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. "