shine. But the part held as 
 if it had been carved in marble. Arranging his white 
 silk handkerchief so that it protruded a modish eighth 
 of an inch from his breast pocket, Chester Arthur 
 Jessupi, Jr., sallied forth to make his call. 
 
 On the front porch was his family, and Chester would 
 have avoided their critical eyes if he could. However, 
 the gantlet had to be run, so he emerged into the family 
 group with a saunter that he hoped might be described 
 as "nonchalant." In the privacy of his room he often 
 practiced that saunter; he had seen in the papers that 
 a certain celebrated criminal had "sauntered noncha- 
 lantly into the court-room," and the phrase had fasci- 
 nated him. 
 
 "What in the name of thunder have you been doing 
 to your hair?" demanded his father, looking up from 
 his pipe and paper. 
 
 "Combing it," replied Chester, coldly. 
 
 ''With axle grease ?" inquired Jessup senior, genially. 
 
 "And it does look so nice when it's dry and wavy," 
 put in his mother. 
 
 Chester emitted a faint groan. 
 
 "Oh, Ma, you never seem to realize that I'm grown 
 up," he protested. "Wavy hair !" He groaned again. 
 
 "Well," remarked the father, "I suppose it's better 
 that way than not combed at all. Seems to me that last
 
 Gretna Greenhorns 193 
 
 Slimmer you didn't care much whether it was combed, 
 or cut either, for that matter." 
 
 "A woman has come into his life," explained his 
 twenty-two year-old sister, from hehind her novel. 
 
 "You just be careful who you go callin' a woman," 
 exclaimed Chester, turning on her, with some warmth. 
 
 "Don't you consider Mildred Wrigley & woman?" 
 asked Hilda, mildly. 
 
 "ISTot in the sense you mean it." 
 
 "By the way," said Hilda, "I saw her last night." 
 
 Chester's manner instantly became eager and con- 
 ciliatory. "Did you? Where?" 
 
 "At the Mill Street Baptist Church supper," said 
 Hilda. 
 
 "At the supper?" Chester's tone suggested incre- 
 dulity. 
 
 "Yes. And goodness me, I never saw a girl eat so 
 much in my life. She " 
 
 "Hilda Jessup, how dare you!" 
 
 Chester's voice cracked with the emotion he felt at 
 so damnable an imputation. 
 
 "There, there, Hilda, stop your teasing," said Mrs. 
 Jessup. "What if she did? A big, healthy girl like 
 that " 
 
 "Mother " Chester's tone was anguished. 
 
 "Come, ISTell," said Mr. Jessup, "leave him to his 
 illusions. It's a bad day for romance when a man dis- 
 covers that his goddess likes a second helping of corned 
 beef." 
 
 "Father, how can you say such things! I will not 
 stay here and listen to you say such things about one 
 who I " 
 
 "One whom," interrupted Hilda. 
 
 Chester flounced down the front steps and slammed
 
 194 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 the gate after him, in a manner that could not possibly 
 be described as "nonchalant." 
 
 2 
 
 The Wrigley home was four blocks away, and Ches- 
 ter, once out of sight of his own home, became medita- 
 tive. He stopped, and after looking about to see that 
 he was not observed, drew from his inside pocket an 
 envelope, and for the twelfth time that day counted its 
 contents. Ninety-four dollars! The savings of a life- 
 time ! It had originally been saved for the purchase of 
 a motor-cycle, but that was before Mildred Wrigley had 
 smiled at him one day across the senior study-hall. 
 That seemed but yesterday, and yet it must have been 
 fully seven weeks before! He replaced the money 
 and continued on his way. 
 
 Chester paused at the Greek Candy Kitchen on Main 
 Street to buy a box of candy, richly bedight with purple 
 silk, and by carefully gaging his saunter, contrived to 
 arrive at the Wrigley residence at fourteen minutes 
 after eight. He gave his tie a final adjustment, his 
 hair a last frantic smoothing, licked his dry lips and 
 rang the bell. 
 
 "Oh, good evening, Chester." 
 
 Mildred Wrigley had a small, birdlike voice. She 
 was looking not so much at Chester as at the beribboned 
 purple box he held. They went into the parlor. 
 
 "Oh, Chester," cried Mildred, as she opened the pur- 
 ple box, "how sweet of you to bring me such heavenly 
 candy. I just adore cholocate-covered cherries. I could 
 just DIE eating them." 
 
 She popped two of them into her mouth, and sighed 
 ecstatically. They discussed, with great thoroughness,
 
 Gretna Greenhorns 195 
 
 the weather of the day, the weather of the day before 
 and the probable weather of the near future. Then 
 Mildred moved her chair a quarter of an inch nearer 
 Chester's. 
 
 "There, now," she said, with her dimpling smile, 
 "let's be real comfy." A glow enveloped Chester. 
 
 "I had the most heavenly supper to-night," confided 
 Mildred. 
 
 "I hardly ate at all," said Chester. 
 
 "Oh, you poor, poor boy," said Mildred. "Do pass 
 me another candy." 
 
 They discussed school affairs, and the approaching 
 examinations. 
 
 "I'm so worried," confessed Mildred. "Horrid old 
 geometry. Stupid physics. What do I care why apples 
 fall off trees? I'm going to go on the stage. That 
 miserable old wretch, Miss Shufelt, has been writing 
 nasty notes to Dad, saying I don't study enough." 
 
 Her lip trembled; she looked so small, so weak. 
 "Look here," said Chester, hoarsely, "we've known 
 each other for a long time now, haven't we ?" 
 
 "Yes, ever so long," said Mildred, taking another 
 chocolate-covered cherry. "Months and months." 
 
 "Do you think one person ought to be frank with 
 another person?" 
 
 "Of course I do, Chester, if they know each other 
 well enough." 
 
 "I mean very frank." 
 
 "Well," said Mildred, "if they know each other very, 
 very well, I think they ought to be very frank." 
 
 "How long do you think one person ought to know 
 another person before he, or for that matter she, ought 
 to be very frank with that person." 
 
 "Oh, months and months," answered Mildred.
 
 196 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 Chester passed his white silk handkerchief over his 
 damp brow. 
 
 "When I say very frank, I mean very frank," he said. 
 
 "That's what I mean, too." She took another choco- 
 late-covered cherry. 
 
 Chester went on, speaking rapidly. 
 
 "For example, if one person should tell another per- 
 son that he liked that person and he didn't really mean 
 like at all but another word like like, only meaning 
 something much more than like don't you think he 
 ought to tell that person what he really meant? I 
 mean, of course, providing that he had known that per- 
 son months and months and knew her very well 
 and " 
 
 "I guess he should," she said, taking a sudden keen 
 interest in the toe of her slipper. Chester plunged on. 
 
 "But supipose you were the person that another per- 
 son had said they liked, only they really didn't mean 
 like but another word that begins with '!,' do you think 
 that person ought to be very frank and tell you that 
 the way he regarded you did not begin 'li' but be- 
 gan %'?" 
 
 "I guess so," she said, without abandoning the minute 
 scrutiny of her toe. 
 
 "Well," said Chester, "that's how I regard you, not 
 with an <li' but with an %.' " 
 
 Mildred did not look up. 
 
 "Oh, Chester," she murmured. He hitched his chair 
 an inch nearer hers, and with a quick, uncertain move- 
 ment, took hold of her hand. A loud slam of the front 
 door caused them both to start. 
 
 "It's Dad," whispered Mildred. "And he's mad 
 about something." 
 
 Her father, large and red-faced, entered the room.
 
 Gretna Greenhorns 197 
 
 "Good evening," he said, nodding briefly at Chester. 
 "Mildred, come into my study a minute, will you. 
 There's something I want to talk to you about." 
 
 The folding doors closed on father and daughter, and 
 Chester was left balancing himself on the edge of a 
 chair. 
 
 Mildred's father had a rumbling voice that now and 
 then penetrated the folding doors and Chester caught 
 the words "whippersnapper" and "callow." He heard, 
 too, Mildred's small, high voice, protesting. She was 
 in tears. 
 
 Presently Mildred reappeared, lacrimose. "Oh, that 
 nasty, horrid Miss Shufelt," she burst out. 
 
 "What has she done?" asked Chester. 
 
 "The nasty old cat asked Dad to stop in to see her 
 to-night on his way home from the office, and she told 
 him the awfulest things about me." 
 
 "She did?" Chester's voice was rich with loathing. 
 "I just wish I had her here, that's all I wish," he 
 added fiercely. 
 
 "She said," went on Mildred, with fresh sobs, 
 "she said I was boy c-c-crazy. And I never 
 studied and " 
 
 "Darn that woman !" cried Chester. 
 
 "And Dad's going to send me to S-Simp- 
 son Hall!" 
 
 The idea stunned Chester. 
 
 "Simpson Hall? Why, that's a boarding school in 
 Massachusetts, miles and miles from here," he gasped. 
 
 "I know it," said Mildred. "I know a girl who 
 went there. It's a nasty, horrid place." A fresh attack 
 of sobs seized her. 
 
 "They'll make me do c-calesthenics, and they
 
 198 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 won't give m e a n y t h i n g t o eat but b- 
 beans." 
 
 Nothing but beans ! Mildred eat beans ! It was an 
 outrage, a sacrilege. 
 
 "He's already written to Simpson Hall," wailed Mil- 
 dred. "And I have to go, Monday." 
 
 "Monday ? Not Monday ? Why, to-day's Friday !" 
 Chester's face became resolute; he felt in his inside 
 pocket where his envelope was. 
 
 "You sha'nt go," he declared. "You and I will elope 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 3 
 
 Chester met Mildred aboard the 8 :48 train for New 
 York City the next morning. 
 
 Mildred, clasping a small straw suit-case, had mis- 
 givings. But Chester reassured her. 
 
 "Don't worry, Mildred, please don't worry," he 
 pleaded. "My cousin, Phil Snyder, who is at Princeton 
 and knows all about such things, says it's a cinch to 
 get married in New York. All you do is walk up to 
 a window, pay a dollar, and you're married. And if 
 we can't get married there, we can go to Hoboken. 
 Anybody, anybody at all, can get married in Hoboken, 
 Phil told me so." 
 
 She smiled at him. 
 
 "Our wedding day," she said, softly. 
 
 "Why are you so pensive ?" he asked, after a while. 
 
 "I haven't had my breakfast," she said. "I always 
 feel sort of weak and funny till I've had my breakfast." 
 
 Chester bought several large slabs of nut-studded 
 chocolate from the train boy. When they passed Har- 
 mon, at Mildred's suggestion he bought a package of
 
 Gretna Greenhorns 199 
 
 butter-scotch. Her flagging spirits were revived by 
 these repasts. "I could just DIE eating butter-scotch," 
 she said, dimpling. 
 
 "We'll always keep some in the house, little woman," 
 Chester promised her, mentally adding butter-scotch to 
 the menu of watercress salad, tea, ice-cream and an 
 occasional lady-finger. 
 
 The human torrent in the Grand Central station 
 whirled the elopers with it along the ramp and out 
 under the zodiac dome of the great, busy hall. They 
 stood there, wide-eyed. "New York/' said Mildred. 
 
 "Our New York," said Chester. 
 
 He steered a roundabout course for the subway, for 
 he wanted to reach the Municipal Building as soon as 
 possible. He had fears, the worldly Phil Snyder to 
 the contrary notwithstanding, that he might encounter 
 difficulties in getting a marriage license there. And he 
 and Mildred would then have to go to Hoboken. He 
 had only a sketchy idea of where Hoboken was. And 
 it was then nearly eleven. 
 
 But Mildred was not to be hurried. 
 
 "Couldn't we have just one little fudge sundae first 1" 
 she asked. "I haven't had my regular breakfast, you 
 know. And I do feel so sort of weak and funny when 
 I haven't had my regular breakfast." 
 
 To Schuyler's they went, and consumed precious 
 minutes and two fudge sundaes. On the way out, Mil- 
 dred stopped short. 
 
 "Oh, look," she exclaimed, "real New Orleans 
 pralines. I just adore them. And you can't get them 
 in Clintonia." 
 
 Chester looked at her a little nervously. 
 
 "It's getting sort of late," he suggested. 
 
 "All right, Mr. Hurry," Mildred pouted, "just you
 
 20O The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 go on to the horrid old City Hall by your lonesome. 
 I'm going to stop and have a praline." 
 
 Chester capitulated, contritely, so Mildred had two. 
 
 They started for the subway which was to take them 
 far down-town to the Municipal Building. On Forty- 
 second Street they passed a shiny, white edifice in the 
 window of which an artist in immaculate white duck 
 was deftly tossing griddle cakes into the air so that 
 they described a graceful parabola and flopped on a 
 soapstone griddle where they sizzled brownly and 
 crisply. A faint but provoking aroma floated through 
 the open door. Mildred's footsteps slackened, then she 
 paused, then she came to a dead stop. 
 
 "Ummm-mmm ! What a heavenly smell !" she said. 
 "Don't you just adore griddle cakes?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Chester, a little desperately. "Let's 
 have some for lunch. It's twenty-five minutes to twelve. 
 Let's hurry." 
 
 "Why, Chester Jessup, you know I haven't had my 
 regular breakfast yet. I just couldn't go away down 
 to that old City Hall and get married and everything 
 without having had some nourishment. It won't take 
 a minute to have a little breakfast." 
 
 "Oh, all right," said Chester. 
 
 The griddle cakes tasted like rubber to Chester. 
 Mildred ate hers with great relish and insisted on hav- 
 ing them decorated with country sausage. 
 
 "It's so nourishing," she explained. "I could just 
 DIE eating sausage." 
 
 Chester paid the check and forgot to take the change 
 from a two-dollar bill. 
 
 "I could just die eating sausage. I could just die 
 eating sausage." The wheels of the subway train 
 seemed to click to this refrain as it sped down-town.
 
 Gretna Greenhorns 201 
 
 It was nearly one o'clock when the elopers at last 
 reached the Municipal Building. They found a sign 
 which read, "MARRIAGE LICENSES. KEEP TO THE 
 RIGHT." 
 
 With his heart just under his collar button and his 
 dollar grasped tightly in his hand, Chester knocked 
 timidly. The door was opened by a stout minor poli- 
 tician with a cap on the back of his head. 
 
 "I want a marriage license, please," said Chester. 
 He dropped his voice a full octave below his normal 
 speaking-tone. 
 
 The minor politician blinked at Chester and Mil- 
 dred. Then he guffawed, hoarsely. 
 
 "Say," he said, "in the foist place, you'll have to get 
 a little more age on yuh, and in the second place, this 
 is Satiddy and this joint closes at noon. Come back 
 Thoisday between ten and four about eight years from 
 now." He closed the door. 
 
 Chester turned miserably to Mildred. 
 
 "That means Hoboken," he said. 
 
 "I don't care," she said, "as long as I'm with you." 
 
 They went out into the canyons of lower Manhattan, 
 in search of the way to Hoboken. Their wanderings 
 took them past a restaurant whose windows were 
 adorned with vicious-looking, green, live lobsters, 
 scrambling about pugnaciously on cakes of ice. 
 
 "Oh, LOBSTERS," cried Mildred, her eye bright- 
 ening. "I've only had lobster once in my life. Couldn't 
 you just DIE eating lobstor ?" 
 
 "I suppose so," said Chester, gloomily. 
 
 "Couldn't we stop in and have a teeny, weeny bit of 
 lunch?" she asked, eyeing the lobsters wistfully. "It 
 makes me feel sort of queer to go on long trips without 
 food."
 
 202 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "I'm not hungry," said Chester. 
 
 "But I am," said Mildred. They went in. 
 
 A superior waiter handed Mildred a large menu 
 card. "May I order just anything I want ?" she asked 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like some nice watercress salad and 
 some tea and lady-fingers ?" Chester asked, hopefully. 
 
 "Pooh ! Why, there's no nourishment in that at all !" 
 Mildred was studying the menu card. "I want a great 
 big lobster, and some asparagus. And then I want some 
 nice chicken salad with mayonnaise. And then some 
 pistache ice-cream. And, oh, yes, a piece of huckle- 
 berry pie." 
 
 To Chester that lunch seemed the longest experience 
 of his life. It seemed to him that no lobster ever 
 looked redder, no mayonnaise yellower, no pistache ice- 
 cream greener and no huckleberry pie purpler. Mildred 
 ate steadily. Now and then she made little joyful 
 noises of approbation. 
 
 When lunch was over at last, they started for 
 Hoboken. 
 
 "It's a nice pleasant trip by ferry-boat," a policeman 
 told them. 
 
 "I don't think I'd care for a boat trip," said Mildred. 
 
 "But we have to go to Hoboken," Chester expostu- 
 lated. 
 
 "Couldn't we walk ?" she asked. 
 
 "No, no, of course we couldn't It's across tie 
 river." 
 
 "I feel sort of queer, somehow," said Mildred, 
 faintly. 
 
 The North River was choppy from darting tugs and 
 gliding barges as the ferry-boat bore the elopers toward 
 the Jersey side. Leaning on the rail, Chester gazed
 
 Gretna Greenhorns 203 
 
 morosely at the retreating metropolitan sky-line. Mil- 
 dred plucked at his coat sleeve. He turned and looked 
 at her. Her face was pale. "Oh, Chester, I want to 
 go back. I want to go home," she said, tearfully. 
 
 "Why, Mildred," exclaimed Chester, and for the first 
 time there was impatience in his voice, "what's the 
 matter?" 
 
 "I'm going to be sick," she said. 
 
 She was. 
 
 M 
 
 "I hate you, Chester Jessup. I hate, hate, HATE 
 you. And I'm going to go back," she said, tearfully. 
 
 The elopers had never reached Hoboken. Mildred 
 refused to leave the ferry-boat and Chester did not urge 
 her. It bore them back to the New York side. Their 
 flight to Gretna Green was a failure. 
 
 "You take me right home, do you hear?" cried 
 Mildred. 
 
