(JTalee Out of Will * u|ii i|H ill iiiiil iiliiiiiillH! Ill ! ! His; * i i I i ; - TALES OUT OF COURT BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR FICTION THE CASE AND EXCEPTIONS. (Frederick A. Stokes Company) THE MINORITY. (Frederick A. Stokes Company) THE WEB. (Doubleday, Page & Company) THE ACCOMPLICE. (Harper & Brothers) THE 13TH JUROR. (The Century Co.) TALES Our OF COURT. (Frederick A. Stokes Company) HIGH SCHOOL FARCES. (Frederick A. Stokes Company) HISTORY LINCOLN THE LAWYER. (The Century Co.) DECISIVE BATTLES OF THE LAW. (Harper & Brothers) THE STORY OF A STREET. (Harper & Brothers} ON THE TRAIL OF WASHINGTON. (D. Appleton and Company} ON THE TRAIL OF GRANT AND LEE. (D. Appleton and Company) WASHINGTON THE MAN OF ACTION. (D. Appleton and Company) ESSAYS LINCOLN S LEGACY OF INSPIRATION. (Frederick A. Stokes Company) LAW THE CARE OF ESTATES. (Baker, Voorhis & Co.) TALES OUT OF COURT BY FREDERICK TREVOR HILL Author of ** The Case and Exceptions* " The Accomplice, * "The Web," etc. NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1920, by FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY COPYRIGHT, IQ02, BY P. F. COLLIER & SON COPYRIGHT, IQ04, IQ08, BY HARPER BROTHERS COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY THE CENTURY COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY TTTV. RIDGWAY COMPANY All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages 7 o A Gen. H. E. Wilkins; Gen. John Carson; Col. D. E. McCarthy Col. Daniel Wentz; Lt.-Col. Ralph Knode; Lt.-Col. A. S. Peck; Lt.-Col. W. B. Greeley; Lt.-Col. Wm. Hoy; Lt.-Col. T. S. Woolsey; Maj. A. L. Dickerman; Capt. Jos. Kittredge; Capt. R V Lewis, Jr.; Capt. Frederic Vietor; Capt. Oliver Porter* l*r Lt. H. J. Eberly; 1" Lt. W. F. Ramsdell; #* Lt. T. E. Finucane, and %<"* Lt. Frank Lawrence. De la part du raconteur. Sujet: Dedication 1. Chacun des officiers ci-dessns, oamarades du raconteur dans la Force Americaine Exp&titionaire, est com- mande de choisir dans ce volume le conte quil deteste le moins, etdele bonsiderer comme dedie d lui-m&me, avec Vestime la plus haute dn raconteur. 2. Ce travail est nec&saire dans le service ex- militaire. 525705 ACKNOWLEDGMENT The writer begs to acknowledge the courtesy of the Editors of Harper s Magazine, the Cen tury Magazine, Collier s Weekly, Smart Set, Ainslee s, Leslie s, Success, and Everybody s for permission to include herein stories heretofore published in and copyrighted by the magazines above noted. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I EXHIBIT No. 2 i II THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE .... 18 III THE WOMAN IN THE CASE .... 35 IV Two FISHERS OF MEN 50 V THE UNEARNED INCREMENT .... 61 VI THE JUDGMENT OF His PEERS . . . 81 VII OF DISPOSING MEMORY 90 VIII SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS 107 IX THE PERSONAL EQUATION . . . . 124 X IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY . . 139 XI A DEBT OF HONOR 157 XII THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN . . 173 XIII PEWEE GLADIATOR 191 XIV PEREGRINE PICKLE 200 XV CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG .... 209 XVI WAR . 227 TALES OUT OF COURT TALES OUT OF COURT EXHIBIT NO. 2 NO one but an advocate could have fully appreciated the beauty of Butterfield s letter to Kaltenberg, his confederate. It was the prettiest piece of documentary evidence I had ever seen, and it completed the proof against Butterfield with the finality of a spring- lock snapping into place. But the Bank had no desire to take its case into court. Its purchase of Butterfield s Northern Terminal Bonds did not redound to the directors credit, and the moment the Kaltenberg letter came to light I was in structed to use it for the purpose of effecting the quietest possible settlement. But, though I fully appreciated the wisdom of confronting Butterfield with the proof of his fraud and giving him a chance to make private restitution, my professional instincts rebelled EXHIBIT NO. 2 against putting such a perfect piece of evidence to tame uses. It was so overwhelmingly damning so irresistibly convincing so dramatically climac teric that I positively grieved at the thought of offering it on the altar of compromise behind closed doors. My office associates would have complied with the instructions without a pang of regret, but they were out of town, and it thus re mained for me the trial lawyer of the firm to sacrifice an Exhibit which would have carried any jury by storm. Small wonder then that I dwelt regretfully on the document as I sandwiched it between two sheets of glass, as is usual with exhibits of im portance. But this done, I despatched a note to Mr. Butterfield, requesting the honor of an im mediate interview. I did not know Rodman Butterfield well, but I had met him once in the hey-day of his prosperity at a dinner where he and his wife were the guests of honor, and though he impressed me at that time as an aggressive and self-confident individual I had no reason to question his integrity. His man ners were not over-refined, but he had a certain amount of personal magnetism, and his face was kindly rather than shrewd or intellectual. Phys ically he was a giant. His great breadth of EXHIBIT NO. 2 shoulders, massive body and limbs suggested an athlete, but an athlete coarsened and gone to seed the beauty of his brawn transformed to mere bulk. Doubtless he had once been hand some, but his wife left me in no doubt as to his past athletic prowess, several stories of which she recounted to me, during the evening, with evident pride. Mrs. Butterneld was the exact opposite of her husband in almost every particular. She was delicate, refined and altogether charming. But her handsome, patrician face, which was always ani mated, became positively radiant when her eyes met Butterneld s. Obviously she thought her hus band not only the strongest and bravest, but also the best and most remarkable man in the world, and she showed this in a hundred charming ways which excited my interest and won my respect. Of course no man could remain oblivious to such unbounded belief, and I was not at all surprised to observe that Butterneld constantly watched his wife in an effort to live up to her ideal of him. More than once I fancied that he altered certain of his stories to suit her ears, and otherwise played for her approval, all of which convinced me that he was extremely careful if not afraid of her. But I liked him the better for this, [3] EXHIBIT NO. 2 and knowing that it is easier for a man to be a hero to his valet than a wonder to his wife, I regarded Mrs. Butterfield s unaffected admira tion as the strongest possible proof of her hero s deserving. I was yet to learn, however, that a consummate actor was lost to the stage when Mr. Rodman Butterfield joined the ranks of the pro moters. It was almost two years after this casual meet ing that I called at Butterfield s office on the Northern Terminal business. Except that he was a trifle bigger in body and coarser in feature he had not changed much in the interval, and I would have known him anywhere. But the expression on his face as he glanced up from my card convinced me that I was about to deal with a very different person from the man who played to his wife s piping at the social board. "I don t seem to know you," he began brusquely. "However, sit down and let s hear your business." He pointed at an easy chair beside the desk as he spoke. I had nothing to gain by recalling myself to his memory, so I waived the question of our hav ing met before and introduced myself officially, as I took the proffered seat. [4] EXHIBIT NO. 2 "I am the junior partner of Bishop, Watrous & Weston, Mr. Butterfield," I began. "Lawyers ?" he interrupted, a trifle impa tiently. "Attorneys for the Contractors National Bank," I volunteered suggestively. He stared at me for a moment as though trying to place the Bank in his memory. Then he nodded. "You have a good client. What can I do for it, or you?" He shot the words out in a patronizing tone which I instantly resented. "You can repurchase the Northern Terminal Bonds at par and interest," I responded sharply. "You mean sell them for the Bank on the mar ket," he corrected. "No I mean repurchase them, Mr. Butter- field ; I am