 "We can get the 3 :59 from the Grand Central," said 
 Chester in an icy voice. "That will get you home in 
 time for supper." 
 
 "Chester Jessup, you're a nasty, heartless boy to 
 mention supper to me when I'm in this condition," 
 said Mildred. 
 
 They made the trip from New York back to 
 Clintonia in silence. Chester, watching the scenery 
 flow by, was thinking deeply. He was wondering at 
 what age young men are admitted to monasteries. He 
 left Mildred at her house. 
 
 "Good night, Mr. Jessup," she said, coolly. 
 
 "Good night, Miss Wrigley," said Chester, and 
 stalked home.
 
 204 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "Where have you been all day?" demanded his 
 mother. 
 
 "Oh, just around," said Chester. 
 
 "Why weren't you home for lunch ?" 
 
 "I wasn't hungry," said Chester. 
 
 "And we had the best things, too. Just wfiat yon 
 like chicken salad with mayonnaise, and de_ep-disli 
 huckleberry pie." 
 
 Chester shivered. "I don't think I'll take any supper 
 to-night," he said. 
 
 "Why, what aila you, anyhow?" asked his mother, 
 solicitously. "We're going to have such a nice supper. 
 Your father brought home a couple of lobsters. And 
 afterward we're going to have pistache ice-cream, and 
 lady-fingers." 
 
 "Good Heavens, Mother, I guess I know when I'm 
 not hungry. There are other things in life besides 
 food, aren't there?" 
 
 "Like being in love, for example?" suggested his 
 sister Hilda. 
 
 "I'm not in love," declared Chester, vehemently. 
 
 "How would you like to have me tell Mildred Wrig- 
 ley you said that ?" asked Hilda. 
 
 "I just wish you would," said Chester, "I just wish 
 you would." 
 
 "By the way," remarked Mr. Jessup, "I met Tom 
 Wrigley to-day and he said he was sending that girl 
 of his off to boarding school at Simpson Hall." 
 
 "Oh, is he?" said Mrs. Jessup. "Chester, did you 
 hear what your father said?" 
 
 "Yes, I did," said Chester, "and all I can say is that 
 I hope she gets enough to eat"
 
 X: Terrible Epps
 
 X: Terrible Epps 
 
 1 
 
 r t THE blue prints and specifications in the case of 
 i Tidbur j Epps follow : 
 Age: the early thirties. 
 
 Status: bachelor. 
 
 Habitat: Mrs. Kelty's Refined Boarding House, 
 Brooklyn. 
 
 Occupation: a lesser clerk in the wholesale selling 
 department of Spingle & Blatter, Nifty Straw Hattings. 
 See Advts. 
 
 Appearance : that of a lesser clerk. Weight : feather. 
 Nose: stub. Eyes: apologetic. Teeth: obvious. Fig- 
 ure : brief. Manner : diffident. Nature : kind. Dispo- 
 sition: amiable but subdued. 
 
 Conspicuous vices: none. 
 
 Conspicuous virtues: none. 
 
 Distinguishing marks: none. 
 
 Tidbury was no Napoleon. He was aware of this, 
 and so was everybody in the hat company, including, 
 unfortunately, Titus Spingle, the president, who felt 
 that he knew a thing or two about Bonapartes because 
 he had once been referred to in a straw-hat trade paper 
 as the Napoleon of Hatdom. 
 
 Mildly, as he did everything else in life, Tidbury ad- 
 mired, indeed almost envied Mr. Spingle's silk shirts, 
 which customarily suggested an explosion in a paint 
 
 207
 
 208 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 factory. But such sartorial grandeur, Tidbury felt, 
 was not for him. He stuck to plain white shirts, dark 
 blue ties and pepper-and-salt suits. The pepper-and- 
 salt suit was invented for Tidbury Epps. 
 
 Tidbury worked diligently and even cheerfully on a 
 high stool and a low salary, copying neat little black 
 figures into big black books. The salary and the stool 
 were the same Tidbury had been given when he first 
 came to New York from Calais, Maine, ten years 
 before. 
 
 It probably never entered his head, as he bent over 
 his columns of digits that crisp fall morning, that in 
 their sanctum of real mahogany and Spanish leather 
 his employers were discussing him. 
 
 "Whitaker has quit," announced Mr. Blatter, who 
 acted as sales manager. 
 
 Mr. Spingle's acre of face, pink and dimpled from 
 much good living, showed concern. 
 
 "How come you can't keep an assistant, Otto?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 "After they've been with me for six months," ex- 
 plained Mr. Blatter modestly, "they get so good that 
 they simply have to get better jobs." 
 
 "Well, got any candidates for the place ?" queried the 
 president. 
 
 "Burdette?" suggested Mr. Blatter. 
 
 Mr. Spingle eliminated Burdette with a flick of his 
 finger. 
 
 "Too young," he said. 
 
 "Wetsel?" 
 
 "Too old." 
 
 "Fitch?" 
 
 "Too careless." 
 
 "Hydeman?"
 
 Terrible Epps 209 
 
 "Too inexperienced." 
 
 "Well," ventured Mr. Blatter, "what about Tidbury 
 Epps?" 
 
 Mr. Spingle's shrug included his shoulders, face and 
 entire body. 
 
 "He's neither too old, too young, too careless nor too 
 inexperienced," advanced Mr. Blatter. 
 
 "You're not serious, Otto ?" 
 
 "Sure I am. Epps has been with us ten years and 
 he's worked hard. I believe in giving our old employes 
 a chance." 
 
 "So do I," rejoined the Napoleon of Hatdom; "but 
 you know perfectly well, Otto, that Tidbury Epps is a 
 dud." 
 
 "He's as conscientious as a Pilgrim father," re- 
 marked Mr. Blatter. 
 
 "That's the trouble with him," snorted Mr. Spingle. 
 
 "He spends so much time being conscientious that 
 he hasn't time to be anything else. Not that I object 
 to a man having a conscience, y'understand. But Epps 
 hasn't anything else. You know how it is in the hat 
 trade, Otto ; you've got to be a good fellow." 
 
 Mr. Spingle paused to pat his silken bosom, in hue 
 reminiscent of sunset in the Grand Canon. That he 
 was a good fellow, a lion vivant, even, was generally 
 admitted in the hat trade. 
 
 "You see," went on the Napoleon of Hatdom, "your 
 assistant has to be nice to the trade. That's almost his 
 chief job. Eemember the motto of our house is, 'Our 
 business friends are our personal friends.' That's 
 meant a lot to us, Otto. Now and then you've simply 
 got to take a big buyer out and show him a good time 
 buy him a meal and take him to the Winter Garden. 
 You and I are mostly too busy to do it, but your assist-
 
 2io The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 ant isn't. Whitaker made us a lot of good friends, and 
 good customers, too, because lie was a regular fella and 
 knew the ropes. But can you imagine old Epps giving 
 a party ?" 
 
 Mr. Blatter was forced to admit that he couldn't. 
 
 "But he's so willing," he argued. 
 
 "Oh, sure," agreed Mr. Spingle; "and sober and in- 
 dustrious and stands without hitching and all that. But 
 he's too much of a hermit. No more personality than 
 a parsnip. No spirit. No nerve. No fire. No zip. 
 Sorry I can't jump him up ; he may be a good man, but 
 he's not a good fellow." 
 
 "I suppose it will have to be Hydeman, then," re- 
 marked Mr. Blatter, rising. "He's a little too slick 
 and flip to suit me, and we don't know much about him, 
 but I suppose he'd know how to show a buyer Broad- 
 way." 
 
 "I'll bet he would," said Mr. Spingle. "Try him 
 out. "Rut watch his expense account, Otto." 
 
 So Tidbury Epps continued to enjoy his high stool 
 and his low salary and to copy endless little figures into 
 big black books. His shoulders drooped a little when 
 he heard of Hydeman's quick promotion, but he said 
 nothing. 
 
 Messrs. Spingle and Blatter, being interested solely 
 in what went on outside men's heads, did not attempt 
 to find out what was wrong with Tidbury Epps. But 
 had a psychoanalyst peered darkly into the interior of 
 Tidbury's small round cranium he would have instantly 
 noted that Mr. Epps was suffering from a bad case of 
 inferiority complex, complicated by an acute attack of 
 Puritanical complex. 
 
 If anybody was to blame for this it was not Tidbury 
 himself but his Aunt Elvira, who, with the aid of a
 
 Terrible Epps 211 
 
 patented cat-o'-nine-tails she had sent all the way to 
 Chicago for, willow switches from her own back yard, 
 and an edged tongue that cut worse than either, had 
 confined his juvenile steps to a very straight and ex- 
 ceedingly narrow path by the simple process of lam- 
 basting him roundly whenever he so much as glanced 
 to the right or to the left. 
 
 Aunt Elvira was a lean woman with no digestion to 
 speak of, and the chief tenet of her philosophy was 
 that whatever is enjoyable is sinful. She impressed 
 this creed on young Tidbury with her thin but sinewy 
 arm, until one day while castigating him violently for 
 laughing at a comic supplement that the groceries had 
 come in she succumbed to an excess of virtue and a 
 broken blood vessel. 
 
 Tidbury promptly came to New York with two suits 
 of flannel underwear and many suppressed desires, and 
 went soberly to work in the hat company. His subse- 
 quent life was as empty of adventure, variety, sin or 
 success as the life of a Hubbard squash. His job wholly 
 absorbed him. The little figures in the big books be- 
 came his only world. He had never learned to play. 
 
 Yet people liked Tidbury, even while they thought 
 him kin to the snail. He had a quiet twinkle in his 
 eye and he took over mean jobs and night work with- 
 out a peep of protest. It was his willingness to take 
 on overtime work, and his quiet competence that first 
 attracted the approving eye of Mr. Blatter. But Mr. 
 Blatter had to admit that Mr. Spingle had diagnosed 
 the case of Tidbury Epps all too accurately; Tidbury 
 was indubitably, incurably a dud; and that is worse 
 than being a dub. If any latent fire lurked beneath 
 that pepper-and-salt bosom no one had ever glimpsed
 
 212 Tht Sin of Monsieur Petti pan 
 
 lived up 
 
 bid bi TOtefe by tbe 
 
 of Martha Bitter, the 
 
 -: he to* 
 
 :::? r^rr-vr-^-i-s^lt 
 
 to feel so good, boot 
 
 :- Lr-r: L-. ". r ._-..: "_:r 
 to a concert im. Cental 
 
 ; lie 
 
 , with Martha, was 
 
 witii tie tide. 
 
 in her, did not think much of this aort of 
 
 rn with her-^tbej bad 
 the 
 
 to the Aquarium to
 
 Terrible Epps 213 
 
 had burst from her, and -be bad odaimed, Ob, Tid- 
 bory, you are 10 ojuetP* 
 
 The words had jolted him; be had Mid them ower to 
 
 was tryis*; to keep ham Oiitmt; 
 he bent over hi* task the day they Made Hydeman as- 
 
 irt^.r.t v, '.--' -.'<i- : -~. rr-ir-ii'^r. XSJkHff --i i ^~. '.-'?& 
 lately that Martha talked about Mr. Hydeman a great 
 
 Lid &*! fta4 I.:V-v MHM| ;, ! v. gBj 
 of thoae high-lapeied, avM^vsiated ante that Mr. Hyde- 
 man affected; abe bad qootod lome of Mr. Hydeman'a 
 witticiama, and bad retailed tome iM'iitrti from hk 
 highly colored life. In ihort, abe appealed to hap 
 VMM A Hidden af j w* iwtfi'fft in Mr. Hjdemaa. 
 
 Tidbory Epj eodd not drive from hi* mind tie 
 disquieting thought that Mr. Hydeman as a rival would 
 be dangerous. In the washroom Mr. Hydeman made 
 no secret of his finesse as a Don Juan. He was every- 
 thing that Tidbory was not dash isg, worldly, confi- 
 dent. There was suiBelhuig about bis smooth Uack 
 hair, held in place by a shiny gummy substiarr, some- 
 thing about die angle at which be tOted bis short- 
 brimmed hat, y^i^^^i atss4 A vrav ^ :^L: little 
 knot of brifliant tie fitted into his modiabry low eoOar, 
 something about die way he filliped the ash from bis 
 cigarette so that one could see the diamond twinkle on 
 his finger that earned a subtle suggestion of Sflfhistf- 
 cation and an adventurous natnre. 
 
 That morning they had entered together Tidborj 
 and Mr. Hydeman and Tidbory, with icy fingers 
 gripping his heart, had noted that Martha bestowed on 
 Mr. Hydeman a smile with a lingering personal note 
 in it, while her greeting to Tidbory was a curt formal
 
 214 The Sin of Monsieur Petti pon 
 
 nod. His bitter cup was full, and for the first time in 
 his life he gave way to the pangs of jealousy when, at 
 noontime, he saw Mr. Hydeman take her to lunch. 
 Tidbury came upon them, talking and laughing to- 
 gether, and Martha made not the slightest attempt to 
 conceal her interest in the suave new assistant to the 
 sales manager; she was open, even brazen about it. 
 
 Tidbury was moodily copying figures and trying not 
 to heed the fact that the green-eyed monster was clutch- 
 ing him with torturing talons when Mr. Hydeman came 
 up to his desk and prodded him playfully in the ribs. 
 
 "Well, old Tid," remarked Mr. Hydeman, "I'll bet 
 you wish you were going to be in my shoes to-night." 
 
 Tidbury looked up from his work. 
 
 "Why?" he asked. 
 
 For answer Mr. Hydeman thrust two tickets beneath 
 Tidbury's stub of nose. With only a vague compre- 
 hension Tidbury glanced at what was printed on them. 
 
 ADMIT ONE 
 THE PAGAN KOUT 
 
 ALL GEEENWICH VILLAGE WILL BE THESE 
 WEBBER HALL 
 
 ONLY PERSONS IN COSTUME ADMITTED. DON'T Miss 
 
 THE DARING GARDEN OF EDEN BALLET AND 
 
 MASQUE AT FOUR A.M. 
 
 "Are you a Greenwich Villager?" asked Tidbury. 
 Mr. Hydeman smiled at the note of horror in Tid- 
 bury's voice. 
 
 "Oh, I hang out down there," he admitted airily. 
 "And you're going to the Pagan Kout ?"
 
 Terrible Epps 215 
 
 Even into the seclusion of Calais, Maine, and Mrs. 
 Kelty's, rumors of that revel had filtered. 
 
 "I never miss one," replied Mr. Hydeman grandly. 
 "And say, I've a costume this year that's a knockout" 
 
 "You have?" 
 
 "Yes. I've got a preacher's outfit. Can you imagine 
 me a parson ?" 
 
 Weakly Tidbury said he couldn't. 
 
 "And say," went on Mr. Hydeman, lowering his 
 voice to a confidential whisper, "I'll have a flask of hip 
 oil on me." 
 
 "Hip oil?" 
 
 "Sure. Diamond juice." 
 
 "Diamond juice?" 
 
 "Aw, hooch. For me and the gal." 
 
 "The girl ?" quavered Tidbury. 
 
 "Say," demanded Mr. Hydeman, "did you think I 
 was going to take a hippopotamus with me ?" 
 
 Tidbury's small face was pathetic. 
 
 "You don't know what you're missing, Tid," Mr. 
 Hydeman rattled on. "It's a real naughty party. 
 Those costumes ! Oh, bebe." Mr. Hydeman rolled his 
 eyes toward the roof and blew thither a kiss. "Last 
 year there was a Cleopatra there and she didn't have 
 a thing on her but a pair of " 
 
 "The cashier's waiting for these figures," mumbled 
 Mr. Epps. "I've got to go to him." 
 
 He heard Hydeman's sniggle of laughter behind him. 
 
 That evening the desperate Tidbury met Martha 
 Hitter as she was leaving the hat company's building. 
 
 "May I come to see you to-night?" he asked, trying 
 not to stammer, and hoping his ears were not as red 
 as they felt. "There's a nice band concert in Prospect 
 Park and I thought "
 
 216 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 Martha Kitter cocked her head to one side and smiled 
 mysteriously. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Mr. Epps," she said coolly, "but I have 
 an engagement." 
 
 "You have an engagement?" He repeated the 
 words as if they were a prison sentence. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Oh, it's a masquerade." She smiled, her head on 
 one side. 
 
 "Whom are you going with?" he blurted; he was 
 trembling. 
 
 "That would be telling," she laughed. "Well, good 
 night, Mr. Epps. I must hurry home and g^t my 
 costume on. I'm going as a gypsy." 
 
 And she disappeared into the maw of the Subway. 
 
 A masquerade! In gypsy costume! Tidbury was 
 struck by the lightning of complete realization; he un- 
 derstood Hydeman's leer now. Feebly he leaned 
 against a lamp-post until his numbed brain could re- 
 cover from the impact. Then he committed a sin. De- 
 liberately he kicked the lamp-post a vicious kick. 
 
 "Darn it all," he muttered through clenched teeth. 
 "Yes, gosh darn it all !" 
 
 Then he went wearily to his boarding house. 
 Morosely he ate of Mrs. Kelty's boiled beef and bread 
 pudding; morosely he sat in his lonely stall of a bed- 
 room and glowered at a hole in the red carpet. 
 
 "I'm too quiet. Too darn quiet," he kept saying to 
 himself in a sort of litany. "Yes, too gosh darn quiet." 
 
 And when he thought of Martha, sweet simple 
 Martha, and so short a time ago his Martha, at the 
 Pagan Rout with Hydeman, surrounded by indecorous 
 and no doubt inebriate denizens of Greenwich Village,
 
 Terrible Epps 217 
 
 his head all but burst. That she was lost, and, most 
 poignant thought of all, lost to him, kept beating in 
 upon his brain. He moaned. 
 
 Suddenly his spine straightened with a terrible re- 
 solve. His small guileless face was set in lines of stem 
 decision. He leaped from his chair, dived under his 
 brass bed, rummaged in his trunk and fished up twenty- 
 five hard-saved dollars in a sock. 
 
 Clapping his hat on his head in emulation of the 
 tilt of Mr. Hydeman's hat Tidbury issued forth. In 
 the hall he passed Mrs. Kelty, who regarded him with 
 some surprise. 
 
 "You're not going out, Mr. Epps?" she asked. 
 "Why, it's after nine !" 
 
 "I am going out, Mrs. Kelty," announced Tidbury 
 Epps. 
 
 "Back soon ?" 
 
 "I may never come back," he answered hollowly. 
 
 "Sakes alive ! Where are you going ?" 
 
 "I am going," said Tidbury Epps firmly, "to the 
 devil." 
 
 And he strode into the night. 
 
 Never having gone to the devil before, Mr. Epps 
 was somewhat perplexed in mind as to the direction 
 he should take. But a moment's reflection convinced 
 him that Greenwich Village was the most promising 
 place for such a pilgrimage. He had never been there 
 before; he had been afraid to go there. Startling 
 stories of the gay profligacy rampant in that angle of 
 old New York had reached his ears. He believed firmly 
 that if the devil has any headquarters in New York
 
 218 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 they are somewhere below Fourteenth Street and west 
 of Washington Square. 
 
 Mr. Epps debouched from a bus in Washington 
 Square and started westward along West Fourth Street 
 with the cautious but determined tread of an explorer 
 penetrating a trackless and cannibal-infested jungle. 
 He glanced apprehensively to right and left, his eyes 
 wide for the sight of painted sirens, his ears agape for 
 gusts of ribald merriment. At each corner he paused 
 expectantly, anticipating that he might come upon a 
 delirious party of art students gamboling about a model. 
 He traversed two blocks without seeing so much as a 
 emock; what he did see was an ancient man of Italian 
 derivation carrying a bag of charcoal on his head, and 
 a stout woman wheeling twins stuffed uncomfortably 
 into a single-seater gocart, and a number of nondescript 
 humans who from their sedate air might well have been 
 Brooklyn funeral directors. He owned, after a bit, to 
 a certain sense of disappointment. Going to the devil 
 was more of a chore than he had fancied. 
 
 As he trekked ever westward a sound at length smote 
 his dilated ears and made him catch his breath. It 
 was issuing from a dim-lit basement, and was filtering 
 through batik curtains stenciled with strange, smeary 
 beasts. He had heard the wild, dissipated notes of a 
 mechanical piano. A lurid but somewhat inexpertly 
 lettered sign above the basement door read, 
 
 YE AMIABLE OYSTER 
 REFEESHMINTS AT ALL HES. 
 
 With a newborn boldness Tidbury Epp thrust open 
 the door and entered. No shower of confetti, no pop- 
 ping of corks, no rousing stein song greeted him. Save
 
 Terrible Epps 219 
 
 for the industrious piano the place seemed empty. 
 However, by the feeble beams that came from the lights, 
 bandaged in batik like so many sore thumbs, he dis- 
 cerned a mountainous matron behind a cash register, 
 engaged in tatting. 
 
 "Where's everybody ?" he asked of her. 
 
 "Oh, things will liven up after a bit," she yawned. 
 
 Tidbury sat at a small bright blue table and scanned 
 a card affixed to the wall. 
 
 Angel's Ambrosia. .$0.50 Very dry Martini. .$0.60 
 
 Horse's Neck 60 Very, very dry 
 
 Devil's Delight 70 Martini .90 
 
 Dry Martini 50 Champagne Sizzle. . .75 
 
 A sleepy waiter with a soup-stained vest came from 
 the inner room presently. 
 
 "Gimme a Devil's Delight," ordered Tidbury Epps 
 recklessly. 
 
 He had heard that Greenwich Village, the untram- 
 meled, laughs openly in the teeth of the Eighteenth 
 Amendment. He had never in his life tasted an alco- 
 holic drink, but to-night he was stopping at nothing. 
 The Devil's Delight came, and Tidbury as he sipped 
 its pink saccharinity found himself feeling that the 
 devil is rather easily delighted. He had expected the 
 potion to make his head buzz ; but it did not. Instead 
 it distinctly suggested rather weak and not very supe- 
 rior strawberry sirup and carbonated water. He 
 crooked a summoning finger at the waiter. 
 
 "Horse's Neck," he commanded. 
 
 The Horse's Neck made its appearance, an insipid- 
 looking amber fluid with a wan piece of lemon peel 
 floating shamefacedly on its surface.
 
 220 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "Tastes just like ginger ale to me," remarked Mr. 
 Epps. "Wadjuh expeck in a Horse's Neck?" queried 
 the waiter bellicosely. "Chloride of lime ?" 
 
 "I can't feel it at all," complained Mr. Epps. 
 
 "Feel it ?" The waiter raised his brows. "Say, what 
 do you think this joint is ? A dump ? We ain't boot- 
 leggers, mister." 
 
 "Oh !" exclaimed Mr. Epps. 
 
 He was about to go elsewhere, when a babel of ex- 
 cited voices outside the door made him sink back into 
 his chair; evidently the promise of the tatting matron 
 was to be made good, and Ye Amiable Oyster was about 
 to liven up. 
 
 The first thing that entered the door was an animal 
 a full-size, shaggy anthropoid ape, big as a man. Mr. 
 Epps was too alarmed to bolt. But as the creature ca- 
 reened into the light Mr. Epps observed that his face 
 was human and slightly Hibernian. Behind him came 
 a girl, rather sketchily dressed for autumn in a pair of 
 bead portieres, a girdle or two, and a gilt plaster bird, 
 which was bound firmly to her head. Mr. Epps had 
 seen things like her on cigarette boxes. A second couple 
 followed, hilarious. The man wore a tight velvet suit, 
 a sombrero several yards around, black mustaches of 
 prodigious length and bristle that did not match the red 
 of his hair, and earrings the size of cantaloupes ; it was 
 not clear whether he was intended to be a pirate or an 
 organ grinder or a compromise between the two ; but it 
 was clear that he was in a state where it did not matter, 
 to him, in the least. His companion wore a precarious 
 garment of dry grass, and her arms were stained brown ; 
 at intervals she conveyed the information to the gen- 
 eral atmosphere that she was a bimbo from a bamboo 
 isle.
 
 Terrible Epps 221 
 
 The four, after an impromptu ring-around-a-rosie, 
 collapsed into chairs near the wide-eyed Epps. Fasci- 
 nated he stared at them the first authentic natives of 
 Greenwich Village on whom his cloistered eye had ever 
 rested. 
 
 "Ginger ale," bawled the ape. 
 
 It was brought. The ape dipping into a fold in his 
 anatomy brought to light a capacious flask, kissed it 
 solemnly, and poured its contents into the glasses of 
 the others. 
 
 "Jake, that sure is the real old stuff," said the girl 
 in the grass dress. 
 
 "Made it m'sef," said the ape proudly. "Y'see, I 
 took dozen apricots, and ten pounds sugar, and some 
 yeast and some raisins, and mixed 'em in a jug, and 
 added water and " 
 
 "That's nine times we heard all about that," inter- 
 rupted the pirate or organ grinder. "Better be careful, 
 anyhow. Mebbe that guy is a revnoo officer." 
 
 They all turned to stare at Mr. Epps. 
 
 "Of course he ain't 'nofficer, Ed," protested the ape, 
 surveying Tidbury with care. "He's got too kind a 
 face. You ain't 'nofficer, are you?" 
 
 "No," said Tidbury. 
 
 "What did I tell yuh ?" cried the ape, triumphantly, 
 to his companions. "Shove up your chair, old sport, 
 and have a drink with us. You look like a live one. 
 I like your face." 
 
 Thus bidden, Tidbury, with an air of abandon, joined 
 the group. The ape named Jake tilted his flask over 
 Tidbury's spiritless Horse's Neck with such vehement 
 good-fellowship that a gush of pungent brown fluid 
 spurted from the container. Tidbury downed the mix-
 
 222 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 ture at a gulp; it made tears start to his eyes and a 
 conflagration flame up in his brain. 
 
 "Howzit?" demanded Jake the ape. 
 
 " 'Sgoo'," answered Tidbury warmly. 
 
 "Have 'nuther. Got plenty," said Jake, producing a 
 second flask from another recess in his shaggy skin. "I 
 like your face." 
 
 "Don't care if I do," said Tidbury nonchalantly. 
 
 The lights in the near-cafe were very bright, the 
 voices very high, the conversation exquisitely witty, the 
 mechanical piano a symphonic rhapsody, and the heart 
 of Tidbury Epps was pumping with wild, unwonted 
 pumps; he smiled to himself. He was going to the 
 devil at a great rate. He waxed loquacious. He told 
 them anecdotes ; he even sang a little. 
 
 He beamed upon Jake, and playfully plucked a tuft 
 of hair from his costume. 
 
 "Nice li'P monkey," he said affably. 
 
 "Not a monkey !" denied Jake indignantly. 
 
 "Wad are you? S-s-schimpaz-z-ze-e-e ?" 
 
 "Nope. Not a S-s-schimpaz-z-ze-e-e." 
 
 "Kan-tan?" 
 
 "Nope. Not a ran-tan." 
 
 "Bamboo?" 
 
 "Nope. Not a bamboo." 
 
 "Well, wad are you ?" 
 
 Jake thumped his hairy chest proudly. 
 
 "I'm a griller," he explained. 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Epps, satisfied. "A griller. Of 
 course ! Is it hard work ?" 
 
 "Work ?" cried Jake. "Say, this ain't my real skin. 
 It's a 'sguise." 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Epps. "So you're 'sguised? Wad 
 did you do ?"
 
 Terrible Epps 223 
 
 "Careful, Jake," the organ grinder or pirate warned. 
 "He may be a revnoo officer." 
 
 The gorilla turned on him angrily. 
 
 "Lookahere, Ed Peterson, how dare you pass re- 
 marks like that about my ole friend, Mr. What is 
 
 your name, anyhow ? Of course he ain't no revnofficer ? 
 Are you ?" 
 
 "I'll fight anybody who says I am," declared Tid- 
 bury Epps, glaring fiercely around at the empty chairs 
 and tables. 
 
 "You a fighter?" inquired the gorilla, in a voice in 
 which awe, admiration and alcohol mingled. 
 
 Mr. Epps contracted his brow and narrowed his eyes. 
 
 "Yep," he said impressively. "I'm Terrible Battling 
 Epps. I'd rather fight than eat." He turned sternly 
 to the gorilla. "Why are you 'sguised ? Wad did you 
 do?" 
 
 "Why, you poor nut," put in the girl in the beads, 
 "we're going to the Pagan Rout." 
 
 "Sure, that's it," chimed in Jake. "Goin' to the 
 Pagan Row. Come on along, Terrible." 
 
 "Aw, I'm tired of Pagan Routs," said Mr. Epps 
 loftily. But the suggestion speeded up the pumpings 
 of his heart. 
 
 "Oh, do come !" urged the girl in the beads. 
 
 "Ain't got no 'sguise," said Mr. Epps. He was 
 wavering. 
 
 "Aw, come on!" cried the gorilla, clapping him on 
 the shoulder till his teeth rattled. "Proud to have you 
 with us, Terrible. I know a live one when I see one. 
 Come on along. You'll see a lot of your friends there." 
 
 His friends ? Tidbury thought of Martha. 
 
 "If I only had a 'sguise " he began. 
 
 "You can get one round at Steinbeck's, on Seventh
 
 224 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 Avenue," promptly informed the organ grinder-pirate. 
 "That is," he added with sudden suspicion, "if you ain't 
 one of these here revnofficers." 
 
 "S-s-s-s-sh, Ed," cautioned Jake, the gorilla. "Do 
 you want Terrible Battling Epps to take a poke at you ?" 
 
 Tidbury had made up his mind. 
 
 "I'll go," he announced. 
 
 "Good!" exclaimed the gorilla delightedly. "Atta 
 boy ! Glad to have a real N'Yawk sport with us. Meet 
 you at Webber Hall, Terrible." 
 
 "Webber Hall? Wherezat?" inquired Tidbury as 
 he sought to negotiate the door. 
 
 "Well," confessed the gorilla, "I dunno 'zactly m'sef. 
 Y'see, I'm from Kansas City m'sef. In the lid game, 
 I am. Biggest firm west of the Mizzizippi. Last year 
 we sold " 
 
 "Aw, stop selling and tell Terrible how to get to 
 Webber Hall," put in the girl in the beads; she ap- 
 peared to be the gorilla's wife. 
 
 "Well," said Jake, thoughtfully rubbing his fuzzy 
 head, "far as I remember, you go out to the square and 
 you go straight along till you get to the L and you turn 
 to the right " 
 
 "Left!" interjected the organ grinder-pirate. 
 
 "Right," repeated the gorilla firmly. "And then 
 you turn down another street no, you don't you go 
 straight on till you see a dentist's sign, a big gold tooth, 
 with 'Gee, it didn't hurt a bit at Dr. B. Schmuck'a 
 Parlors,' painted on it, and you turn to your right " 
 
 "Left," corrected the pirate-organ grinder sternly. 
 
 "Waz difference?" went on the gorilla blandly. 
 "Well, as I was saying, you turn to the right or left 
 and then you go along three or four blocks, and then 
 you turn to your left "
 
 Terrible Epps 225 
 
 "Eight, I tell you!" roared the man in velvet. 
 
 "Oh, well, you go along until you come to a corner 
 and you turn it and go down a little bit, and there you 
 are!" 
 
 "Where am I ?" Mr. Epps, posing against the door, 
 asked. 
 
 "Wefeber Hall," said Jake. "Pagan Row." 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Epps. 
 
 "Didn't you follow me?" 
 
 "Of course I followed you." 
 
 "Good. See you at the party, Terrible. You're 
 hot stuff." 
 
 "I'll be there. G'night." 
 
 "G'night, Terrible, old scout." 
 
 3 
 
 Mr. Epps emerged from Ye Amiable Oyster, walking 
 with elaborate but difficult dignity. He had only a 
 remote idea where he was, but he knew where he wanted 
 to go Steinbock's on Seventh Avenue. So with a 
 temerity quite foreign to him he stepped up briskly to 
 the first passing pedestrian and asked, "Say, frien', 
 where's Sebble Abloo ?" 
 
 The man accosted puckered a, puzzled brow. 
 
 "I don't get you, frien'," he said. 
 
 "Sebble Abloo !" repeated Mr. Epps loudly, thinking 
 the stranger's hearing might be defective. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Sebble Abloo!" roared Mr. Epps. 
 
 The man shook his head as one giving up a 
 conundrum. 
 
 "Sebble Abloo," repeated Mr. Epps at the top of his 
 voice. "Look." He held up his fingers and counted
 
 226 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 them off. "One, two, sree, four, fi', sizz, sebble. Sebble 
 Abloo!" 
 
 "Oh, Seventh Avenue. Why didn't you say so in 
 the first place?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "I'm going that way. I'll show you." 
 
 The stranger steered Tidbury through a rabbit war- 
 ren of streets the Greenwich Village streets never 
 have made up their minds where they are going and 
 started him, with a gentle push, up Seventh Avenue. 
 
 Presently by some miracle Tidbury stumbled upon 
 Steinbeck's, and pushed his way into a jumble of masks, 
 wigs, helmets and assorted junk, till he approached a 
 patriarch in a skullcap, hidden behind a Niagara of 
 white beard. 
 
 " 'Lo, ole fel'," said Mr. Epps affably. "What are 
 you 'sguised as ? Sandy Claws or a cough drop ?" 
 
 "Did you wish something?" inquired the patriarch 
 coldly. 
 
 "Sure," said Tidbury. "Gimme 'sguise for Pagon 
 Row." 
 
 "Cash in advance," said the patriarch. "What sort 
 of costume?" 
 
 Tidbury considered. 
 
 "Wadjuh got?" 
 
 The venerable Steinbock enumerated rapidly, "Bear, 
 bandit, policeman, Turk, golliwog, ballet girl, kewpie, 
 pantaloon, Uncle Sam, tramp, diver, Lord Fauntleroy, 
 devil " 
 
 The ears of Mr. Epps twitched at the last word. 
 
 "Devil?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Steinbock; "a swell rig; nice red 
 suit ; hasn't been worn a dozen times." He leaned for-
 
 Terrible Epps 227 
 
 ward toward Tidbury and whispered, "And I'll throw 
 in a brand-new pair of horns and a tail !" 
 
 "I'll take it!" cried Tidbury. "Where can I hang 
 my pants?" 
 
 After an interval there emerged from the depths of 
 the Steinbock establishment a small uncertain figure 
 muffled in an old raincoat. The coat was short and 
 from beneath it protruded bright red legs and a gen- 
 erous length of red tail, with a spike on the end of it 
 that gave forth sharp metallic sounds as it bumped 
 along the pavement. A derby hat concealed one horn, 
 but the other was visible ; the face was Mephistophelian 
 in its general character, but softened and rounded 
 the countenance of a rather amiable minor devil. 
 
 Tidbury Epps paused on a street corner to get his 
 bearings. He had read somewhere that woodsmen, lost 
 in the forest, can find the points of the compass because 
 moss always grows on the north side of trees. He was 
 carefully investigating a lamp-post for a trace of moss 
 when a beady-eyed urchin approached him with out- 
 thrust hand. 
 
 "Give us one, mister?" 
 
 "One what?" 
 
 "A sample." 
 
 "Sample of what?" 
 
 "Ain't you advertising something ?" 
 
 Tidbury drew himself up. 
 
 "No," he said with dignity. "How do I get to 
 Wazzington Square?" 
 
 "Aw, chee," the urchin said in disgust, "you're one 
 of them artist guys ! Washington Square is two blocka 
 south and three blocks west." 
 