here to tender you the so-called securi ties and you know why," I added firmly. The promoter s eyes were fixed searchingly on me but not a muscle of his face moved. "It is easy to see you are more accustomed to bullying than you are to banking, Mr. Weston," he observed with irritating superiority. "Kindly inform your client that its lawyers can do busi ness with mine, but not with me." [5] EXHIBIT NO. 2 He shoved my card toward me as he spoke. I took it and placed it in the side pocket of my coat, and as I did so my hand came in contact with a small nickel-plated bicycle-wrench which I happened to be carrying. "So you elect to bluff it out," I thought, as I tipped back my chair. "I wonder how long you ll keep it up if I put the screws on." I slipped my finger into the jaws of the wrench and tightened them slightly by way of illustration. "Just as you please, Mr. Butterfield," I an nounced aloud. "But remember the Bank has given you a fair chance to make restitution with out publicly charging you with fraud, and " "Get out of this office!" Butterfield sprang to his feet with a menacing gesture. "Get out of this office!" he repeated. "Do you think you can sit here and threaten me with blackmail !" I did not stir from my seat. "There s no use bluffing, Mr. Butterfield/ I observed with perfect calmness, "our cards are too good." I laid a typewritten copy of his letter to Kal- tenberg on the desk as I spoke, at the same time turning the screw of my pocket-wrench. [6] EXHIBIT NO. 2 He picked up the paper and stared at it with well-feigned astonishment. "Who wrote this*?" he demanded, after a pause. The indignant tone was perfect. Certainly the man had himself under admirable control. "Who wrote it?" I repeated. "Who but Mr. Rodman Butterneld?" "What? I? Oh, somebody has been fooling you, Mr. Weston " He folded up the letter and offered it to me as he spoke, at the same time resuming his seat. I let the paper lie, and slowly tightened the wrench in my pocket until my imprisoned finger felt numb. "Somebody has certainly been fooling you," he repeated calmly. "I hope you didn t have to pay much for that sheet of typewriting." I shook my head. "Because," he resumed, with an easy laugh, "if you paid anything at all you ought to have re ceived something in manuscript something scrawly and shaky and at least resembling my execrable chirography." "Oh, we got that," I answered in the same light tone, giving a final turn to the screw of my pocket wrench. [7] EXHIBIT NO. 2 "Really 1 ?" he bantered. "And for nothing? Well, it was worth just what you paid for it." "It is worth a look," I asserted, suddenly un covering the glass-enclosed original from the folds of a newspaper. His face betrayed nothing as he stared at the exhibit, and I could not but admire the man s coolness. At last he lifted it from the desk where I had laid it, and then, for the first time, I noted a sign of weakness. His hands trembled slightly. I watched him closely as he turned the glass and examined the back of the letter, and the longer he studied it the more his hands shook. I had dealt with all sorts and conditions of men in the witness box, and those trembling hands told me all I wanted to know. The man was hit and hard hit. It only remained for me to name my terms and close the business. I could therefore afford to let him take his own time and I gazed carelessly out of a window until his voice recalled me. "This is a good a very good forgery." I turned as he spoke and noticed that the glass frame into which he was still closely peering, re flected his mask-like features. Was it possible that the man meditated further pretense in the face of the exhibit wobbling in his tell-tale hands*? It was stupid to continue playing, after the game [8] EXHIBIT NO. 2 was up, and I began to grow impatient with such futile tactics. "We may not be able to convict the writer of that letter of forgery, Mr. Butterfield," I re sponded with proper emphasis, "but there can be no doubt of his fraud." An increased tremor of the shaking hands was his only answer, and I studied him curiously as he held the exhibit up to the light again. There was something pitiful in the picture he presented and I watched him for some moments in silence. But when I spoke again there was an unmistakable note of warning in my voice. "If you ve quite finished with that forgery, Mr. Butterfield " I paused suggestively and unfolded my news paper, but before I could touch the glass frame which he held toward me it dropped from his pal sied hands and was shivered to splinters on the floor. "I beg your pardon ! I beg your pardon !" he apologized, hurriedly stooping as he spoke. I also stooped, and at the same moment his foot struck the leg of my chair and I was thrown forward, my hands striking the mass of broken glass on the floor and before I knew what was happening he had seized the letter and the copy, torn them to [9] EXHIBIT NO. 2 pieces and was half way to the fire-place with the fragments. For a heart-beat I was paralyzed with amaze ment. Then on the impulse of the moment I leaped to my feet, tore the bicycle-wrench from my pocket and leveled it at him like a revolver. "Stop !" I whispered fiercely. "Stop, or you re a dead man!" He turned as I spoke, and never have I seen such a change in any human face. It was the picture of craven fear all the bluff and daring completely wiped out. "Drop those papers! Drop them, I say! One _ two 1 There was death in my voice, for like all com petent advocates I am something of an actor my self. His hand opened and the minced fragments fluttered to the floor. I took a step forward, and then stopped. If he knew I was unarmed I would never recover those papers without a struggle. I dared not go near him. If he even raised an alarm the chances were that I would be over powered and that the precious fragments would be destroyed long before I could explain. I had to hold him somehow. An open closet door di- [10] EXHIBIT NO. 2 rectly behind him gave me a desperate sugges tion. "Back!" I whispered menacingly. "Back!" I repeated with an ominous glare. He obeyed, slowly retreating without taking his eyes off the muzzle of my weapon, and as he crossed the threshold of the closet I sprang for ward and slammed the door upon him, locking it as it bit the latch. "If you speak or raise an outcry I ll shoot through the door!" I muttered fiercely in the key hole and then dropped to my knees to begin a frenzied search for the scattered bits of paper. With feverish anxiety I hastily fitted the pieces together, welcoming each important fragment with a childish delight, but even when I saw the letter taking shape my relief was tempered by a sick ening sense of chagrin. I had not only failed in my mission, but I had almost lost our proof through my bungling attempts to carry a ne gotiation with the claptrap methods of the court room. If I had not been absorbed in my theatric fooling I would have suspected the trick of those trembling hands and never given my man a chance to break the glass. The matter ought to have been settled by any competent attorney in side of five minutes, and yet here I was, on my EXHIBIT NO. 2 hands and knees, picking up what was left of an invaluable document. What would my partners think when they learned the mess I had made of such an easy matter*? What would the Bank s people say when they were told that their foolish financiering would have to be aired in Court, in stead of being quietly corrected by the simple ex pedient of exchanging a letter for a check. I flushed with anger and mortification as I realized the situation. A knock on the door interrupted my bitter self- reproaches, and before I could rise or gather up the papers on the floor the door opened slightly and Mrs. Butterfield appeared upon the threshold. "Oh, I beg your pardon," she exclaimed, "I thought Mr. Butterfield was in here." I stared at her for a moment in silence and the picture of charming dignity and refinement which she presented was instantly contrasted in my mind with that of the coward cringing behind the closet door. My anger against the man turned to con tempt and I rose to my feet possessed of a new idea. "Your husband has just stepped out, Mrs. Butterfield," I observed, raising my voice for the benefit of my