 With every corpuscle in his small frame aglow with 
 an excitement he had never before experienced Tidbury
 
 228 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 Epps started in determined search, of the Pagan Rout. 
 A grim purpose had been forming in his brain. So 
 Martha Ritter thought he was quiet, eh? Hydeman 
 had sniggered at him, had he? Just wait till Terrible 
 Battling Epps reached the ball and discovered the well- 
 fed person of Mr. Hydeman in clerical garb. There 
 would be fireworks, he promised himself. No one was 
 going to steal the girl of Terrible Epps and get away 
 with it. 
 
 These, and thoughts of a similar trend, reeled 
 through the brain of Tidbury as he hurried with a series 
 of skips and now and then a short sprint along the 
 curbstone. 
 
 So busy did he become planning a dramatic descent 
 on Hydeman that he forgot the directions of the urchin, 
 and soon found himself hopelessly astray in an eel 
 tangle of streets, as he repeated, "Two blocks wes' and 
 three blocks souse. Or was it three blocks souse and 
 two blocks wes' ?" 
 
 Gripping his tail firmly in his hand he tried both 
 plans. Passers-by eyed him with the blase curiosity of 
 New Yorkers, as he passed at a dog trot. 
 
 Sometimes they nudged each other and remarked, 
 "Artist. Goin' to this here Pagan Rout. Pretty snoot- 
 ful, too. Lucky stiff." 
 
 No one ventured to impede his slightly erratic prog- 
 ress; after half an hour of wandering he stopped, 
 mopped his brow and observed, "Ought to be there by 
 now." 
 
 As he said this he saw two figures across the street, 
 two ladies of mature mold, picking their way along. 
 It was their garb which made him give a shout of 
 triumph and follow them. For one, who was fat, was 
 dressed as a colonial dame with powdered hair, and the
 
 Terrible Epps 229 
 
 other, who was fatter, was a forty-year-old edition of 
 Little Red Riding Hood; her hair was in pigtails, but 
 she was discreetly skirted to the ankle bones. He fol- 
 lowed these masqueraders with the wary steps of an 
 Indian stalking a moose, until they turned into the 
 basement of a towering building of brick, from which 
 issued the melodic scraping of fiddles and the pleasing 
 bleating of horns. His heart skipped a beat. The 
 Pagan Rout ! The devil's doorway. 
 
 Tidbury Epps shucked off his raincoat and derby hat, 
 tossed them at a fire hydrant, put on his mask, dropped 
 his tail, squared his red shoulders, knotted up his small 
 fists, drew in a deep breath and plunged into the hall. 
 So engrossed was he in these preparations that he failed 
 to note a homemade poster nailed outside the door. 
 It read: 
 
 COSTUME PARTY 
 
 IN THE 
 
 CHURCH BASEMENT TO-NIGHT 
 
 With a rolling gait Tidbury Epps entered the hall. 
 Figures eddied about him in a dance, and, somewhat 
 surprised, Tidbury noted that it was very like the old- 
 fashioned waltzes he had seen in Calais, Maine. The 
 waltzers evidently regarded dancing as a business of the 
 utmost seriousness; their lips, beneath their dominoes, 
 were rigid and severe, save when they counted softly 
 but audibly, "One, two, three, turn. One, two, three, 
 turn." In vain Tidbury searched the room for Jake
 
 230 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 the gorilla, the beaded lady, the organ-grinding pirate 
 and the bimbo from the bamboo isle. He concluded 
 that Jake's flasks had been too much for them. And he 
 saw no gypsy or Hydeman. Indeed, as he watched 
 the restrained and sober waltzers he could not escape 
 the conviction that the Pagan Rout, for an institution 
 so widely known for impropriety, was singularly decent 
 in the matter of costumes. There were Priscillas in 
 ample skirts, farmerettes in baggy overalls, milkmaids 
 in Mother Hubbards, Pilgrim fathers, sailors, and 
 Chinese in voluminous kimonos. Tidbury, a little 
 dazed in a corner, began to think that he had over- 
 estimated the glamour of sin. 
 
 He perceived that the obese Red Riding Hood was 
 standing at his elbow, gazing at him with some curiosity. 
 
 He lurched toward her, and administered a slap of 
 good-fellowship on her plump shoulder. 
 
 " 'Lo, cutie," he remarked in accents slightly blurred. 
 "Where's Cleopotter?" 
 
 The lady gave vent to a squeal of surprise. 
 
 "Sir," she said, "I do not know Miss Potter." 
 
 She sniffed the atmosphere in the vicinity of Mr. 
 Epps, gave a little cluck of horror, and scurried away 
 like a duck from a hawk. 
 
 The eyes of Mr. Epps followed her flight and he 
 saw that she headed straight for a man who sat in a 
 distant corner of the hall; the man was masked, but 
 Tidbury felt every muscle in his five feet three inches 
 of body stiffen as he saw that the man in the corner 
 wore the garb of the clergy. Hydeman! 
 
 Red Riding Hood whispered in his ear and pointed 
 an accusing finger toward Tidbury; the man in the 
 corner gazed earnestly at the diminutive red devil tee- 
 tering on red hoofs. By now Tidbury had spied an-
 
 Terrible Epps 231 
 
 other figure, sitting next to the masked preacher. She 
 was a gypsy. And as she gazed at her companion she 
 cocked her head to one side. 
 
 With tail bouncing along the floor after him Tid- 
 bury started briskly in their direction at a lope. Within 
 a yard of them he reined himself down, and stood, with 
 a hand on either hip, glaring at the cleric and the 
 
 gypsy- 
 
 Hydeman stood up. He seemed larger, rounder 
 than the assistant to the sales manager known to Tid- 
 bury in business hours, but the fierce fire of jealousy 
 burned within Mr. Epps and he was not to be daunted 
 by size. 
 
 "So it's you, is it?" he remarked with biting 
 emphasis. 
 
 "Naturally," said the man. "Whom did you expect 
 it to be?" 
 
 His voice had a soft sweet note in it, not at all like 
 the sharp staccato of Hydeman's crisp business New 
 Yorkese. 
 
 "He's making fun of me," said Tidbury, and the 
 spirit of Terrible Battling Epps wholly possessed him. 
 
 "You thought I was a dead one, eh ?" remarked Mr. 
 Epps. "Well, I'm going to show you that sometime 
 the quiet ones come to life and " 
 
 The other eyed him sternly. 
 
 "Young man," he said, "I fear that you are er a 
 bit er under the weather. I fear you are not one 
 of us." 
 
 "JSTot one of you?" roared Tidbury with passion 
 mounting. "You're darn right I'm not one of you 
 you low, immoral Greenwich Villagers, leading inno- 
 cent girls astray." He waved a thin red arm toward 
 the gypsy.
 
 232 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 The music had stopped in the midst of a bar; the 
 masqueraders were crowding about. The accused 
 ecclesiastic glared down at the small devil before him. 
 
 "How dare you say such a thing of me?" he de- 
 manded. "Who are you?" 
 
 "You know well enough who I am, Milt Hydeman," 
 cried Tidbury, breathing jerkily. "I'm Terrible Bat- 
 tling Epps, and " 
 
 "Leave our hall at once !" the other returned. "You 
 are plainly under the influence of " 
 
 He stretched out a hand to grasp Tidbury Epps by 
 the shoulder, and as he did so Tidbury brought a small 
 but angry fist into swift contact with the clerical waist- 
 line. 
 
 "Oof !" grunted the man. 
 
 "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" screamed the Red Riding 
 Hood. "The devil has struck the Reverend Doctor 
 Bewley. Help! Help!" 
 
 But Tidbury, deaf to all things but battle, had buried 
 his other fist so violently in his opponent's soft center 
 that the mask popped from the man's face. It was the 
 round, pink, frightened face of a total stranger. 
 
 With a yelp of dismay Tidbury turned to flee, but 
 the outraged parishioners had pounced on him, torn off 
 his mask, and were proving, at his expense, that there 
 is still such a thing as militant, muscular Christianity 
 in the world. As they bore him, kicking and strug- 
 gling, to the door, he saw in all the blur of excited faces 
 one face with staring, unbelieving eyes. The gypsy 
 had removed her mask, and she was Martha Ritter. In 
 all the babble of voices hers was the only one he heard. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Epps! Oh, Mr. Epps!" she was sobbing. 
 "I didn't think it of you ! I didn't think it of you !" 
 
 From the gutter in front of the church Tidbury after
 
 Terrible Epps 233 
 
 a while picked himself, felt tenderly of his red-clad 
 limbs, found them whole but painful, applied a bit of 
 cold paving brick to his swelling eye, and started slowly 
 and thoughtfully down the street, his tail, broken in 
 the fracas, hanging limply between his legs. Despite 
 all, the potent stimulus of Jake's concoction lingered 
 with him, and there was a comforting buzzing in his 
 head which all but offset the feeling of dank despair 
 that was crowding in upon him. He had lost Martha. 
 That was sure. He he was a failure. He couldn't 
 even go to the devil. 
 
 How he got back to his own room in Mrs. Kelty's 
 boarding house he never knew, but that was where the 
 brazen voice of the alarm clock summoned him sharply 
 from deep slumber. His head felt like a bass drum 
 full of bumblebees. But it was his heart, as he but- 
 toned his pepper-and-salt vest over it, that hurt him 
 most. He tried to drive from him the aching thoughts 
 of the lost Martha, but the only thought he could sub- 
 stitute was the scarcely more cheerful one that he'd 
 probably be cast incontinently from the hat company 
 when news of his brawl reached the alert ears of Messrs. 
 Spingle and Blatter. 
 
 Spurning breakfast he hurried to his office, and be- 
 fore Martha or the rest arrived he had climbed wearily 
 to the pinnacle of his high stool, and had hunched him- 
 self over his figures. He was struggling to distinguish 
 between the dancing nines and sixes when he heard a 
 voice an oddly familiar voice booming out from the 
 doorway that led to the presidential sanctum. 
 
 "Well," said the voice, "it looks to me just now, 
 Spingle, as if we could use about ten thousand dozen 
 of your Number 1A hats out in Kansas City this year.
 
 234 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 Of course I'll have to shop around a bit to see what the 
 others can offer " 
 
 "Of course, Jake, of course," replied Mr. Spingle, in 
 the satin voice Tidbury knew he reserved for the very 
 largest buyers. "But say, Jake, wouldn't you and your 
 wife like to be our guests at a little party to-night? 
 Dinner and then the Winter Garden ? Our Mr. Hyde- 
 man will be delighted to take you out." 
 
 The person addressed as Jake lowered his voice, but 
 not so low that the avid ears of Tidbury Epps missed 
 a syllable. 
 
 "Between you and me, Spingle," said Jake, "I 
 wouldn't care to at all." 
 
 "Why, Jake," expostulated Mr. Spingle, "I thought 
 you and the wife always liked to whoop it up a bit 
 when you came to the big town." 
 
 "So we do," admitted Jake, "but not with him." 
 
 "What's wrong with Hydeman?" demanded the 
 Napoleon of Hatdom, and Tidbury read anxiety in hia 
 tone. 
 
 "Everything," replied Jake succinctly. 
 
 "You know him, then ?" 
 
 "Yep, ran into him last night at the Pagan Rout," 
 said Jake. "He didn't make much of a hit with me 
 or the missus. Too fresh. Treated us as if we were 
 rubes. Out in Kansas City we know a good fellow 
 when we see one Why, what the devil " 
 
 Jake had chopped his sentence off short, and with 
 a whoop of joy had bounded across the room. 
 
 "Well, if it isn't Terrible Epps!" he bellowed 
 heartily. "How's the head, old sport ? Say, Terrible, 
 why didn't you join us at the Pagan Rout ?" 
 
 "I I couldn't find you there," said Tidbury, 
 trembling.
 
 Terrible Epps 235 
 
 "Oh, yes," remarked Jake thoughtfully. "You must 
 have got there after they put us out." 
 
 "They put me out too," said Tidbury. 
 
 Jake's roar of laughter made the straw hats quiver on 
 the heads of the dummies in the show cases. He turned 
 a beaming face to Mr. Spingle. 
 
 "Say, Spingle," he cried, "what do you mean by try- 
 ing to palm off a tin-horn like Hydeman on me when 
 you've got the best little fellow, the warmest little en- 
 tertainer east of the Mississippi, right here?" 
 
 To this Mr. Spingle was totally unable to make any 
 reply. But after a minute his brain functioned suffi- 
 ciently for him to say, "About that order of yours, 
 Jake " 
 
 "Oh," said Jake reassuringly. "I'll talk to Terrible 
 Epps about it at dinner to-night." 
 
 "And to think," repeated Mr. Spingle for the third 
 or fourth time to Mr. Blatter, "that Tidbury is a man- 
 about-town who goes to Pagan Routs and everything! 
 You'll give him Hydeman's job, won't you, Otto ?" 
 
 "I already have," said Mr. Blatter. 
 
 "Good!" exclaimed the Napoleon of Hatdom. 
 "Didn't I always say that Tidbury Epps was a live one, 
 underneath ?" 
 
 The round cheek of Martha Ritter was in immediate 
 contact with the pepper-and-salt shoulder of Tidbury 
 Epps. 
 
 "And you tried to make me think," he repeated in 
 a tone of wonder, "that you liked Hydeman and were 
 going to the Pagan Rout with him ? Oh, Martha dear, 
 why did you do it ?" 
 
 She hid her eyes from his.
 
 236 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "I did it," she nmrxmired, "because I wanted to 
 make you jealous." 
 
 The clock ticked many ticks. 
 
 "But, Tidbury, if I marry you," she said anxiously, 
 "you'll reform, won't you? You'll promise me you'll 
 give up Greenwich Village and drinking, won't you, 
 Tidbury?" 
 
 "If you'll help me, dearest," promised Tidbury 
 Epps, "I'll try."
 
 XI: Honor Among Sportsmen
 
 XI: Honor Among 
 Sportsmen 
 
 W~7J ACH -with, his favorite hunting pig on a stout 
 
 fij string, a band of the leading citizens of Mont- 
 
 pont moved in dignified procession down the 
 
 Rue Victor Hugo in the direction of the hunting 
 
 preserve. 
 
 It was a mild, delicious Sunday, cool and tranquil 
 as a pool in a woodland glade. To Perigord alone come 
 such days. Peace was in the air, and the murmur of 
 voices of men intent on a mission of moment. The 
 men of Montpont were going forth to hunt truffles. 
 
 As Brillat-Savarin points out in his "Physiology of 
 Taste" "All France is inordinately truffliferous, and 
 the province of Perigord particularly so." On week* 
 days the hunting of that succulent subterranean fungus 
 was a business, indeed, a vast commercial enterprise, 
 for were there not thousands of Perigord pies to be 
 made, and uncounted tins of pate de foie gras to be 
 given the last exquisite touch by the addition of a bit 
 of truffle ? 
 
 But on Sunday it became a sport, the chief, the only 
 sport of the citizens of Montpont. A preserve, rich in 
 beech, oak and chestnut trees in whose shade the shy 
 truffle thrives, had been set apart and here the truffle 
 was never hunted for mercenary motives but for sport 
 and sport alone. On week-days truffle hunting was 
 
 239
 
 240 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 confined to professionals; on Sunday, after church, all 
 Montpont hunted truffles. Even the sub-prefect main- 
 tained a stable of notable pigs for the purpose. For 
 the pig is as necessary to truffle-hunting as the beagle 
 is to beagling. 
 
 A pig, by dint of patient training, can be taught to 
 scent the buried truffle with his sensitive snout, and to 
 point to its hiding place, as immobile as a cast-iron 
 setter on a profiteer's lawn, until its proud owner ex- 
 humes the prize. An experienced pointing pig, with 
 a creditable record, brings an enormous price in the 
 markets of Montpont. 
 
 At the head of the procession that kindly Sunday 
 marched Monsieur Bonticu and Monsieur Pantan, with 
 the decisive but leisurely tread of men of affairs. They 
 spoke to each other with an elaborate, ceremonial po- 
 liteness, for on this day, at least, they were rivals. On 
 other days they were bosom friends. To-day was the 
 last of the fall hunting season, and they were tied, 
 with a score of some two hundred truffles each, for the 
 championship of Montpont, an honor beside which 
 winning the Derby is nothing and the Grand Prix de 
 Home a mere bauble in the eyes of all Perigord. To- 
 day was to tell whether the laurels would rest on the 
 round pink brow of Monsieur Bonticu or the oval olive 
 brow of Monsieur Pantan. 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu was the leading undertaker of 
 Montpont, and in his stately appearance he satisfied the 
 traditions of his calling. He was a large man of forty 
 or so, and in his special hunting suit of jade-hued cloth 
 he looked, from a distance, to be an enormous green 
 pepper. His face was vast and many chinned and his 
 eyes had been set at the bottom of wells sunk deep in 
 Lis pink face; it was said that even on a bright noon
 
 Honor Among Sportsmen 241 
 
 he could see the stars, as ordinary folk can by peering 
 up from the bottom of a mine-shaft They were small 
 and cunning, his eyes, and a little diffident. In Mont- 
 pont, he was popular. Even had his heart not been as 
 large as it undoubtedly was, his prowess as a hunter 
 of truffles and his complete devotion to that art he 
 insisted it was an art would have endeared him to all 
 right-thinking Montpontians. He was a bachelor, and 
 said, more than once, as he sipped his old Anjou in the 
 Cafe de 1'TJnivers, "I marry? Bonticu marry? That 
 is a cause of laughter, my friends. I have my little 
 house, a good cook, and my Anastasie. What more 
 could mortal ask? Certainly not an Eve in his para- 
 dise. I many? I be dad to a collection of squealing, 
 wiggling cabbages? I laugh at the idea." 
 
 Anastasie was his pig, a prodigy at detecting truffles, 
 and his most priceless treasure. He once said, at a 
 truffle-hunters' dinner, "I have but two passions, my 
 comrades. The pursuit of the truffle and the flight from 
 the female." 
 
 Monsieur Pantan had applauded this sentiment 
 heartily. He, too, was a bachelor. He combined, 
 lucratively, the offices of town veterinarian and apothe- 
 cary, and had written an authoritative book, "The 
 Science of Truffle Hunting." To him it was a science, 
 the first of sciences. He was a fierce-looking little 
 man, with bellicose eyes and bristling moustachio, and 
 quick, nervous hands that always seemed to be rolling 
 endless thousands of pills. He was given to fits of 
 temper, but that is rather expected of a man in the 
 south of France. His devotion to his pig, Clotilde, 
 atoned, in the eyes of Montpont, for a slightly irascible 
 nature. 
 
 The party, by now, had reached the hunting pre-
 
 242 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 serve, and with eager, serious faces, they lengthened 
 the leashes on their pigs, and urged them to their task. 
 By the laws of the chase, the choicest area had been 
 left for Monsieur Bonticu and Monsieur Pantan, and 
 excited galleries followed each of the two leading con- 
 testants. Bets were freely made. 
 
 In a scant nine minutes by the watch, Anastasie was 
 seen to freeze and point. Monsieur Bonticu plunged 
 to his plump knees, whipped out his trowel, dug like 
 a badger, and in another minute brought to light a 
 handsome truffle, the size of a small potato, blackish- 
 gray as the best truffles are, and studded with warts. 
 With a gesture of triumph, he exhibited it to the um- 
 pire, and popped it into his bag. He rewarded Anas- 
 tasie with a bit of cheese, and urged her to new con- 
 quests. But a few seconds later, Monsieur Pantan 
 gave a short hop, skip and jump, and all eyes were 
 fastened on Clotilde, who had grown motionless, save 
 for the tip of her snout which quivered gently. Mon- 
 sieur Pantan dug feverishly and soon brandished aloft a 
 well-developed truffle. So the battle waged. 
 
 At one time, by a series of successes, Monsieur Bon- 
 ticu was three up on his rival, but Clotilde, by a bit 
 of brilliant work beneath a chestnut tree, brought to 
 light a nest of four truffles and sent the Pantan colors 
 to the van. 
 
 The sun was setting; time was nearly up. The other 
 hunters had long since stopped and were clustered 
 about the two chief contestants, who, pale but collected, 
 bent all their skill to the hunt. Practically every square 
 inch of ground had been covered. But one propitious 
 spot remained, the shadow of a giant oak, and, moved 
 by a common impulse, the stout Bonticu and the slender
 
 Honor Among Sportsmen 243 
 
 Pantan simultaneously directed their pigs toward it 
 But a Irttle minute of time now remained. The gallery 
 held its breath. Then a great shout made the leaves 
 shake and rustle. Like two perfectly synchronized 
 machines, Anastasie and Clotilde had frozen and were 
 pointing. They were pointing to the same spot. 
 
 Monsieur Pantan, more active than his rival, had 
 darted to his knees, his trowel poised for action. But 
 a large hand was laid on his shoulder, politely, and the 
 silky voice of Monsieur Bonticu said, "If Monsieur 
 will pardon me, may I have the honor of informing him 
 that this is my find ?" 
 
 Monsieur Pantan, trowel in mid-air, bowed as best 
 a kneeling man can. 
 
 "I trust," he said, coolly, "that Monsieur will not 
 consider it an impertinence if I continue to dig up 
 what my Clotilde has, beyond peradventure, discovered, 
 * and I hope Monsieur will not take it amiss if I suggest 
 that he step out of the light as his* shadow is not exactly 
 that of a sapling." 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu was trembling, but controlled. 
 
 "With profoundest respect," he said from deep in his 
 chest, "I beg to be allowed to inform Monsieur that he 
 is, if I may say so, in error. I must ask Monsieur, 
 as a sportsman, to step back and permit me to take 
 what is justly mine." 
 
 Monsieur Pantan's face was terrible to see, but his 
 voice was icily formal. 
 
 "I regret," he said, "that I cannot admit Monsieur's 
 contention. In the name of sport, and his own honor, 
 I call upon Monsieur to retire from his position." 
 
 "That," said Monsieur Bonticu, "I will never do." 
 
 They both turned faces of appeal to the umpire. 
 That official was bewildered.
 
 244 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "It is not in the rules, Messieurs," he got out, con- 
 fusedly. "In my forty years as an umpire, such a 
 thing has not happened. It is a matter to be settled 
 between you, personally." 
 
 As he said the words, Monsieur Pantan commenced 
 to dig furiously. Monsieur Bonticu dropped to his 
 knees and also dug, like some great, green, panic- 
 stricken beaver. Mounds of dirt flew np. At the same 
 second they spied the truffle, a monster of its tribe. 
 At the same second the plump fingers of Monsieur 
 Bonticu and the thin fingers of Monsieur Pantan closed 
 on it. Cries of dismay rose from the gallery. 
 
 "It is the largest of truffles," called voices. "Don't 
 break it. Broken ones don't count." But it was too 
 late. Monsieur Bonticu tugged violently; as violently 
 tugged Monsieur Pantan. The truffle, indeed a giant 
 of its species, burst asunder. The two men stood, each 
 with his half, each glaring. 
 
 "I trust," said Monsieur Bonticu, in his hollowest 
 death-room voice, "that Monsieur is satisfied. I have 
 my opinion of Monsieur as a sportsman, a gentleman 
 and a Frenchman." 
 
 "For my part," returned Monsieur Pantan, with "ris- 
 ing passion, "it is impossible for me to consider Mon- 
 sieur as any of the three." 
 
 "What's that you say ?" cried Monsieur Bonticu, his 
 big face suddenly flamingly red. 
 
 "Monsieur, in addition to the defects in his sense of 
 honor is not also deficient in his sense of hearing," 
 returned the smoldering Pantan. 
 
 "Monsieur is insulting." 
 
 "That is his hope." 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu was aflame with a great, seething 
 wrath, but he had sufficient control of his sense of
 
 Honor Among Sportsmen 245 
 
 insult to jerk at the leash of Anastasie and say, in a 
 tone all Montpont could hear: 
 
 "Come, Anastasie. I once did Monsieur Pantan the 
 honor of considering him your equal. I must revise my 
 estimate. He is not your sort of pig at all." 
 
 Monsieur Pantan's eyes were blazing dangerously, 
 but he retained a slipping grip on his emotions long 
 enough to say: 
 
 "Come, Clotilde. Do not demean yourself by breath- 
 ing the same air as Monsieur and Madame Bonticu." 
 
 The eyes of Monsieur Bonticu, ordinarily so peace- 
 ful, now shot forth sparks. Turning a livid face to his 
 antagonist, he cried aloud: 
 
 "Monsieur Pantan, in my opinion you are a puff- 
 ball!" 
 
 This was too much. For to call a truffle-hunter a 
 puff-ball is to call him a thing unspeakably vila In the 
 eyes of a true lover of truffles a ptuff-ball is a noisome, 
 obscene thing ; it is a false truffle. In truffledom it is a 
 fighting word. With a scream of rage Monsieur Pantan 
 advanced on the bulky Bonticu. 
 
 "By the thumbs of St. Front," he cried, "you shall 
 pay for that, Monsieur Aristide Gontran Louis Bonticu. 
 Here and now, before all Montpont, before all Perigord, 
 before all France, I challenge you to a duel to the 
 death." 
 
 Words rattled and jostled in his throat, so great was 
 bis anger. Monsieur Bonticu stood motionless; his full- 
 moon face had gone white; the half of truffle slipped 
 from his fingers. For he knew, as they all knew, that 
 the dueling -code of Perigord is inexorable. It is sel- 
 dom nowadays that the Perigordians, even in their hot- 
 test moments, say the fighting word, for once a challenge 
 lias passed, retirement is impossible, and a duel is a
 
 246 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 most serious matter. By rigid rule, the challenger and 
 challenged must meet at daybreak in mortal combat. 
 At twenty paces they much each discharge two horse- 
 pistols ; then they must close on each other with sabers ; 
 should these fail to settle the issue, each man is pro- 
 vided with a poniard for the most intimate stages of 
 the combat. Such duels are seldom bloodless. Mon- 
 sieur Bonticu's lips formed some syllables. They were : 
 
 "You are aware of the consequences of your words, 
 Monsieur Pantan ?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "You do not wish to withdraw them ?" Monsieur Bon- 
 ticu despite himself injected a hopeful note into his 
 query. 
 
 "I withdraw ? Never in this life. On the contrary, 
 not only do I not withdraw, I reiterate," bridled Mon- 
 sieur Pantan. 
 
 In a requiescat in pace voice, Monsieur Bonticu 
 said: 
 
 "So be it. You have sealed your own doom, Mon- 
 sieur. I shall prepare to attend you first in the capacity 
 of an opponent, and shortly thereafter in my profes- 
 sional capacity." 
 
 Monsieur Pantan sneered openly. 
 
 "Monsieur the undertaker had better consider in his 
 remaining hours whether it is feasible to embalm him- 
 self or have a stranger do it." 
 
 With this thunderbolt of defiance, the little man 
 turned on his heel, and stumped from the field. 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu followed at last. But he walked 
 as one whose knees have turned to meringue glace. He 
 went slowly to his little shop and sat down among the 
 coffins. For the first time in his life their presence 
 made him uneasy. A big new one had just come from
 
 Honor Among Sportsmen 247 
 
 the factory. For a long time he gazed at it; then he 
 surveyed his own full-blown physique with a measur- 
 ing eye. He shuddered. The light fell on the silver 
 plate on the lid, and his eyes seemed to see engraved 
 there : 
 
 MONSIEUR ARISTTDE GONTBAN Louis BONTICTT 
 
 Died in the forty-first year of his life on the field of honor. 
 
 "He was without peer as a hunter of truffles" 
 
 MAY HE BEST IN PEACE. 
 
 With almost a smile, he reflected that this inscrip- 
 tion would make Monsieur Pantan very angry; yes, 
 lie would insist on it. He looked down at his fat fists 
 and sighed profoundly, and shook his big head. They 
 had never pulled a trigger or gripped a sword-hilt; the 
 knife, the peaceful table knife, the fork, and the leash 
 of Anastasie those had occupied them. Anastasie ! A 
 globular tear rose slowly from the wells in which his 
 eyes were set, and unchecked, wandered gently down the 
 folds of his face. Who would care for Anastasie? 
 With another sigh that seemed to start in the caverns 
 of his soul, he reached out and took a dusty book from 
 a case, and bent over it. It contained the time-hon- 
 ored dueling code of ancient Perigord. Suddenly, as 
 he read, his eyes brightened, and he ceased to sigh. He 
 snapped the book shut, took from a peg his best hat, 
 dusted it with his elbow, and stepped out into the starry 
 Perigord night. 
 
 At high noon, three days later, as duly decreed by the 
 dueling code, Monsieur Pantan, in full evening dress,
 
 248 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 appeared at the shop of Monsieur Bonticu, accompanied 
 by two solemn-visaged seconds, to make final arrange- 
 ments for the affair of honor. They found Monsieur 
 Bonticu sitting comfortably among his coffins. He 
 greeted them with a serene smile. Monsieur Pantan 
 frowned portentously. 
 
 "We have come," announced the chief second, Mon- 
 sieur Duff on, the town butcher, "as the representatives 
 of this grossly insulted gentleman to demand satisfac- 
 tion. The weapons and conditions are, of course, fixed 
 by the code. It remains only to set the date. Would 
 Friday at dawn in the truffle preserve be entirely con- 
 venient for Monsieur?" 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu's shrug contained more regret than 
 a hundred words could convey. 
 
 "Alas, it will be impossible, Messieurs," he said, witH 
 a deep bow. 
 
 "Impossible?" 
 
 "But yes. I assure Messieurs that nothing would 
 give me more exquisite pleasure than to grant this gen- 
 tleman" he stressed this word "the satisfaction that 
 his honor" he also stressed this word "appears to 
 demand. However, it is impossible." 
 
 The seconds and Monsieur Pantan looked at Mon- 
 sieur Bonticu and at each other. 
 
 "But this is monstrous," exclaimed the chief second. 
 "Is it that Monsieur refuses to fight ?" 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu's slowly shaken head indicated 
 most poignant regret 
 
 "But no, Messieurs," he said. "I do not refuse. Is 
 it not a question of honor? Am I not a sportsman? 
 But, alas, I am forbidden to fight." 
 
 "Forbidden." 
 
 "Alas, yes."
 
 Honor Among Sportsmen 249 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Because," said Monsieur Bonticu, "I am a mar- 
 ried man." 
 
 The eyes of the three men widened; they appeared 
 stunned by surprise. Monsieur Pantan spoke first. 
 
 "You married?" he demanded. 
 
 "But certainly." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Only yesterday." 
 
 "To -whom? I demand proof." 
 
 "To Madame Aubison of Barbaste." 
 
 "The widow of Sergeant Aubison?" 
 
 "The same." 
 
 "I do not believe it," declared Monsieur Pantan. 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu smiled, raised his voice and called. 
 
 "Angelique! Angelique, my dove. Will you come 
 here a little moment?" 
 
 "What? And leave the lentil soup to burn?" came 
 an undoubtedly feminine voice from the depths of the 
 house. 
 
 "Yes, my treasure." 
 
 "What a pest you are, Aristide," said the voice, and 
 its owner, an ample woman of perhaps thirty, appeared 
 in the doorway. Monsieur Bonticu waved a fat hand 
 toward her. 
 
 "My wife, Messieurs," he said. 
 
 She bowed stiffly. The three men bowed. They said 
 nothing. They gaped at her. She spoke to her hus- 
 band. 
 
 "Is it that you take me for a Punch and Judy show, 
 Aristide?" 
 
 "Ah, never, my rosebud," cried Monsieur Bonticu, 
 with a placating smile. "You see, my own, these gen- 
 tlemen wished "
 
 250 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "There!" she interrupted. "The lentil soup! It 
 burns." She hurried back to the kitchen. 
 
 The three men Monsieur Pantan and his seconds 
 consulted together. 
 
 "Beyond question," said Monsieur Duffon, "Mon- 
 sieur Bonticu cannot accept the challenge. He is mar- 
 ried; you are not. The code says plainly: 'Opponents 
 must be on terms of absolute equality in family respon- 
 sibility.' Thus, a single man cannot fight a married 
 one, and so forth. See. Here it is in black and 
 white." 
 
 Monsieur Pantan was boiling as he faced the calm 
 Bonticu. 
 
 "To think," stormed the little man, "that truffles 
 may be hunted yes, even eaten, by such a man! I 
 see through you, Monsieur. But think not that a Pan- 
 tan can be flouted. I have my opinion of you, Mon- 
 sieur the undertaker." 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu shrugged. 
 
 "Your opinions do not interest me," he said, "and 
 only my devotion to the .cause of free speech makes me 
 concede that you are entitled to an opinion at all. 
 Good morning, Messieurs, .good morning." He bowed 
 them down a lane of caskets and out into the afternoon 
 sunshine. The face of Monsieur Pantan was black. 
 
 Time went by in Perigord. Other truffle-hunting 
 seasons came and went, but Messieurs Bonticu and Pan- 
 tan entered no more competitions. They hunted, of 
 course, the one with Anastasie, the other with Clotilde, 
 but they hunted in solitary state, and studiously avoided 
 each other. Then one day Monsieur Pantan's hairy 
 countenance, stern and determined, appeared like a 
 genie at the door of Monsieur Bonticu's shop. The 
 rivals exchanged profound bows.
 
 Honor Among Sportsmen 251 
 
 "I have the honor," said Monsieur Pantan, in his 
 most formal manner, "to announce to Monsieur that the 
 impediment to our meeting on the field of honor has 
 been at last removed, and that I am now in a position 
 to send my seconds to him to arrange that meeting. 
 May they call to-morrow at high noon?" 
 
 "I do not understand," said Monsieur Bonticu, arch- 
 ing his eyebrows. "I am still married." 
 
 "I too," said Monsieur Pantan, with a grim smile, 
 "am married." 
 
 "You ? Pantan ? Monsieur jests." 
 
 "If Monsieur will look in the newspaper of to-day," 
 said Monsieur Pantan, dryly, "he will see an announce- 
 ment of my marriage yesterday to Madame Marselet of 
 Pergieux." 
 
 There was astonishment and alarm in the face of the 
 undertaker. Then reverie seemed to wrap him round. 
 The scurrying of footsteps, the bumble of voices, in the 
 rooms over the shop aroused him. His face was tran- 
 quil again as he spoke. 
 
 "Will Monsieur and his seconds do me the honor of 
 calling on me day after to-morrow ?" he asked. 
 
 "As you wish," replied Monsieur Pantan, a .gleam of 
 satisfaction in his eye. 
 
 Punctual to the second, Monsieur 'Pantan and his 
 friends presented themselves at the shopi of Monsieur 
 Bonticu. His face, they observed, was first worried, 
 then smiling, then worried again. 
 
 "Will to-morrow at dawn be convenient for Mon- 
 sieur ?" inquired the butcher, Duffon. 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu gestured regret with his shoul- 
 ders, and said : 
 
 "I am desolated with chagrin, Messieurs, believe me, 
 but it is impossible."
 
 252 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "Impossible. It cannot be," cried Monsieur Pan- 
 tan. "Monsieur has one wife. I have one wife. Our 
 responsibilities are equal. Is it that Monsieur is pre- 
 pared to swallow his word of insult ?" 
 
 "Never," declared Monsieur Bonticu. "I yearn to 
 encounter Monsieur in mortal combat. But, alas, it is 
 not I, but Nature that intervenes. I have, only this 
 morning, become a father, Messieurs." 
 
 As if in confirmation there came from the room 
 above the treble wail of a new infant. 
 
 "Behold !" exclaimed Monsieur Bonticu, with a wave 
 of his hand. 
 
 Monsieur Pantan's face was purple. 
 
 "This is too much," he raged. "But wait, Monsieur. 
 But wait." He clapped his high hat on his head and 
 stamped out of the sHop. 
 