prisoner. "Won t you sit down*?" I placed a chair as near the closet door as I [12] EXHIBIT NO. 2 dared, but Mrs. Butterfield protested that she would not interrupt us and could just as well wait outside. "Not at all," I insisted. "Our business is al most finished and Mr. Butterfield has not left the building." She seated herself in the chair I indicated, and as I swept up the fragments of the letter, I men tioned the dinner at which we had previously met, and the conversation once started was easily sus tained. "You are evidently a most orderly person, Mr. Weston," she observed pleasantly as I searched the floor to make sure that I had overlooked no scrap of the precious paper. "Mr. Butterfield s study at home is a perfect litter of rubbish all the time and I cannot convince him that waste-paper baskets were meant for waste paper." "I m afraid I m much the same way," I an swered, "but these papers were not meant to be torn up and my orderly virtues begin and end with their recovery." "Pray let me help you " she began, rising as she spoke. "I think I have the last bit now," I answered, but the wrench on the floor had caught her eye. She stooped and picked it up. [13] EXHIBIT NO. 2 "Is this yours?" she inquired. "Yes thank you," I answered, taking it in my hand. "That s my bicycle- wrench altho it was once mistaken for something else," I added with a smile. "Why, what else could it be*?" I pointed it by way of answer at the closet door. Mrs. Butterfield laughed and nodded compre- hendingly. "It does look like a revolver the way you hold it," she admitted. "Especially to the person staring down the barrel," I suggested, with a laugh. "Did any one ever do that*?" she inquired smilingly. "Once/ I answered. "Oh, do tell me," she pleaded, seating herself in the chair again, "it sounds exciting and and funny." "Yes, it was funny in fact it was ridicu lous," I admitted, and leaning against the edge of the table I began the story, omitting the names and changing the details sufficiently for the pur pose of disguise. It was interesting to watch the play of Mrs. Butter-field s face as the tale unfolded. No man could have endured her expression of withering, [HI EXHIBIT NO. 2 patrician contempt without flinching. But I could well fancy that it might be worse than death to an ex-hero who had wounded her self-pride. Small wonder that Butteriield was careful to keep up her illusions. She might be easy to deceive, but it would be fatal to undeceive her, and I almost prayed that the coward in the closet might not compel me to destroy the woman s glorious and uplifting belief in her clay-footed idol. She laughed as I described the ignominious re treat into the closet and I knew that every note of her laughter penetrated the closet door. "The ridiculous coward !" she exclaimed. "Was he ever able to face his fellow men again ?" "Well, the story hasn t become public yet," I answered. "Indeed, I m half inclined to let the fellow off. Would you do it?" "No, indeed!" she replied indignantly. "I might forgive the robbery, but not his contemp tible cowardice. Such men ought to be made the laughing stock of their world. Public ridicule is the only proper punishment for them. When is he to be tried ? Pd like to come to court and join in the general laugh." I watched the expression of her face as she spoke and something told me that Butterfield saw it in the dark of his hiding-place. EXHIBIT NO. 2 "The trial would certainly be amusing," I ruminated, sitting down at the desk. Til let you know if we decide to expose him. Will you ex cuse me a moment while I write a note? She bowed and mentioning something about a telephone message stepped toward the door. I held it open for her as she passed out, closed it behind her, and then walking quickly to the closet, turned the key and swung open the door. Butterfield stumbled forward, blinking in the sudden light, and his face had visibly aged since I last saw it. "You have already examined our Exhibit No. 1, Mr. Butterfield," I began calmly, "but before we close our interview allow me to show you Exhibit No. 2." I drew the wrench from my pocket and held it toward him on the flat of my hand. He stood staring at me for a moment and made two or three ineffectual efforts to speak before he succeeded. "What is the amount of your claim?" he mut tered thickly, glancing apprehensively at the door. I told him as he hurried to the desk and drew his private check-book toward him with trembling fingers. "Do you want it certified?" he queried, as he hastily shoved the check into my hand. EXHIBIT NO. 2 The door opened before I could answer. But I looked him straight in the eyes as Mrs. Butter- field entered, her face radiant at the sight of him. "No," I answered quietly. "That check is guaranteed." [17] II THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE THE fellow never deceived me for an in stant. I state this at the outset because Benson and his clique in the club corner have carried the matter beyond the limits of a joke. I have as nice a sense of humor as any one, but I do not propose to be made a laughing stock simply because Benson chooses to say I was duped. That version of the story may be funny, even in Benson s mouth, but it does not happen to be true. I was prejudiced against MacLeod from the mo ment I laid eyes on him, and I am no mean judge of character. In the first place, I did not like the way he entered my private room. He followed the office boy too closely. Neither did I like his personal appearance. I particularly disliked the squint with which he watched me and his mouth at the same time. This was especially distressing as the part of his mouth under observation seemed to re- [18] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE treat before his divided glance until it hid around the corner, setting his whole face askew. More over, the very way he closed the door was sus picious, and I did not in the least credit his avowed susceptibility to drafts. In fact, his every look and movement would have put a far less keen observer than I upon his guard. He placed a chair close beside me confiden tially close and for some seconds regarded me with his uncomfortably slanting squint. "D yer know who I am?" he asked at length, speaking through closed teeth. I shook my head. "I m Buttsy MacLeod," he whispered, confi dentially, and shoved his chair back, the better to observe my astonishment. I exhibited no surprise, however. I was not in terested. The name conveyed nothing to my mind, and I said so. MacLeod s right eye swooped down upon the corner of his mouth which literally flew into his cheek, giving him an expression of mingled anger and contempt. "D yer mean ter say yer never heard of me*?" he asked, bobbing his neck threateningly from side to side. I shook my head again. He dipped a hand [19] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE into the breast pocket of his overcoat, and jerked out a bulging pocketbook from which he extracted a bunch of newspaper cuttings pinned together with a brass fastener. "There !" he exclaimed, as he slapped the clip pings down upon my desk. "Well?" I queried, indifferently. "What are those things?" "Me notices!" he answered, with a touch of pride. I stared at the man with increasing interest. I have always prided myself upon the accuracy with which I can determine a man s business from his face, and the possibility of a mistake nettled me. "You are an actor?" I inquired, incredulously. "An actor? Naw!" The answer was a snarl of disgust, and with out further questioning I removed my spectacles, cleaned them, and picked up the bunch of press clippings. The first words I read restored my self-confidence. The fellow was a burglar. I glanced at MacLeod over my spectacles. He was watching me with a disgustingly self-satis fied smile. I made no comment, however, and resumed my perusal of the clippings. Buttsy MacLeod, it appeared, was one of the [20] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE best cracksmen in the business, and a "gun" fre quently wanted by the metropolitan police. His powers were proclaimed by the number of un solved "affairs" with which his name was con nected. I read of a bank robbery, a housebreak- ing job, a diamond disappearance and half a dozen other mysteries, each account of which closed with a statement fom the police that they believed Buttsy MacLeod was at the bottom of the mat ter, or that suspicion pointed to Buttsy MacLeod, or that the thing had "the clean-cut look of a Buttsy MacLeod job." It appeared, however, that Buttsy was more often suspected than detected. Most of the clip pings included a brief biography of Buttsy, and more than one illustrated its story with a more or less fancy portrait of the gentleman, encircled by a chain of burglar s tools and handcuffs, or other wise appropriately framed. Every time I came upon one of these flattering portraits I glanced at the supposed original, who favored me with profile or full face as the occasion suggested, his expres sion invariably denoting conscious pride and self- satisfaction. Buttsy was the most inordinately conceited man I have ever encountered. When I had finished my reading I folded [2!] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE the bunch of clippings and handed it to MacLeod without comment. "Pretty good ain t they?" he asked expec tantly. "Pretty bad, I should say," I retorted. "Bad!" he exclaimed almost peevishly. Then he paused and smiled faintly. "I see" he con tinued, "you re kiddin me. Bad cause they re^ so good, eh? Well, I m Buttsy MacLeod, all right. That s me." He tapped the bunch of papers as he replaced it in the pocketbook. When taking the measure of a man I usually look him straight in the eyes. My wife says I have a remarkably penetrating gaze, and it is per fectly true that when our cook was suspected of irregularities in the kitchen she broke down com pletely under my intense scrutiny and confessed without a question. MacLeod s squint, however, was most unpleasant, and I could not watch it long without feeling my own eyes at odds, and my face askew. I therefore removed my spec tacles, and kept wiping them as I questioned him. "What is your business with me Buttsy?" I began. I have always understood that noted criminals like to be addressed by their nicknames, but Mac- [22] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE Leod did not seem overpleased with my famili arity. "Law business, of course, Mister Peterson," he answered, emphasizing the title. "I wanter re tain yer." "To retain me? I repeated. "I don t take criminal cases." "You ll take this one. There s something I ain t showed yer yet," he replied, coolly pro ducing a revolver from his pocket. The moment his hand left the weapon mine covered it and I had it leveled at his head. " Tain t loaded," he observed calmly, as he continued delving in his pocket. "Wat d yer t inklam?" I could see that the exposed chambers of the revolver were empty, but I lowered the weapon cautiously. "Yer quite a gamecock, aint yer*?" he re marked. "That s what I wants a fightin lawyer who ain t afraid. Look at this now!" He spread before me a full page of the Sun day supplement of some newspaper, giving a f detailed account of Buttsy s more or less checkered career, illustrated by numerous portraits of him self, sketches of houses he had robbed, and pho- [23] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE tographs of lawyers who had defended him. All this was headed: FAMOUS ADVISERS OF AN INFAMOUS INDIVIDUAL "I am not a criminal lawyer," I repeated indif ferently, as I pushed the paper aside with the muzzle of the revolver. "I know it. That s why I come to yer. They s all bums or beats. I wants brains." I glanced at my would-be client with some sur prise. He certainly displayed unusual intelli gence for a man of his class. His conclusion that the civil bar the more remunerative side of the profession contained the ablest men was quite logical. Of course very few practitioners in the civil courts have had any experience before the criminal tribunals. But experience is a poor sub stitute for native ability, and MacLeod had ap parently weighed the criminal bar and found it wanting in the latter quality. My particular field of practice the examination of patents had not, of course, given me much opportunity for court work of any kind. But I always believed that my faculty for character-reading would dis tinguish me in the active branches of the profes- THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE sion, and more than once I had thought of testing my prowess in this regard. MacLeod s case seemed to present an unusually favorable opportunity for this. He was appar ently a notorious character, and his trial, if court proceedings should ensue, would doubtless attract considerable attention. I had no desire to act as the official adviser to any criminal, great or small, but I did long to match myself, man against man, and brain against brain, in a legal contest of note, believing that in the rapid give and take of crim inal practice I would not find myself at a loss. I was not alone in this opinion, for my wife had often remarked upon the rapidity and keenness of my questions, and, in a mock trial at our country home not long ago, every one told me I was sur prisingly forceful. MacLeod was unquestionably a criminal, but he was entitled to all proper pro tection, and since he had not received this at the hands of the criminal lawyers, he was justified in seeking it in the higher ranks of the bar. The situation appealed to my sense of professional duty, and I decided to accept Buttsy s retainer. My insight into the man s character, however, warned me to give no advice until I made sure of my fee, and I hinted as much to MacLeod. He re- [25] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE plied by producing a fifty-dollar bill, and laying it upon my desk. "Give us a receipt," he muttered. I pocketed the money, and asked him to explain his case as I wrote the required acknowledgment. He did not speak, however, until he had fastened the receipt to his press clippings. Then he glanced at me slyly. "Wot I tell youse is just as confidential as though yer was a regular lawyer ain t it?" he began, suspiciously. "I don t know what you mean by a regular lawyer, " I answered stiffly, "but of course the communications of a client to his counsel are ab solutely sacred throughout the profession." "Sacred?" he repeated, with a crafty look. "Yer mean yer daresent give up wot I tells yer with- outen my leave don t yer?" "That s one way of putting it," I assented, with dignity. "Ain t that th law?" he persisted. "It is," I agreed. "Proceed with your story, MacLeod." "Supposing" he continued, disregarding my in structions, "supposiri 5 I was pinched with the goods on me, and the owner didn t didn t recog- [26] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE nize em or didn t claim em anyhow, could they put me through?" "It might be very difficult to prove larceny without such testimony," I replied. "I don t want to answer hypothetical questions, however. Get to your story, and I will advise you accordingly." "All right," he replied, shifting in his seat and hitching his chair a trifle nearer me. "This comes of try in country work. I hadn t oughter left the city, and I don t again after I shake this. You live in the country, don t yer*?" he asked, with an eye on a local time-table lying on my desk. "In the summer," I replied. "Not now. Go on." "Well, yer knows country ways, don t yer?" he asked, a little anxiously. The term was somewhat vague, but I replied that I resided nearly six months of the year at my country place, and could, I thought, claim famil iarity with rural habits. Buttsy seemed relieved. "It figures out this way," he began again. "Me side partner in this deal piked off a bunch of houses shut up for the winter that were fuller loose things. He gave out that there weren t no risk, and we could work em on off-nights. So I up with him and cracks the first he d marked down [27] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE right enough. But while he was sortin th loose in the gray, along comes some repairin galoots, and we had to vamoose with only about half of the best. That was bad enough, but I was tryin on a coat when me side partner give me the word, and I left me own coat with two letters in the side pocket. They give a hint to them country trailers, 3 but still it took em six hours to put the chief on, and here we are." "You mean there