 Truffles were hunted and the days flowed by and Mon- 
 sieur Pantan and his seconds one high noon again called 
 upon Monsieur Bonticu, who greeted them urbanely, 
 albeit he appeared to have lost weight and tiny worry- 
 wrinkles were visible in his face. 
 
 "Monsieur," began the chief second, "may I have the 
 honor " 
 
 "I'll speak for myself," interrupted Monsieur Pan- 
 tan. "With my own voice I wish to inform Monsieur 
 that nothing can .now prevent our meeting, at dawn to- 
 morrow. To-day, Monsieur the undertaker, I, too, be- 
 came a father!" 
 
 The news seemed to interest but not to stagger Mon- 
 sieur Bonticu. His smile was sad as he said: 
 
 "You are too late, Monsieur the apothecary and vet- 
 erinarian. Two days ago I, also, became a father 
 again."
 
 Honor Among Sportsmen 253 
 
 Monsieur Pantan appeared to be about to burst, so 
 terrible was his rage. 
 
 "But wait," lie screamed, "but wait." And lie 
 rushed out. 
 
 Next day Monsieur Pantan and his seconds returned. 
 The moustachios of the little man were on end with ex- 
 citement and his eye was triumphant. 
 
 "We meet to-morrow at daybreak," he announced. 
 
 "Ah, that it were possible," sighed Monsieur Bonticu. 
 "But the code forbids. As I said yesterday, Monsieur 
 has a wife and a child, while I have a wife and chil- 
 dren. I regret our inequality, but I cannot deny it." 
 
 "Spare your regrets, Monsieur," rejoined the small 
 man. "I, too, have two children now." 
 
 "You?" Monsieur Bonticu stared, puzzled. "Yes- 
 terday you had but one. It cannot be, Monsieur." 
 
 "It can be," cried Monsieur Pantan. "Yesterday I 
 adopted one!" 
 
 The peony face of Monsieur Bonticu did not blanch 
 at this intelligence. Again he smiled with an infinite 
 sadness. 
 
 "I appreciate," he said, "Monsieur Pantan's cour- 
 tesy in affording me this opportunity, but, alas, he has 
 not been in possession of the facts. By an almost unpar- 
 donable oversight I neglected to inform Monsieur that 
 I had become the father not of one child, but of two. 
 Twins, Messieurs. Would you care to inspect them?" 
 
 Monsieur Pantan's face was contorted with a wrath 
 shocking to witness. He bit his lip; he clenched his 
 fist. 
 
 "The end is not yet," he shouted. "No, no, Mon- 
 sieur. By the thumbs of St. Front, I shall adopt an- 
 other child."
 
 254 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 At high noon next day three men in grave parade 
 went down the Rue Victor Hugo and entered the shop 
 of Monsieur Bonticu. Monsieur Pantan spoke. 
 
 "The adoption has been made," he announced. "Here 
 are the papers. I, too, have a wife and three children. 
 Shall we meet at dawn to-morrow ?" 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu looked up from his account books 
 with a rueful smile. 
 
 "Ah, if it could be," he said. "But it cannot be." 
 
 "It cannot be ?" echoed Monsieur Pantan. 
 
 "!N"o," said Monsieur Bonticu, sadly. "Last night 
 my aged father-in-law came to live with me. He is a 
 new, and weighty responsibility, Monsieur." 
 
 Monsieur Pantan appeared numbed for a moment; 
 then, with a glare of concentrated fury, he rasped. 
 
 "I, too, have an aged father-in-law." 
 
 He slammed the shop door after him. 
 
 That night when Monsieur Bonticu went to the im- 
 maculate little stye back of his shop to see if the pride 
 of his heart, Anastasie, was comfortable, to chat with 
 her a moment, and to present her with a morsel of truf- 
 fle to keep up her interest in the chase, he found her 
 lying on her side moaning faintly. Between moans 
 she breathed with a labored wheeze, and in her gentle 
 blue eyes stood the tears of suffering. She looked up 
 feebly, piteously, at Monsieur Bonticu. With a cry 
 of horror and alarm he bent over her. 
 
 "Anastasie! My Anastasie! What is it? What 
 ails my brave one?" She grunted softly, short, stifled 
 grunts of anguish. He made a swift examination. Ex- 
 pert in all matters pertaining to the pig, he perceived 
 that she had contracted an acute case of that rare and 
 terrible disease, known locally as Perigord pip, and he
 
 Honor Among Sportsmen 255 
 
 knew, only too well, that her demise was but a question 
 of hours. His Anastasie would never track down an- 
 other truffle unless He leaned weakly against the 
 
 wall and clasped his warm brow. There was but one 
 man in all the world who could cure her. And that man 
 was Pantan, the veterinarian. His "Elixir Pantan," 
 a secret specific, was the only known cure for the dread 
 malady. 
 
 Pride and love wrestled within the torn soul of the 
 stricken Bonticu. To humble himself before his rival 
 it was unthinkable. He could see the sneer on Mon- 
 sieur Pantan's olive face; he could hear his cutting 
 words of refusal. The dew of conflicting emotions dam- 
 pened the brow of Monsieur Bonticu. Anastasie whim- 
 pered in pain. He could not stand it. He struck his 
 chest a resounding blow of decision. He reached for his 
 hat. 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu knocked timidly at the door of the 
 apothecary-veterinarian's house. A head appeared at 
 a window. 
 
 "Who is it?" demanded a shrill, cross, female 
 voice. 
 
 "It is I. Bonticu. I wish to speak with Monsieur 
 Pantan." 
 
 "!N"ice time to come," complained the lady. She 
 shouted into the darkness of the room : "Pantan ! Pan- 
 tan, you sleepy lout. Wake up. There's a great oaf 
 of a man outside wanting to speak to you." 
 
 "Patience, my dear Rosalie, patience," came the voice 
 of Monsieur Pantan; it was strangely meek. Pres- 
 ently the head of Monsieur Pantan, all nightcap and 
 moustachios, was protruded from the window. 
 
 "You have come to fight ?" he asked. 
 
 "But no."
 
 256 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "Bah! Then why wake me up this cold night?" 
 
 "It is a family matter, Monsieur," said the shivering 
 Bonticu. "A matter the most pressing." 
 
 "Is it that Monsieur has adopted an orphanage," in- 
 quired Pantan. "Or brought nine old aunts to live with 
 him?" 
 
 "!Nb, no, Monsieur. It is most serious. It is Anas- 
 tasie. She is dying." 
 
 "A thousand regrets, but I cannot act as pall-bearer," 
 returned Monsieur Pantan, preparing to shut the win- 
 dow. "Good-night." 
 
 "I beg Monsieur to attend a little second," cried Mon- 
 sieur Bonticu. "You can save her." 
 
 "I save her?" Monsieur Pantan's tone suggested 
 that the idea was deliciously absurd. 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes," cried Bonticu, catching at a straw. 
 "You alone. She has the Perigord pip, Monsieur." 
 
 "Ah, indeed." 
 
 "Yes, one cannot doubt it." 
 
 "Most amusing." 
 
 "You are cruel, Monsieur," cried Bonticu. "She suf- 
 fers, ah, how she suffers." 
 
 "She will not suffer long," said Pantan, coldly. 
 
 There was a sob in Bonticu's voice as he said: 
 
 "I entreat Monsieur to save her. I entreat him as a 
 sportsman." 
 
 In the window Monsieur Pantan seemed to be think- 
 ing deeply. 
 
 "I entreat him as a doctor. The ethics of his pro- 
 fession demand " 
 
 "You have used me abominably, Monsieur," came the 
 voice of Pantan, "but when you appeal to me as a sports- 
 man and a doctor I cannot refuse. Wait." 
 
 The window banged down and in a second or so Mon-
 
 Honor Among Sportsmen 257 
 
 sieur Pantan, in hastily donned attire, joined his rival 
 and silently they walked through the night to the bed- 
 side of the dying Anastasie. Once there, Monsieur Pan- 
 tan's manner became professional, intense, impersonal. 
 
 "Warm water. Buckets of it," he ordered. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur." 
 
 "Olive oil and cotton." 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur." 
 
 With trembling hands Monsieur Bonticu brought the 
 things desired, and hovered about, speaking gently to 
 Anastasie, calling her pet names, soothing her. The 
 apothecary-veterinarian was busy. He forced the con- 
 tents of a huge black bottle down her throat. He 
 anointed her with oil, water and unknown substances. 
 He ordered his rival about briskly. 
 
 "Eub her belly." 
 
 Bonticu rubbed violently. 
 
 "Pull her tail." 
 
 Bonticu pulled. 
 
 "Massage her limbs." 
 
 Bonticu massaged till he was gasping for breath. 
 
 The light began to come back to the eyes of Anas- 
 tasie, the rose hue to her pale snout ; she stopped whim- 
 pering. Monsieur Pantan rose with a smile. 
 
 "The crisis is passed," he announced. "She will 
 live. What in the name of all the devils 
 
 This last ejaculation was blurred and smothered, for 
 the overjoyed Bonticu, with the impulsiveness of his 
 warm Southern nature, had thrown his arms about the 
 little man and planted loud kisses on both hairy cheeks. 
 They stood facing each other, oddly shy. 
 
 "If Monsieur would do me the honor," began Mon- 
 sieur Bonticu, a little thickly, "I have some ancient
 
 258 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 port. A glass or two after that walk in the cold would 
 be good for Monsieur, perhaps." 
 
 "If Monsieur insists," murmured Pantan. 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu vanished and reappeared with a 
 eob-wehhed bottle. They drank. Pantan smacked his 
 lips. Timidly, Monsieur Bonticu said: 
 
 "I can never sufficiently repay Monsieur for his 
 kindness." 
 
 He glanced at Anastasie who slept tranquilly. "She 
 is very dear to me." 
 
 "Do I not know ?" replied Monsieur Pantan. "Have 
 I not Clotilde?" 
 
 "I trust she is in excellent health, Monsieur." 
 
 "She was never better," replied Monsieur Pantan. 
 He finished his glass, and it was promptly refilled. 
 Only the sound of Anastasie' s regular breathing could 
 be heard. Monsieur Pantan put down his glass. In a 
 manner that tried to be casual he remarked, 
 
 "I will not attempt to conceal from Monsieur that 
 his devotion to his Anastasie has touched me. Believe 
 me, Monsieur Bonticu, I am not unaware of the sacri- 
 fice you made in coming to me for her sake." 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu, deeply moved, bowed. 
 
 "Monsieur would have done the same for his Clo- 
 tilde," he said. "Monsieur has demonstrated himself 
 to be a thorough sportsman. I am grateful to him. 
 I'd have missed Anastasie." 
 
 "But naturally." 
 
 "Ah, yes," went on Monsieur Bonticu. "When my 
 wife scolds and the children scream, it is to her I go 
 for a little talk. She never argues." 
 
 Monsieur Pantan looked up from a long draught. 
 
 "Does your wife scold and your children scream?" 
 he asked.
 
 Honor Among Sportsmen 259 
 
 "Alas, but too often," answered Monsieur Bonticu. 
 
 "You should hear my Rosalie," sighed Monsieur 
 Pantan. "I too seek consolation as you do. I talk 
 with my Clotilde." 
 
 Monsieur Bonticu nodded, sympathetically. 
 
 "My wife is always nagging me for more money," 
 he said with a sudden burst of confidence. "And the 
 undertaking business, my dear Pantan, is not what it 
 was." 
 
 "Do I not know?" said Pantan. "When folks are 
 well we both suffer." 
 
 "I stagger beneath my load," sighed Bonticu. 
 
 "My load is no less light," remarked Pantan. 
 
 "If my family responsibilities should increase, ob- 
 served Bonticu, "it would be little short of a calamity." 
 
 "If mine did," said Pantan, "it would be a tragedy." 
 
 "And yet," mused Bonticu, "our responsibilities seem 
 to go on increasing." 
 
 "Alas, it is but too true." 
 
 "The statesmen are talking of limiting armaments," 
 remarked Bonticu. 
 
 "An excellent idea," said Pantan, warmly. 
 
 "Can it be that they are more astute than two vet- 
 eran truffle-hunters ?" 
 
 "They could not possibly be, my dear Bonticu." 
 
 There was a pregnant pause. Monsieur Bonticu 
 broke the silence. 
 
 "In the heat of the chase," he said, "one does things 
 and says things one afterwards regrets." 
 
 "Yes. That is true." 
 
 "In his excitement one might even so far forget him- 
 self as to call a fellow sportsman a really excellent 
 fellow a puffball." 
 
 "That is true. One might."
 
 260 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 Suddenly Monsieur Bonticu thrust his fat hand 
 toward Monsieur Pantan. 
 
 "You are not a puffball, Armand," he said. "You 
 never were a puffball !" 
 
 Tears leaped to the little man's eyes. He seized the 
 extended hand in both of his and pressed it. 
 
 "Aristide !" was all he could say. "Aristide !" 
 
 "We shall drink," cried Bonticu, "to the art of 
 truffle-hunting. " 
 
 "The science " corrected Pantan, gently. 
 
 "To the art-science of truffle-hunting," cried Bonticu, 
 raising his glass. 
 
 The moon smiled down on Perigord. On the ancient, 
 twisted streets of Montpont it smiled with particular 
 brightness. Down the Rue Victor Hugo, in the middle 
 of the street, went two men, a very stout big man and 
 a very thin little man, arm in arm, and singing, for 
 all Montpont, and all the world, to hear, a snatch of an 
 old song from some forgotten revue. 
 
 "Oh, Gaby, darling Gaby. 
 
 Bam! Bam,! Bam! 
 Why don't you come to me? 
 
 Bam,! Bam! Bam! 
 
 And jump in the arms of your own true love, 
 While the wind blows chilly and cold? 
 
 Bam! Bam! Bam!"
 
 XII: The $25,000 Jaw
 
 XII: The $25,000 Jaw 
 
 thirsty this morning, eh, Mr. Ad- 
 dicks ?" inquired Cowdin, the chief purchasing 
 agent. The "Mister" was said with a long, 
 hissing "s" and was distinctly not meant as a title of 
 respect. 
 
 Cowdin, as he spoke, rested his two square hairy 
 hands on Croly Addicks' desk, and this enabled him to 
 lean forward and thrust his well-razored knob of blue- 
 black jaw within a few inches of Croly Addicks' face. 
 
 "Too bad, Mr. Addicks, too bad," said Cowdin in a 
 high, sharp voice. "Do you realize, Mr. Addicks, that 
 every time you go up to the water cooler you waste 
 fifteen seconds of the firm's time?' I might use a 
 stronger word than 'waste,' but I'll spare your delicate 
 feelings. Do you think you can control your thirst 
 until you take your lunch at the Waldorf-Astoria, or 
 shall I have your desk piped with ice water, Mr. 
 Addicks?" 
 
 Croly Addicks drew his convex face as far away aa 
 he could from the concave features of the chief pur- 
 chasing agent and muttered, "Had kippered herring 
 for breakfast." 
 
 A couple of the stenographers tittered. Croly's ears 
 reddened and his hands played nervously with his blue- 
 and white polka-dot necktie. Cowdin eyed him for a 
 contemptuous half second, then rotated on his rubber 
 heel and prowled back to his big desk in the corner of 
 the room. 
 
 263
 
 264 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 Croly Addicks, inwardly full of red revolution, out- 
 wardly merely flustered and intimidated, rustled among 
 the piles of invoices and forms on his desk, and tried 
 desperately to concentrate on his task as assistant to 
 the assistant purchasing agent of the Pierian Piano 
 Company, a vast far-flung enterprise that boasted, with 
 only slight exaggeration, "We bring melody to a mil- 
 lion homes." He hated Cowdin at all times, and par- 
 ticularly when he called him "Mr. Addicks." That 
 "Mister" hurt worse than a slap on a sunburned shoul- 
 der. What made the hate almost beyond bearing was 
 the realization on Croly's part that it was impotent. 
 
 "Gawsh," murmured the blond stenographer from 
 the corner of her mouth, after the manner of convicts, 
 "Old Grizzly's pickin' on the chinless wonder again. 
 I don't see how Croly stands it. I wouldn't if I was 
 him." 
 
 "Aw, wadda yuh expeck of Chinless?" returned the 
 brunette stenographer disdainfully as she crackled paper 
 to conceal her breach of the office rules against conver- 
 sation. "Feller with ingrown jaws was made to 
 pick on." 
 
 At noon Croly went out to his lunch, not to the big 
 hotel, as Cowdin had suggested, but to a crowded base- 
 ment full of the jangle and clatter of cutlery and 
 crockery, and the smell and sputter of frying liver. 
 The name of this cave was the Help Yourself Buffet. 
 Its habitues, mostly clerks like Croly, pronounced 
 "buffet" to rhyme with "rough it," which was incorrect 
 but apt. 
 
 The place was, as its patrons never tired of remind- 
 ing one another as they tried with practiced eye and 
 hand to capture the largest sandwiches, a conscience
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 265 
 
 beanery. As a matter of fact, one's conscience had a 
 string tied to it by a cynical management. 
 
 The system is simple. There are piles of food every- 
 where, with prominent price tags. The hungry patron 
 seizes and devours what he wishes. He then passes 
 down a runway and reports, to the best of his mathe- 
 matical and ethical ability, the amount his meal has 
 cost usually, for reasons unknown, forty-five cents. 
 The report is made to a small automaton of a boy, 
 with a blase eye and a brassy voice. He hands the 
 patron a ticket marked 45 and at the same instant 
 screams in a sirenic and incredulous voice, "Fawty-fi'." 
 Then the patron passes on down the alley and pays the 
 cashier at the exit. The purpose of the boy's violent 
 outcry is to signal the spotter, who roves among the 
 foods, a derby hat cocked over one eye and an untasted 
 sandwich in his hand, so that persons deficient in con- 
 science may not basely report their total as forty-five 
 when actually they have eaten ninety cents' worth. 
 