s a city warrant out for your arrest 4 ?" I asked, following his recital with some difficulty. "I don t know nothin about warrants," he an swered, impatiently, "but they s after me. Hutch Mallon piped that in me ear down to Hogan s where a couple of plain-clothes was nosin around. They ll get some chicken-liver to squeal me whereabouts before night." The case sounded rather desperate, but I was not certain that I fully understood it. "Let us get at this thing systematically," I be gan cheerfully. "These er these affairs men tioned in the papers do the police want you for them? "Naw. They can t prove nothin there, and they knows it. I brushes up when I leaves. That s what makes em so dead sore on me. In the [28] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE city I never gives em a smell, and it ll be nuts to them to soak me on this hayseed job. They won t do a thing now but lam me in the neck for every time I ve fooled em up " "Let us consider the details of this particular case seriatim" I interrupted. "When did this er this transaction take place?" "To-day." "Indeed! At what hour?" "We cracked about four, and we skipped about seven." "Where was the house located?" I continued, picking up a pencil to note his answers. "At Walsboro ." I dropped my pencil. "Walsboro !" I exclaimed. "Why, I live in Walsboro myself in the summer! Whereabouts was the house?" "Yer can search me!" he answered. "It was about three rotten roads back from the railway." This was exceedingly embarrassing. All my friends lived in the direction indicated, and prob ably some one I knew was the victim. Still busi ness was business, and my first duty was to my client. Perhaps my knowledge of the locality and its residents might stand me in good stead be fore the case was finished. [29] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE "Was it a brick house with a shingle roof?" I asked, describing Emmosmith s house. "Shingle roof, yes," he replied^ a trifle dis gustedly I thought. The answer confirmed my worst fears. One of my best friends was the victim. Still the iden tification was not complete. There were several shingle-roofed, brick houses in the vicinity. "Did it have a greenhouse at the side? I asked. "Naw." I gave a sigh of relief. It was not Emmo smith s house, and anything was better than that. Indeed, there were people in Walsboro whose misfortune would cost me no tears. Balderson, for instance. If, by a happy chance, MacLeod had selected that pompous ass for a visitation "Was the house well furnished?" I asked. "Naw bum! Nothin but plated stuff, ex cept weddin -present odd-lots, marked an inch deep. Made me sick !" he muttered. This clearly pointed to Balderson, and I smiled at the description, but determined to make sure. "Did the house set back from the road?" "Yep." "Did it have a clematis vine over the front door?" "Yep." [30] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE "Was there a big hall clock on the stairs ?" "Yep." By Jove, it was Balderson s house! I could scarcely conceal my delight, but I managed to maintain a judicial exterior. "I understand that you er retained some of the property 4 ?" I suggested. "Aw, we pinched a few, but they was boardin - house truck. Eisenblume laughed a tooth out when I asked him a couple of hundred on my lot." I could not help chuckling outright at this ap praisal of Balderson s chattels. But I was still in the dark as to Buttsy s defense, which had be come doubly important to me since Balderson would be the complainant. I was now almost more interested in defeating Balderson than I was in clearing MacLeod, and I determined to leave no stone unturned. "What room did you first enter*?" I began, briskly picking up my pencil. " T weren t a room. Twas the staircase." "The staircase*?" "The landinV "Ah!" I drew a sheet of paper toward me, and began to map out a rough diagram. "It is most important to ascertain," I observed, [31] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE "whether any of the workmen who surprised you, actually saw you in the house. Of course, any one might have had your letters in his coat. It is unfortunate that you left those, but the evidence they supply is at best circumstantial. We must be prepared, however, to meet proof that the workmen saw you in the house. Perhaps we can demonstrate by a diagram that this was impos sible. Now this is a plan of the ground floor of Balderson s of the house, I mean." MacLeod took up the diagram and examined it critically. "This here s wrong," he remarked, with a dirty finger on my drawing. "What s the matter with it?" I asked. "The big room s on the other side." "I don t think so," I answered. "Anyway, it will serve to illustrate the situation. Now when the workmen entered " "This part s wrong, too," interrupted Buttsy. "The stairs ain t in the middle of the hall. They re way off here." "You re mistaken," I replied, impatiently, "but " "Well, I know taint so," he asserted impu dently. "Don t contradict me, MacLeod," I answered, [32] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE severely. "I ve been in the house dozens of times and I know." "Don t care if you ve lived in it!" he retorted, hotly. "I ain t been in it only once, but I guess I know my business. Bet yer fifty I can go it blind fold from cellar to roof. Here " "Nonsense, MacLeod!" I interrupted, with some annoyance. "I ve no time for trifling " "Nonsense?" he burst out, angrily. "Here s fifty to cover that! Write it down! Write it down ! I ll nonsense you ! First floor: square hall library to right, dining-room to left stairs Alongside library three broad steps and a turn^ then " "Hold on!" I interposed, apprehensively. "Hold on no thin !" he continued, aggressively. "No sneakin bets now! Seven steps to first landin* hall clock in hole in wall, with gray chiny vase s tan din " "A gray china vase !" I exclaimed, in dismay. "Yes, a gray chiny vase!" he repeated, mock ingly. "Picked me up for a greenhorn, eh? well, I ain t! Second floor: small square hall with panel picture of Venus walkin in th wood " "Stop!" I gasped. "Wanter squeal cause I ain t called the woman right? Well, you shave closer next time [33] THE SHIELD OF PRIVILEGE yer take a first-rater for an amatoor ! Passageway to right openin on two sleepers and a bath" he gabbled along conceitedly, "two more sleepers, big closets, bathroom and door on left leadin to rear hall, three sleepers and attic staircase two turns in stairs to attic slidirf skylight to left shingle roof painted red." "Red!" I shouted, grasping at a straw. "This house hasn t a red roof!" "Aw, look at me pants!" he retorted, dis gustedly. "That s my house !" I roared. MacLeod s eye held me fascinated, while his left viciously chased his mouth. "Tell me somethin I don t know!" he mut tered. "Wot d yer t ink I hired yer for*?" I didn t have to defend Mr. MacLeod in court because well, because the police failed to obtain proper identification of the articles he pawned, and because other proof was lacking. My rea sons for undertaking his case, however, were ex actly as I have stated, and when Benson says I was gulled from first to last, he simply lies. Buttsy MacLeod s character was an open book to me from the moment we met incomprehensible as this may be to a man of Benson s caliber. [34] Ill THE WOMAN IN THE CASE IF Miss Amanda Upton, attorney-at-law, did not succeed in her candidacy for membership in the Bar Association she at least managed to throw the apple of discord among the elect of that worthy institution. Indeed, the storm which had raged in the council chamber early in the evening threatened to break out anew in our par ticular corner of the lounging room the moment we began to discuss the vote which had retired the fair applicant. "I dare say she s got brains enough if it comes to that," admitted Major Lacy. "It never has come to that has it?" drawled Adams. "If it has, some of us were elected under false pretenses," answered Dupont, eyeing Lacy. "Speaking for yourself, I suppose, Dupont?" muttered the Major. "And for all others similarly situated," was the quick retort. [35] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE An ominous pause followed and I was about to change the subject in the interest of peace when Garrison joined us and created a momentary diversion. "Well, how did the battle go to-night*?" he inquired as he dropped into a vacant chair. "Weren t you at the meeting? I asked. "No, I ve only just arrived. Which is it the Lady or the B ar? "The Bar!" snapped Lacy triumphantly. Garrison nodded comprehendingly. "I thought it would end that way," he reflected. "Competition may be the life of trade, but it might be the death of the profession if we let women join our Union." The idea of the Bar Association as a Union helped to restore our good humor. Even Lacy and Dupont smiled. "I wouldn t care if it didn t mean the begin ning of the end," asserted Adams. "But if we open the door to women we ll have the place over run with them, and afternoon teas will follow as a matter of course." "No Boston Adams ought to object to a tea- fight," responded Garrison, "and I don t believe you do. Why not be frank and admit we don t relish competition"?" [36] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE "Competition!" scoffed Lacy. "A woman is about as fit for legal work as she is for pugilism. I once tried a case against a female lawyer and before we got through she burst out crying and wept hysterically for three quarters of an hour." "It s enough to make anybody weep to see Lacy try a case," Dupont muttered in my ear. "After him the deluge! Did you survive the flood, Major 4 ?" he inquired aloud. I saw trouble brewing and hastened to avert it by addressing Garrison. "Do you really think women can ever seriously compete with men in the practice of law? I inquired. "Most assuredly, within certain lines," he re sponded promptly, "and I m not prepared to draw them too closely either experience having taught me caution." "Your Portia didn t weep, then? suggested Adams. "No, she didn t weep, but I d bet she could have shed real tears to order any time. Almost every woman is more or less of an actress, and acting is no small part of a lawyer s equipment." Garrison leaned forward in his chair and taking a cigar from his pocket studied it thoughtfully. We waited for his reminiscence, but after a few [37] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE moments he asked Adams for a match and settled into his former position. "Well?" I prompted him. "Aren t you going to give us the benefit of your experience with our learned opponents of the other sex?" "I wonder if there s any reason why I shouldn t?" he answered musingly. "I don t be lieve there is. But anyway we re all in the same trade, and if there is anything confidential in the story it s as safe with you as it is with me, so I may as well pass it along for what it s worth. Once upon a time I was retained by a fellow named Chatfield Healey who had been arrested on a charge of embezzlement. I don t remember how Chatfield happened to send for me, but he did, and I learned that he had been a book-keeper and confi dential clerk for a mercantile house and that the accusation against him was serious enough to put the bail above our reach. Healey wasn t a very inspiring client. He had a long, thin, melancholy face and absurd red whiskers which he constantly combed with his fingers pulling his hooked right hand first through one and then through the other with a maddening impartiality that speedily re duced one to a state of solemn imbecility. Before his arrest he had doubtless been quite an imposing personage of the floor-walker type, dignified, tall, [38] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE stately and supremely confident of his personal charms. But his troubles had taken all the starch out of him and left him solemn, confused, helpless and worst of all, comic. Don t you know how im possible it is to feel any really deep sympathy for a person who strikes you as comic ? Well, that was the way poor Healey appealed to me. I felt like laughing every time I looked at him, which did not serve to dissipate the gloom of his nervous depression and I never caught a glimpse of day light in his case, of my own initiative. He, him self, gave me little or no assistance, for his expla nations were a mop of watery incoherencies which practically wiped out my best thoughts, and made confusion worse confounded. In fact I left him alone after the first few interviews and devoted myself to his accounts, which, at least, had the merit of not being comic. I don t know how many days I worked over those wretched papers, but at last I collected the most promising data and took them down to my client in the jail. But appar ently I did not select propitious items, for they produced exactly the opposite effect I had ex pected, and I emerged from the consultation hope lessly discouraged and out of sorts. "On my return to the office, however, I found a young woman waiting for me who, to my intense [39] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE surprise, informed me that she was Mrs. Chatfield Healey. It was not the fact of Healey s marriage which surprised me for of course I knew of that it was the personality of the woman who in troduced herself as his wife. She was young, cheerful, bright, good looking, alert, active in fact everything he wasn t, and at first glance it was difficult to imagine her as having anything in common with the preposterous, red-whiskered, wilted individual I had just interviewed. As soon as I recovered from my astonishment, however, I shook hands with her and led the way into my private room. She at once drew a chair confi dentially close beside my desk, and, sitting down, opened the conversation without the slightest em barrassment. " I m glad to meet you, Mr. Garrison, she began cordially, and to know the kind of man you are, for to tell the truth I had doubts about you after seeing Mr. Healey so low spirited. Now I know you re all right. I can tell it by the way you shake hands. " Indeed? I commented. " Yes, that s always a good, if not a sure, sign of character. I place more reliance myself, how ever, on the eyes. If a man has gray eyes and isn t afraid to use them, one can usually depend [40] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE upon his courage and But you ve no time to listen to my personal opinions/ she broke off smil ingly, so I ll get down to business at once. Mr. Healey is terribly nervous and depressed, Mr. Garrison. " He does seem upset, I admitted. And of course his case is not without difficulty, Mrs. Healey " I don t see any difficulties, she interposed sturdily. The accusation has prostrated Chat- field, but that is the only serious thing about it. " To his friends, of course, I answered. But to make a jury think him innocent " You can do it! she asserted confidently. You must do it ! You will ! I know you will ! "She leaned forward on the desk-shelf as she spoke and her bright eyes and intently earnest expression were most inspiring. " Good! I ejaculated warmly. That s the sort of faith which removes mountains. " Molehills are often mistaken for mountains, Mr. Garrison, she answered smilingly, and Mr. Healey has a perfect genius for distortion when he s low-spirited. Show me some of his moun tains. "I pointed at the hopeless mass of accountants reports lying on the desk before me. [41] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE " Of course they ve made the figures lie against him, she asserted cheerfully. There s nothing easier than that. I was in the cashier s depart ment of Latham & Bailey s for two years before I married Mr. Healey, and I know how difficult it is to trace even a simple transposition of figures. But what s the charge against him, Mr. Garrison*? That he stole $2,ooo isn t that it? she inquired indignantly. "The question was so utterly incredulous that I was puzzled for a reply, but at last I determined to attempt a little brutal frankness. " The proofs lie right in Chatfield s own books, Mrs. Healey, I answered bluntly. For example there is an item entered in the petty cash as $125 when it ought to be $25, which makes $100 dif ference in the cash. "If I expected this plain statement to effect a complete understanding between us I was speed ily disillusioned. Mrs. Healey took the sheet from my hand and examined it closely, her ex pression indicating neither surprise nor resentment but merely intense interest. " Who wrote the figure 1 before the $25? she demanded after a pause. " The charge is that Chatfield did, I answered, watching her closely. [42] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE "Mrs. Healey indignantly threw the paper aside, flushing very charmingly. " It s ridiculous, Mr. Garrison perfectly ridiculous! 