 On this day, when Croly Addicks had finished his 
 modest lunch, the spotter was lurking near the exit. 
 Several husky-looking young men passed him, and 
 brazenly reported totals of twenty cents, when it was 
 obvious that persons of their brawn would not be con- 
 tent with a lunch costing less than seventy-five ; but the 
 spotter noting their bull necks and bellicose air let them 
 pass. But when Croly approached the desk and re- 
 ported forty-five the spotter pounced on him. Expe- 
 rience had taught the spotter the type of man one may 
 pounce on without fear of sharp words or resentful 
 blows. 
 
 "Pahdun me a minute, frien'," said the spotter. 
 "Ain't you made a little mistake ?"
 
 266 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "Me?" quavered Croly. He was startled and he 
 looked guilty, as only the innocent can look. 
 
 "Yes, you," said the spotter, scowling at the weak 
 outlines of Croly's countenance. 
 
 "No," jerked out Croly. "Forty-five's correct." He 
 tried to move along toward the cashier, but the spotter's 
 bulk blocked the exit alley. 
 
 "Ain't you the guy I seen layin' away a double por- 
 tion of strawb'ry shortcake wit' cream?" asked the 
 spotter sternly. 
 
 Croly hoped that it was not apparent that his upper 
 lip was trembling; his hands went up to his polka-dot 
 tie and fidgeted with it. He had paused yearningly 
 over the strawberry shortcake; but he had decided he 
 couldn't afford it. 
 
 "Didn't have shortcake," he said huskily. 
 
 "Oh, no!" rejoined the spotter sarcastically, appeal- 
 ing to the ring of interested faces that had now crowded 
 about. "I s'pose that white stuff on your upper lip ain't 
 whipped cream?" 
 
 "It's milk," mumbled Croly. "All I had was milk 
 and oatmeal crackers and apple pie. Honest." 
 
 The spotter snorted dubiously. 
 
 "Some guy," he declared loudly, "tucked away a 
 double order of strawb'ry shortcake and a hamboiger 
 steak, and it wasn't me. So come awn, young feller, 
 you owe the house ninety cents, so cut out the argga- 
 ment." 
 
 "I I " began Croly, incoherently rebellious; 
 
 but it was clear that the crowd believed him guilty of 
 the conscienceless swindle; so he quailed before the 
 spotter's accusing eye, and said, "Oh, well, have it your 
 own way. You got me wrong, but I guess you have to
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 267 
 
 pick on little fellows to keep your job." He handed 
 over ninety cents to the cashier. 
 
 "You'll never see my face in this dump again," mut- 
 tered Croly savagely over his shoulder. 
 
 "That won't make me bust out cryin', Chinless," 
 called the spotter derisively. 
 
 Croly stumbled up the steps, his eyes moist, his heart 
 pumping fast. Chinless! The old epithet. The old 
 curse. It blistered his soul. 
 
 Moodily he sought out a bench in Madison Square, 
 hunched himself down and considered his case. To- 
 day, he felt, was the critical day of his life ; it was his 
 thirtieth birthday. 
 
 His mind flashed back, as you've seen it done in the 
 movies, to a scene the night before, in which he had 
 had a leading role. 
 
 "Emily," he had said to the loveliest girl in the 
 world, "will you marry me ?" 
 
 Plainly Emily Mackie had expected something of 
 the sort, and after the fashion of the modern business 
 girl had given the question calm and clear-visioned 
 consideration. 
 
 "Croly," she said softly, "I like you. You are a true 
 friend. You are kind and honest and you work hard. 
 But oh, Croly dear, we couldn't live on twenty-two 
 dollars and fifty cents a week; now could we?" 
 
 That was Croly's present salary after eleven years 
 with the Pierian Piano Company, and he had to admit 
 that Emily was right; they could not live on it. 
 
 "But, dearest Emily," he argued, "to-morrow they 
 appoint a new assistant purchasing agent, and I'm in 
 line for the job. It pays fifty a week." 
 
 "But are you sure you'll get it?" 
 
 His face fell.
 
 268 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 "N-no," he admitted, "but I deserve it. I know the 
 job about ten times better than any of the others, and 
 I've been there longest." 
 
 "You thought they'd promote you last year, you 
 know," she reminded him. 
 
 "And so they should have," he replied, flushing. "If 
 it hadn't been for old Grizzly Cowdin! He thinks I 
 couldn't make good because I haven't one of those un- 
 derslung jaws like his." 
 
 "He's a brute!" cried Emily. "You know more 
 about the piano business than he does." 
 
 "I think I do," said Croly, "but he doesn't. And 
 he's the boss." 
 
 "Oh, Croly, if you'd only assert yourself " 
 
 "I guess I never learned how," said Croly sadly. 
 
 As he sat there on the park bench, plagued by the 
 demon of introspection, he had to admit that he was 
 not the pugnacious type, the go-getter sort that Cowdin 
 spoke of often and admiringly. He knew his job; he 
 could say that of himself in all fairness, for he had 
 spent many a night studying it ; some day, he told him- 
 self, they'd be surprised, the big chiefs and all of them, 
 to find out how much he did know about the piano 
 business. But would they ever find out ? 
 
 Nobody, reflected Croly, ever listened when he talked. 
 There was nothing about him that carried conviction. 
 It had always been like that since his very first day in 
 school when the boys had jeeringly noted his rather 
 marked resemblance to a haddock, and had called out, 
 "Chinless, Chinless, stop tryin' to swallow your face." 
 
 Around his chinlessness his character had developed ; 
 no one had ever taken him seriously, so quite naturally 
 he found it hard to take himself seriously. It was in-
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 269 
 
 evitable that his character should become as chinless 
 as his face. 
 
 His apprenticeship under the thumb and chin of the 
 domineering Cowdin had not tended to decrease his 
 youthful timidity. Cowdin, with a jut of jaw like a 
 paving block, had bullied Croly for years. More than 
 once Croly had yearned burningly to plant his fist 
 squarely on that blue-black prong of chin, and he had 
 even practiced up on a secondhand punching bag with 
 this end in view. But always he weakened at the 
 crucial instant. He let his resentment escape through 
 the safety valve of intense application to the business 
 of his firm. It comforted him somewhat to think that 
 even the big-jawed president, Mr. Flagstead, probably 
 didn't have a better grasp of the business as a whole 
 than he, chinless Croly Addicks, assistant to the assist- 
 ant purchasing agent. But and he groaned aloud at 
 the thought his light was hidden under a bushel of 
 chinlessness. 
 
 Someone had left a crumpled morning edition of an 
 evening paper on the bench, and Croly glanced idly at 
 it. From out the pages stared the determined incisive 
 features of a young man very liberally endowed with 
 jaw. Enviously Croly read the caption beneath the 
 picture, "The fighting face of Kid McNulty, the Chel- 
 sea Bearcat, who boxes Leonard." With a sigh Croly 
 tossed the paper away. 
 
 He glanced up at the Metropolitan Tower clock and 
 decided that he had just time enough for a cooling 
 beaker of soda. He reached the soda fountain just 
 ahead of three other thirsty men. By every right he 
 should have been served first. But the clerk, a lofty 
 youth with the air of a grand duke, after one swift ap- 
 praising glance at the place where Croly's chin should
 
 270 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 have been, disregarded the murmured "Pineapple 
 phosphate, please," and turned to serve the others. 
 Of them he inquired solicitously enough, "What's 
 yourn?" But when he came to Croly he shot him 
 an impatient look and asked sharply, "Well, speak up, 
 can't yuh?" The cool drink turned to galling acid as 
 Croly drank it. 
 
 He sprinted for his office, trying to cling to a glim- 
 mering hope that Cowdin, despite his waspishness of 
 the morning, had given him the promotion. He reached 
 his desk a minute late. 
 
 Cowdin prowled past and remarked with a cutting 
 geniality, harder to bear than a curse, "Well, Mr. 
 Addicks, you dallied too long over your lobster and 
 quail, didn't you?" 
 
 Under his desk Croly's fists knotted tightly. He 
 made no reply. To-morrow, probably, he'd have an 
 office of his own, and be almost free from Cowdin's ill- 
 natured raillery. At this thought he bent almost cheer- 
 fully over his stack of work. 
 
 A girl rustled by and thumb-tacked a small notice on 
 the bulletin board. Croly's heart ascended to a point 
 immediately below his Adam's apple and stuck there, 
 for the girl was Cowdin's secretary, and Croly knew 
 what announcement that notice contained. He knew 
 it was against the Spartan code of office etiquette to 
 consult the board during working hours, but he thought 
 of Emily, and what the announcement meant to him, 
 and he rose and with quick steps crossed the room and 
 read the notice. 
 
 Ellis G. Baldwin has this day been promoted to 
 assistant purchasing agent. 
 
 (Signed) SAMUEL COWDIN C. P. A.
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 271 
 
 Croly Addicks had to steady himself against the 
 board; the black letters on the white card jigged before 
 his eyes; his stomach felt cold and empty. Baldwin 
 promoted over his head! Blatant Baldwin, who was 
 never sure of his facts, but was always sure of him- 
 self. Cocksure incompetent Baldwin! But but he 
 had a bulldog jaw. 
 
 Croly Addicks, feeling old and broken, turned around 
 slowly, to find Cowdin standing behind him, a wry 
 smile on his lips, his pin-point eyes fastened on Croly's 
 stricken face. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Addicks," purred the chief purchasing 
 agent, "are you thinking of going out for a spin in your 
 limousine or do you intend to favor us with a little 
 work to-day?" He tilted his jaw toward Croly. 
 
 "I I thought I was to get that job," began Croly 
 Addicks, fingering his necktie. 
 
 Cowdin produced a rasping sound by rubbing his 
 chin with his finger. 
 
 "Oh, did you, indeed ?" he asked. "And what made 
 you think that, Mr. Addicks?" 
 
 "I've been here longest," faltered Croly, "and I want 
 to get married, and I know the job best, and I've been 
 doing the work ever since Sebring quit, Mr. Cowdin." 
 
 For a long time Cowdin did not reply, but stood 
 rubbing his chin and smiling pityingly at Croly 
 Addicks, until Croly, his nerves tense, wanted to 
 scream. Then Cowdin measuring his words spoke loud 
 enough for the others in the room to hear. 
 
 "Mr. Addicks," he said, "that job needs a man with 
 a punch. And you haven't a punch, Mr. Addicks. Mr. 
 Addicks, that job requires a fighter. And you're not a 
 fighter, Mr. Addicks. Mr. Addicks, that job requires 
 a man with a jaw on him. And you haven't any jaw
 
 272 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 on you, Mr. Addicks. Get me?" He thrust out his 
 own peninsula of chin. 
 
 It was then that Croly Addicks erupted like a long 
 suppressed volcano. All the hate of eleven bullied 
 years was concentrated in hisi knotted hand as hie 
 swung it swishingly from his hip and landed it flush 
 on the outpointing chin. 
 
 An ox might have withstood that punch, but Cowdin 
 was no ox. He rolled among the waste-p&per baskets. 
 Snorting furiously he scrambled to his feet and made 
 a bull-like rush at Croly. Trembling in every nerve 
 Croly Addicks swung at the blue-black mark again, and 
 Cowdin reeled against a desk. As he fell his thick 
 fingers closed on a cast-iron paperweight that lay on 
 the desk. 
 
 Croly Addicks had a blurred split-second vision of 
 something black shooting straight at his face; then he 
 felt a sharp brain-jarring shock; then utter darkness. 
 
 When the light came back to him again it was in 
 Bellevue Hospital. His face felt queer, numb and 
 enormous; he raised his hand feebly to it; it appeared 
 to be covered with concrete bandages. 
 
 "Don't touch it," cautioned the nurse. "It's in a 
 cast, and is setting." 
 
 It took long weeks for it to set; they were black 
 weeks for Croly, brightened only by a visit or two 
 from Emily Mackie. At last the nurse removed the 
 final bandage and he was discharged from the hospital. 
 
 Outside the hospital gate Croly paused in the sun- 
 light. Not many blocks away he saw the shimmer of 
 the East River, and he faced toward it. He could bury 
 his catastrophe there, and forget his smashed-up life, 
 his lost job and his shattered chances of ever marrying.
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 273 
 
 Who would have him now ? At best it meant the long 
 weary climb up from the very bottom, and he was past 
 thirty. He took a half step in the direction of the 
 river. He stopped ; he felt a hand plucking timidly at 
 his coat sleeve. 
 
 The person who plucked at his sleeve was a limp 
 youth with a limp cigarette and vociferous checked 
 clothes and cap. There was no mistaking the awe in 
 his tone as he spoke. 
 
 "Say," said the limp youth, "ain't you Kid MoNulty, 
 de Chelsea Bearcat ?" 
 
 He? Croly Addicks? Taken for Kid McNulty, the 
 prize fighter ? A wave of pleasure swept over the de- 
 spondent Croly. Life seemed suddenly worth living. 
 He had been mistaken for a prize fighter ! 
 
 He hardened his voice. 
 
 "That's me," he said. 
 
 "Gee," said the limp youth, "I seen yuh box Leonard. 
 Gee, that was a battle! Say, next time yuh meet him 
 you'll knock him for a row of circus tents, won't yuh ?" 
 
 "I'll knock him for a row of aquariums," promised 
 Croly. And he jauntily faced about and strolled away 
 from the river and toward Madison Square, followed 
 by the admiring glances of the limp youth. 
 
 He felt the need of refreshment and poished into a 
 familiar soda shop. The same lofty grand duke was 
 on duty behind the marble counter, and was taking ad- 
 vantage of a lull by imparting a high polish to his finger 
 nails, and consequently he did not observe the unob- 
 trusive entrance of Croly Addicks. 
 
 Croly tapped timidly with his dime on the counter; 
 the grand duke looked up. 
 
 "Pineapple phosphate, please," said Croly in a voice 
 still weak from his hospital days.
 
 274 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 The grand duke shot from his reclining position as 
 if attached to a spring. 
 
 "Yessir, yessir, right away," he smiled, and hustled 
 about his task. 
 
 Shortly he placed the beverage before the surprised 
 Croly. 
 
 "Is it all right ? Want a little more sirup ?" inquired 
 the grand duke anxiously. 
 
 Croly, almost bewildered by this change of demeanor, 
 raised the glass to his lips. As he did so he saw the 
 reflection of a face in the glistening mirror opposite. 
 He winced, and set down the glass, untasted. 
 
 He stared, fascinated, overwhelmed; it must surely 
 be his face, since his body was attached to it, but how 
 could it be ? The eyes were the mild blue eyes of Croly 
 Addicks, but the face was the face of a stranger and a 
 startling-looking stranger, at that! 
 
 Croly knew of course that it had been necessary to 
 rebuild his face, shattered by the missile hurled by 
 Cowdin, but in the hospital they had kept mirrors from 
 him, and he had discovered, but only by sense of touch, 
 that his countenance had been considerably altered. 
 But he had never dreamed that the transformation 
 would be so radical. 
 
 In the clear light he contemplated himself, and un- 
 derstood why he had been mistaken for the Chelsea 
 Bearcat. Kid MoNulty had a large amount of jaw, but 
 he never had a jaw like the stranger with Croly Ad- 
 dicks' eyes who stared back, horrified, at Croly from 
 the soda-fountain mirror. The plastic surgeons had 
 done their work well ; there was scarcely any scar. But 
 they had built from Croly's crushed bones a chin that 
 protruded like the prow of a battleship. 
 
 The mariners of mythology whom the sorceress
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 275 
 
 changed into pigs could hardly have been more per- 
 plexed and alarmed than Croly Addicks. He had, in 
 his thirty years, grown accustomed to his meek apolo- 
 getic face. The face that looked back at him was not 
 meek or apologetic. It was distinctly a hard face; it 
 was a determined, forbidding face; it was almost 
 sinister. 
 
 Croly had the uncanny sensation of having had his 
 soul slipped into the body of another man, an utter 
 stranger. Inside he was the same timorous young as- 
 sistant to the assistant purchasing agent out of work; 
 outside he was a fearsome being, a dangerous-looking 
 man, who made autocratic soda dispensers jump. 
 
 To him came a sinking, lost feeling; a cold empti- 
 ness; the feeling of a gentle Doctor Jekyll who wakes 
 to find himself in the shell of a fierce Mr. Hyde. For 
 a second or two Croly Addicks regretted that he had 
 not gone on to the river. 
 
 The voice of the soda clerk brought him back to the 
 world. 
 
 "If your drink isn't the way you like it, sir," said 
 the grand duke amiably, "just say the word and I'll 
 mix you up another." 
 
 Croly started up. 
 
 " 'Sail right," he murmured, and fumbled his way 
 out to Madison Square. 
 
 He decided to live a while longer, face and all. It 
 was something to be deferred to by scda clerks. 
 
 He sank down on a bench and considered what he 
 should do. At the twitter of familiar voices he looked 
 up and saw the blond stenographer and the brunette 
 stenographer from his former company passing on the 
 way to lunch.
 
 276 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 He rose, advanced a step toward them, tipped his 
 hat and said, "Hello." 
 
 The blond stenographer drew herself up regally, as 
 she had seen some one do in the movies, and chilled 
 Croly with an icy stare. 
 
 "Don't get so fresh !" she said coldly. "To whom do 
 you think you're speaking to ?" 
 
 "You gotta crust," observed the brunette, outdoing 
 her companion in crushing hauteur. "Just take your- 
 self and your baby scarer away, Mister Masher, and 
 get yourself a job posing for animal crackers." 
 
 They swept on as majestically as tight skirts and 
 French heels would permit, and Croly, confused, sub- 
 sided back on his bench again. Into his brain, buzzing 
 now from the impact of so many new sensations, came 
 a still stronger impression that he was not Croly Ad- 
 dicks at all, but an entirely different and fresh-born 
 being, unrecognized by his old associates. He pon- 
 dered on the trick fate had played on him until hunger 
 beckoned him to the Help Yourself Buffet. He was 
 inside before he realized what he was doing, and before 
 he recalled his vow never to enter there again. The 
 same spotter was moving in and out among the patrons, 
 the same derby cocked over one eye, and an untasted 
 sandwich, doubtless the same one, in his hand. He 
 paid no special heed to the renovated Croly Addicks. 
 
 Croly was hungry and under the spotter's very nose 
 he helped himself to hamburger steak and a double 
 order of strawberry shortcake with thick cream. Satis- 
 fied, he started toward the blase check boy with the 
 brassy voice; as he went his hand felt casually in his 
 change pocket, and he stopped short, gripped by horror. 
 The coins he counted there amounted to exactly forty- 
 five cents and his meal totaled a dollar at least. Fur-
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 277 
 
 thermore, that was his last cent in the world. He cast 
 a quick frightened glance around him. The spotter was 
 lounging against the check desk, and his beady eye 
 seemed focused on Croly Addicks. Croly knew that his 
 only chance lay in bluffing; he drew in a deep breath, 
 thrust forward his new chin, and said to the boy, 
 "Forty-five." "Fawty-fi'," screamed the boy. The 
 spotter pricked up his ears. 
 
 "Pahdun me a minute, frien'," said the spotter. 
 "Ain't you made a little mistake ?" 
 
 Summoning every ounce of nerve he could Croly 
 looked straight back into the spotter's eyes. 
 
 "No," said Croly loudly. 
 
 For the briefest part of a second the spotter wavered 
 between duty and discretion. Then the beady eyes 
 dropped and he murmured, "Oh, I beg pahdun. I 
 thought you was the guy that just got outside of a 
 raft of strawb'ry shortcake and hamboiger. Guess I 
 made a little mistake myself." 
 
 With the brisk firm step of a conqueror Croly Ad- 
 dicks strode into the air, away from the scene he had 
 once left so humiliated. 
 
 Again, for many reflective minutes he occupied one 
 of those chairs of philosophy, a park bench, and re- 
 volved in his mind the problem, "Where do I go from 
 here?" The vacuum in his pockets warned him that 
 his need of a job was imperative. Suddenly he re- 
 leased his thoughtful clutch on his new jaw, and his 
 eyes brightened and his spine straightened with a 
 startling idea that at once fascinated and frightened 
 him. He would try to get his old job back again. 
 
 Inside him the old shrinking Croly fought it out 
 with the new Croly.
 
 2jS The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "Don't be foolish!" bleated the old Croly. "You 
 Haven't the nerve to face Cowdin again." 
 
 "Buck up !" argued back the new Croly. "You made 
 that soda clerk hop, and that spotter quail. The worst 
 Cowdin can say is 'No !' ' 
 
 "You haven't a chance in the piano company, any- 
 how," demurred the old Croly. "They know you too 
 well ; your old reputation is against you. The spineless 
 jellyfish class at twenty-two-fifty per is your limit 
 there." 
 
 "Nonsense," declared the new Croly masterfully. 
 "It's the one job you know. Ten to one they need you 
 this minute. You've invested eleven years of training 
 in it. Make that experience count." 
 
 "But but Cowdin may take a wallop at me," pro- 
 tested the old Croly. 
 
 "Not while ^you have a face like Kid McNulty, the 
 Chelsea Bearcat," flashed back the new Croly. The 
 new Croly won. 
 
 Ten minutes later Samuel Cowdin swiveled round 
 in his chair to face a young man with a pale, grim face 
 and an oversized jaw. 
 
 "Well ?" demanded Cowdin. 
 
 "Mr. Cowdin," said Croly Addicks, holding his 
 tremors in check by a great effort of will, "I under- 
 stand you need a man in the purchasing department. 
 I want the job." 
 
 Cowdin shot him a puzzled look. The chief pur- 
 chasing agent's countenance wore the expression of one 
 who says "Where have I seen that face before ?" 
 
 "We do need a man," Cowdin admitted, staring hard 
 at Croly, "though I don't know how you knew it. Who 
 are you ?"
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 279 
 
 "I'm Addicts," said Croly, thrusting out his new 
 chin. 
 
 Cowdin started. His brow wrinkled in perplexity; 
 he stared even more intently at the firm-visaged 
 man, and then shook his head as if giving up a prob- 
 lem. 
 
 "That's odd," he muttered, reminiscently stroking 
 his chin. "There was a young fellow by that name 
 here. Croly was his first name. You're not related 
 to him, I suppose?" 
 
 Croly, the unrecognized, straightened up in his chair 
 as if he had sat on a hornet. With difficulty he gained 
 control over his breathing, and managed to growl, "Isfo, 
 I'm not related to him." 
 
 Cowdin obviously was relieved. 
 
 "Didn't think you were," he remarked, almost amia- 
 bly. "You're not the same type of man at all." 
 
 "Do I get that job?" asked Croly. In his own ears 
 his voice sounded hard. 
 
 "What experience have you had?" questioned 
 Cowdin briskly. 
 
 "Eleven years," replied Croly. 
 
 "With what company ?" 
 
 "With this company," answered Croly evenly. 
 
 "With this company?" Cowdin's voice jumped a 
 full octave higher to an incredulous treble. 
 
 "Yes," said Croly. "You asked me if I was related 
 to Croly Addicks. I said 'No.' That's true. I'm not 
 related to him because I am Croly Addicks." 
 
 With a gasp of alarm Cowdin jumped to his feet and 
 prepared to defend himself from instant onslaught. 
 
 "The devil you are !" he cried. 
 
 "Sit down, please," said Croly, quietly. 
 
 'Cowdin in a daze sank back into his chair and sat
 
 280 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 staring, hypnotized, at the man opposite him as one 
 might stare who found a young pink elephant in 
 his bed. 
 
 "I'll forget what happened if you will," said Croly. 
 "Let's talk about the future. Do I get the job?" 
 
 "Eh? What's that?" Cowdin began to realize that 
 he was not dreaming. 
 
 "Do I get the job?" Croly repeated. 
 
 A measure of his accustomed self-possession had re- 
 turned to the chief purchasing agent and he answered 
 with as much of his old manner as he could muster, 
 "I'll give you another chance if you think you can be- 
 have yourself." 
 
 "Thanks," said Croly, and inside his new self snig- 
 gered at his old self. 
 
 The chief purchasing agent was master of himself 
 by now, and he rapped out in the voice that Croly knew 
 only too well, "Get right to work. Same desk. Same 
 salary. And remember, no more monkey business, Mr. 
 Addicks, because if " 
 
 He stopped short. There was something in the face 
 of Croly Addicks that told him to stopi. The big new 
 jaw was pointing straight at him as if it were a pistol. 
 
 "You said, just now," said Croly, and his voice was 
 hoarse, "that I wasn't the same type of man as the 
 Croly Addicks who worked here before. I'm not. I'm 
 no longer the sort of man it's safe to ride. Please don't 
 call me Mister unless you mean it." 
 
 Cowdin's eyes strayed from the snapping eyes of 
 Croly Addicks to the taut jaw; he shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Report to Baldwin," was all he said. 
 
 As Croly turned away, his back hid from Cowdin 
 the smile that had come to his new face.
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 281 
 
 The reincarnated Croly had been back at his old job 
 for ten days, or, more accurately, ten days and nights, 
 for it had taken that long to straighten out the snarl in 
 which Baldwin, not quite so sure of himself now, had 
 been immersed to the eyebrows. Baldwin was watch- 
 ing, a species of awe in his eye, while Croly swiftly 
 and expertly checked off a complicated price list. Croly 
 looked up. 
 
 "Baldwin," he said, laying down the work, "I'm 
 going to make a suggestion to you. It's for your own 
 good." 
 
 "Shoot !" said the assistant purchasing agent warily. 
 
 "You're not cut out for this game," said Croly 
 Addicks. 
 
 "Wha-a-at ?" sputtered Baldwin. 
 
 Croly leveled his chin at him. Baldwin listened as 
 the new Addicks continued: "You're not the buying 
 type, Baldwin. You're the selling type. Take my ad- 
 vice and get transferred to the selling end. You'll be 
 happier and you'll get farther." 
 
 "Say," began Baldwin truculently, "you've got a 
 nerve. I've a good notion to " 
 
 Abruptly he stopped. Croly's chin was set at an 
 ominous angle. 
 
 "Better think it over," said Croly Addicks, taking 
 up the price list again. 
 
 Baldwin gazed for a full minute or more at the 
 remade jaw of his assistant. Then he conceded, "'May- 
 be I will." 
 
 A week later Baldwin announced that he had taken 
 Croly's advice. The old Addicks would have waited, 
 with anxious nerves on edge, for the announcement of 
 Baldwin's successor; the new Addicks went straight to 
 the chief purchasing agent.
 
 282 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "Mr. Cowdin," said Croly, as calmly as a bumping 
 heart would permit, "shall I take over Baldwin's work 1" 
 
 The chief purchasing agent crinkled his brow 
 petulantly. 
 
 "I had Heaton in mind for the job," he said shortly 
 without looking up. 
 
 "I want it," said Croly Addicks, and his jaw 
 snapped. His tone made Cowdin look up. "Heaton, 
 isn't ripe for the work," said Croly. "I am." 
 
 Cowdin could not see that inside Croly was quiver- 
 ing ; he could not see that the new Croly was struggling 
 with the old and was exerting every ounce of will power 
 he possessed to wring out the words. All Cowdin could 
 see was the big jaw, bulging and threatening. 
 
 He cautiously poked back his office chair so that it 
 rolled on its casters out of range of the man with the 
 dangerous face. 
 
 "I told you once before, Addicks," began the chief 
 purchasing agent 
 
 "You told me once before," interrupted Croly Ad- 
 dicks sternly, "that the job required a man with a jaw. 
 What do you call this ?" 
 
 He tapped his own remodeled prow. Cowdin found 
 it impossible not to rest his gaze on the spot indicated 
 by Croly's forefinger. Unconsciously, perhaps, his 
 beads of eyes roved over his desk in search of a con- 
 venient paperweight or other weapon. Finding none 
 the chief purchasing agent affected to consider the 
 merits of Croly's demand. 
 
 "Well," he said with a judicial air, "I've a notion 
 to give you a month's trial at the job." 
 
 "Good," said Croly ; and inside he buzzed and tingled 
 warmly.
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 283 
 
 Cowdin wheeled his office chair back within range 
 again. 
 
 A month after Croly Addicks had taken up his duties 
 as assistant purchasing agent he was sitting late one 
 afternoon in serious conference with the chief purchas- 
 ing agent. The day was an anxious one for all the 
 employes of the great piano company. It was the day 
 when the directors met in solemn and awful conclave, 
 and the ancient and acidulous chairman of the board, 
 Cephas Langdon, who owned most of the stock, emerged, 
 woodchucklike, from his hole, to conduct his annual 
 much-dreaded inquisition into the corporation's affairs, 
 and to demand, with many searching queries, why in 
 blue thunder the company was not making more money. 
 On this day dignified and confident executives wriggled 
 and wilted like tardy schoolboys under his grilling, and 
 official heads were lopped off with a few sharp words. 
 
 As frightened secretaries slipped in and out of the 
 mahogany-doored board room information seeped out, 
 and breaths were held and tiptoes walked on as the 
 reports flashed about from office to office. 
 
 "Old Langdon's on a rampage." 
 
 "He's raking the sales manager over the coals." 
 
 "He's fired Sherman, the advertising manager." 
 
 "He's fired the whole advertising department too." 
 
 "He's asking what in blue thunder is the matter with 
 the purchasing department." 
 
 When this last ringside bulletin reached Cowdin he 
 scowled, muttered, and reached for his hat. 
 
 "If anybody should come looking for me," he said 
 to Croly, "tell 'em I went home sick." 
 
 "But," protested Croly, who knew well the habits of 
 the exigent chairman of the board, "Mr. Langdon may
 
 284 The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 
 
 send down here any minute for an explanation of the 
 purchasing department's report." 
 
 Cowdin smiled sardonically. 
 
 "So he may, so he may," he said, clapping his hat 
 firmly on his head. "Perhaps you'd be so good as to 
 tell him what he wants to know." 
 
 And still smiling the chief purchasing agent hurried 
 to the freight elevator and made his timely and prudent 
 exit. 
 
 "Gawsh," said the blond stenographer, "Grizzly 
 Cowdin's ducked again this year." 
 
 "Gee," said the brunette stenographer, "here's where 
 poor Mr. Addicks gets it where Nellie wore the beads." 
 
 Croly knew what they were saying ; he knew that he 
 had been left to be a scapegoat. He looked around for 
 his own hat. But as he did so he caught the reflection 
 of his new face in the plate-glass top of his desk. The 
 image of his big impressive jaw heartened him. He 
 smiled grimly and waited. 
 
 He did not have long to wait. The door was thrust 
 open and President Flagstead's head was thrust in. 
 
 "Where's Cowdin?" he demanded nervously. Tiny 
 worried pearls of dew on the presidential brow bore 
 evidence that even he had not escaped the grill. 
 
 "Home," said Croly. "Sick." 
 
 Mr. Flagstead frowned. The furrows of worry in 
 his face depened. 
 
 "Mr. Langdon is furious at the purchasing depart- 
 ment," he said. "He wants some things in the report 
 explained, and he won't wait. Confound Cowdin !" 
 
 Croly's eyes rested for a moment on the reflection of 
 his chin in the glass on his desk ; then he raised them 
 to the president's. 
 
 "Mr. Cowdin left me in charge," he said, hoping
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 285 
 
 that his voice wouldn't break. "I'll see if I can answer 
 Mr. Langdon's questions." 
 
 The president fired a swift look at Croly; at first it 
 was dubious; then, as it appraised Croly's set face, it 
 grew relieved. 
 
 "Who are you ?" asked the president. 
 
 "Addicks, assistant purchasing agent," said Croly. 
 
 "Oh, the new man. I've noticed you around," said 
 the president. "Meant to introduce myself. How long 
 have you been here?" 
 
 "Eleven years," said Croly. 
 
 "Eleven years?" The president was unbelieving. 
 "You couldn't have been. I certainly would have no- 
 ticed your face." He paused a bit awkwardly. Just 
 then they reached the mahogany door of the board room. 
 
 Croly Addicks, outwardly a picture of determina- 
 tion, inwardly quaking, followed the president. Old 
 Cephas Langdon was squatting in his chair, his face 
 red from his efforts, his eyes, beneath their tufts of 
 brow, irate. When he spoke, his words exploded in 
 bunches like packs of firecrackers. 
 
 "Well, well ?" he snapped. "Where's Cowdin ? Why 
 didn't Cowdin come ? I sent for Cowdin, didn't I ? I 
 wanted to see the chief purchasing agent. Where's 
 Cowdin anyhow ? Who are you ?" 
 
 "Cowdin's sick. I'm Addicks," said Croly. 
 
 His voice trembled, and his hands went up to play 
 with his necktie. They came in contact with the point 
 of his new chin, and fresh courage came back to him. 
 He plunged his hands into his coat pockets, pushed 
 the chin forward. 
 
 He felt the eyes under the bushy brows surveying 
 his chin. 
 
 "Cowdin sick, eh ?" inquired Cephas Langdon acidly.
 
 286 The Sin of Monsieur Pettlpon 
 
 "Seems to me he's always sick when I want to find 
 out what in blue thunder ails his department." He 
 held up a report. "I installed a purchasing system in 
 1913," he said, slapping the report angrily, "and look 
 here how it has been foozled." He slammed the report 
 down on the table. "What I want to know, young 
 man," he exploded, "is why material in the Syracuse 
 factories cost 29 per cent more for the past three 
 months than for the same period last year. Why? 
 Why? Why?" 
 
 He glared at Croly Addicks as if he held him per- 
 sonally responsible. Croly did not drop his eyes before 
 the glare; instead he stuck his chin out another notch. 
 His jaw muscles knotted. His breathing was difficult. 
 The chance he'd been working for, praying for, had 
 come. 
 
 "Your purchasing system is all wrong, Mr. Lang- 
 don," he said, in a voice so loud that it made them all 
 jump. 
 
 For a second it seemed as if Cephas Langdon would 
 uncoil and leap at the presumptuous underling with 
 the big chin. But he didn't. Instead, with a smile 
 in which there was a lot of irony, and some interest, he 
 asked, "Oh, indeed? Perhaps, young man, you'll be 
 so good as to tell me what's wrong with it? You ap- 
 pear to think you know a thing or two." 
 
 Croly told him. Eleven years of work and study 
 were behind what he said, and he emphasized each 
 point with a thrust of his jaw that would have carried 
 conviction even had his analysis of the system been less 
 logical and concise than it was. Old Cephas Langdon 
 leaning on the directors' table turned up his ear trum- 
 pet so that he wouldn't miss a word.
 
 The $25,000 Jaw 287 
 
 "Well? Well? And what would you suggest in- 
 stead of the old way ?" he interjected frequently. 
 
 Croly had the answer ready every time. Darkness 
 and dinnertime had come before Croly had finished. 
 
 "Flagstead," said Old Cephas Langdon, turning to 
 the president, "haven't I always told you that what we 
 needed in the purchasing department was a man with 
 a chin on him? Just drop a note to Cowdin to-mor- 
 row, will you, and tell him he needn't come back ?" 
 
 He turned toward Croly and twisted his leathery 
 old face into what passed for a smile. 
 
 "Young man," he said, "don't let anything happen 
 to that jaw of yours. One of these bright days it's 
 going to be worth twenty-five thousand dollars a year 
 to you." 
 
 That night a young man with a prodigious jaw sat 
 very near a young woman named Emily Mackie, who 
 from time to time looked from his face to the ring 
 finger of her left hand. 
 
 "Oh, Croly dear," she said softly, "how did you 
 doit?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," he said. "Guess I just tried to 
 live up to my jaw." 
 
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