7 she burst out. Don t you suppose Chatfield, with his twenty years training, knew a dozen safer ways to fix the books ? Why, I could hide his tracks better myself, and I ve not had anything like his experience. It s positively insulting to his intelligence! " It is rather a crude method of procedure/ I agreed reflectively. By the way, I continued with a meaning glance, have you seen Mr. Healey to-day? "She nodded her head abstractedly. " Crude is no word for work of this sort, she responded, picking up the papers again. No business-college boy would dream of trying it, and Chatfield is an expert book-keeper. They ll have to admit that. "I confess I had never thought of the point be fore, and it certainly afforded a plausible argu ment for the jury. I considered the matter for some minutes in silence, conscious all the time that the little woman s bright eyes were watch ing me with hopeful eagerness. I hated to dis courage her, but in view of certain other facts, I knew it would not do to place much confidence [43] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE in her suggestion, adroit as it was. Finally I observed : : /The trouble with your argument is that it does not explain the disappearance of the cash, Mrs. Healey. You see Chatfield had certain sums in his charge, and they have gone. How are we to account for them? "She nodded comprehendingly, and, leaning her elbows on the desk-shelf rested her chin in her hands and stared thoughtfully before her. Some thing in her expression however told me that she was facing facts which had no terrors for her and I grew strangely confident as I watched her. At last she picked up the memorandum-sheet again and studied it for some moments without speak ing. Then she suddenly glanced up and grasped my arm. " Look here ! she cried impulsively. Is this the way the theft of all this money has been covered a two dollar item changed to read twenty-two a six dollar entry turned to fifty- six, and so on ? Simply by inserting a figure before the right amount and taking the difference out of the cash? "I nodded, for such was my interpretation of the matter, stripped of all technicalities and refine ments. [44] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE " It s too too amateurish ! she exclaimed im patiently. No one but an ignoramus would hide his head in the sand that way. Chatfield was not the only one who had the key to the cash! she added aggressively. " No, I answered indifferently. " Who else had access to the box? Nobody but the partners ? Then the partners did the rob bing! she burst out triumphantly. "Her enthusiasm was splendid, but I could not help laughing the idea was so fantastic. " Why should a man want to rob himself? I inquired smilingly. " One of them wasn t robbing himself, she expostulated. He was taking his own share and part of the other fellow s. " Of course if he took the money, I admitted gravely. But you see there s no proof that he did so. " There s every proof! she insisted. There must be ! Either Chatfield or one of the firm took the money, and we know Chatfield didn t because we can account for every cent he ever had, she tapped her private house-keeping books. " Can the partners do the same*? she demanded. Maybe one of them speculates. [45] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE "I started at the suggestion, and her watchful eyes instantly noted my expression. " Do they speculate? she demanded eagerly. " Trobably not I began warily. " Why? " Because partnership articles usually forbid speculation "Mrs. Healey sprang to her feet with a cry of delight. " There you have it ! she exclaimed. *I knew I was right! The case is as clear as daylight. One of the partners has been speculating specu lation is forbidden he has to do it secretly he loses money and takes it from the cash he doesn t know enough about book-keeping to hide the thing decently, so resorts to this transparent trick of writing in figures before Chatfield s entries! Figures are easily copied anybody can imitate Chatfield s and this has been done again and again, Chatfield adding up the columns, like the dear old machine that he is, with never a suspicion until the theft is discovered and the rascals accuse him of the crime. It s an outrage a contemptible outrage! But they haven t heard the last of it yet! Can t we sue them for false imprison ment*? she concluded breathlessly. [46] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE " Certainly if he s acquitted, I answered care lessly. " If you prove that one of the partners was speculating unknown to the other and contrary to the partnership articles, and if he lost money and had access to Chatfield s cash, and the whole amount was covered by a trick which no com petent book-keeper would dream of trying do you believe any jury in the world would convict Chatfield, with our house-keeping accounts right to a cent? "I didn t think so, provided we could eliminate those ifs and I said as much. " Then let s commence the suit for false im prisonment now! she continued enthusiastically. " You want to carry the war into the enemy s country, I suggested jestingly. " I don t know anything about that, she re sponded. But I want damages big damages! Make them a hundred thousand dollars! They shall pay for every second they ve made us suffer ! Poor Chatfield! she added tenderly. "I sat lost in admiration for the woman. Her loyal, aggressive championing had excited my pro fessional interest and respect. But this last burst of maternal-like sympathy was magnificent, mas- [47] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE terful and convincing. It appealed to the imag ination and silenced doubts. " We ll talk of the damage-suit to-morrow, Mrs. Healey, I observed after a pause. You ve given me a good deal to think about for one day, you know. " I know a word to the wise is sufficient, she responded graciously, rising from her chair, and holding out her hand. In another moment she had gone. "I never saw her again, but I acted on her sug gestion and to my intense surprise discovered that the junior partner actually had been speculating, and armed with this discovery, I instantly called upon his counsel, outlined my proposed defense to him, and intimated my readiness to have the jury decide between our respective clients. Need less to say my challenge was not accepted, and the apathy of the complainants soon led to a reduction of Chatfield s bail, and finally released him from jail. Then I instituted the suit for false imprison ment and discontinued it only when the indict ment against my client was safely quashed. . . . I don t know whether Healey is still a book-keeper or not, but I think his wife missed her vocation in Latham & Bailey s, for she certainly had the mak ings of a good lawyer in her." [48] THE WOMAN IN THE CASE # ****** Lacy positively snorted as Garrison paused. "The Bar s overrun with ladylike lawyers who reason intuitively in other words, ( guess," he growled disgustedly. "A dozen such rescues of injured innocence wouldn t prove anything! It isn t the vindication of the innocent, but the de fense of the guilty which develops the true legal quality." "I m not surprised that the lady persuaded you of her husband s innocence," Garrison retorted dryly. "She d have convinced me too if Healey hadn t disregarded her advice and confessed everything to me in the end." There was a moment s silence, and then Dupont burst out laughing. "Well, I ll be stung!" he ejaculated. "Do you mean to say the fellow was guilty and she knew it all the time?" "That s what he told me," responded Garrison quietly. I touched the electric button in the wall beside me and pushed an order-card toward Lacy. "To the ladies, Major?" I suggested gravely. The roar of laughter that followed would have been disconcerting to any man, but to his credit be it recorded that Lacy rose to the occasion. [49] IV TWO FISHERS OF MEN t THE drowsy influence of a spring after noon, combined with the vitiated atmos phere usual in court-rooms, had reduced the audience to a condition of dreamy lan guor. A few habitues, revelling in the unaccus tomed luxury of free elbow-room, sprawled and flopped on the public benches in attitudes of list less inattention; the lawyers scattered behind the rail lounged somnolently on their stiff, uncom fortable chairs; the judge gazed meditatively at the colorless ceiling, his leather chair tilted to the limit of its spring; the plaintiff s attorney sitting at the counsel s table seemed unconscious of his opponent haranguing the jury, and the jurors themselves lolled in their seats and stared at the speaker with the un responsiveness of tired cattle. But the orator menacing the jury-box was not affected by the soporific influence in the air. He was distressingly active painfully alert and in terpreting the trance-like silence as a tribute to his [50] TWO FISHERS OF MEN powers, he fairly danced before his auditors to the inspiring strains of his own elocution. If the jurymen were aware of his presence, however, they betrayed it by no outward or visible sign. Occa sionally when some swelling period culminated in a thunderous shout, they slowly shifted their posi tions like disturbed sleepers, but for the most part they received the bursts of eloquence with the impassive stare of deaf men, conscious of their affliction, but anxious to conceal it. At last the exultant advocate crested a mighty wave of words and descended upon his audience in a personal appeal : "What would you, gentleman of the jury, say to that? What would men of brains make an swer?" The obvious distinction between the questions evoked no apparent resentment from the triple row of stolid humanity. Indeed the stupefied stare which greeted the dramatic pause-for-a-reply was more eloquent than words, and noting it, the counsel slowly circled from the lofty heights he had been exploring down to the common ground of intimacy. "You have heard the plaintiffs story, gentle men," he continued in a confidential tone. "You have heard him claim that he did not guarantee [51] TWO FISHERS OF MEN his merchandise did not warrant it would serve our purpose did not represent its quality at all ! Now suppose I sold you potatoes and those pota toes were so decayed you could not eat them, would it suffice me to say I did not warrant they were fit for food? Would that content you, Mr. Paulding? A fat-nosed juror in the second row started at the words as though an insect had suddenly flown into his glazed and staring eyes. "Would that satisfy you, Mr. Thompson? The foreman, huddled in the corner of the box, pulled himself together at the question, started to answer it, but ended by clearing his throat. "Would it serve me to say I sold you potatoes and not food?" continued the speaker. "Would it avail me to protest I did not know for what pur pose they were intended*? If I assaulted your ears with such pretensions and insulted your in telligence with such quibbles, I should expect to be discredited. There are arguments one cannot listen to without loss of dignity! Yet such is the plaintiff s plea, gentlemen. Will you accept it, Mr. Norton? Will you tolerate it, Mr. Rich ards?" The individuals addressed wriggled uneasily and exchanged imbecile smiles of embarrassment. [52] TWO FISHERS OF MEN "I venture to say no such excuse was ever dreamed of in the philosophy of business men! It is a device of counsel an after-thought a subterfuge. If I am wrong, however, Mr. Pol- son? s business experience of five-and-thirty years will demonstrate my error, and I appeal to him to set me right." All eyes sought a gray-haired man in the top row, who nervously cracked his knuckle joints without glancing at the speaker. "You are here as business men to decide a busi ness question," pursued the advocate, "and I feel that I should yield to you without another word. If you asked my opinion on a point of law Mr. Adams " The bench in the center of the box creaked, as a fat man leaned forward, cocking his head atten tively like a huge overfed bird. " If you retained me, Mr. A dams , to advise you on law, it would be, I assume, because of my special study of that subject. You are asked to judge this case for precisely the same reason as experts on the facts as experienced business men. All I can do is to point out the pitfalls of plausi bility into which my ingenious adversary will try to lure you. This is my sole office in a commercial controversy. But if I had ever thought to instruct [53] TWO FISHERS OF MEN you in your special province, the questions which Mr. Foster put to one of the witnesses would have warned me of my presumption questions, gentle men, pregnant with meaning, and which paved the way to the pointed inquiries of your colleague, Mr. Orfon." Mr. Foster opened his mouth to protest, but compromised by solemnly spitting on the floor. Mr. Orton crouched down in his overcoat and glared at his neighbor in disgust. "It was to qualify you as experts, gentlemen, that the court permitted me to ask what business experience each of you had had; and when you asked me, Mr. Ireland, if architecture was a busi ness, you will remember I answered that my defi nition of the word included all callings which involved a knowledge of those principles of credit and fair dealing on which the mighty commerce of this country rests. Therefore I leave the matter to you who are trained in the practical problems of the workaday world, confident that if I have omitted aught which should be touched upon Mr. Lawton or Mr. Innes or Mr. Ferris is as competent to review it as I, knowing that you are all as qualified as they to pass upon the issues and ad vance the cause of justice." The orator resumed his seat, wiping his flushed [54] TWO FISHERS OF MEN and perspiring face; the jurymen stirred restlessly in their seats, and the judge, dropping his chair to its normal position, peered over the edge of his desk at the plaintiff s counsel, who was studying a sheet of paper on which he had penciled some rough notes. "Now, counselor," he suggested. The jury settled back in attitudes of helpless resignation as the lawyer rose, recognized the judge with a courteous inclination of his head, and turning to the jury-box, gazed at its occupants with an expression of comical compassion. "It seems to me, fellow sufferers," he began in a nasal and melancholy drawl, "that somebody has been calling you gentlemen names." A slight titter from the back of the room caused the judge to glance up sharply. "A reprehensible habit, gentlemen," continued the speaker, slowly and sadly, "this calling of names. I wonder why my friend indulged in it? Not to ingratiate himself with his audience not to flatter you, I feel sure. The tribute which he paid to your intelligence speaks for itself. Cheap methods are only for cheap men. And yet as I listened to my friend s argument I was most im pressed by the masterly manner in which he called the roll: Mr. Richards, Mr. Foster, Mr. Adams, [55] TWO FISHERS OF MEN Mr. Norton, Mr. Ferris, Mr. Lawton, Mr. Ire land, Mr. Folsom, Mr. Thompson, Mr. Paulding, Mr. Innes, Mr. Orton all present or accounted for with the facility and exactness of Loisette of blessed memory." The speaker s finger indicated each individual, and a ripple of laughter ran over the room and broke into smiles on the juror s faces. "Had my friend felt doubtful of his cause, continued the attorney, "had he been short of facts and long of names, it is possible that he might have reverted to that first rule of pleading, which says, Tlace yourself on an intimate, familiar foot ing with your jurors. But my opponent would never have made a crude application of that rule he would not have done things by halves. Had he desired to make you feel at home with him he would have discarded formalities. He would have called Mr. Adams Thomas and Mr. Fol som Robert ; perhaps he would even have re ferred to Mr. Benjamin Ferris as Ben, called Mr. Lawton Dick, and Mr. Paulding Bill. " The speaker raised his eyebrows in grave sur prise as the sound of laughter reached his ears, and then continued imperturbably. "Those who listened to my friend s poetic flights know that he does not lack imagination. [56] TWO FISHERS OF MEN Getting goods without paying for them is not poetic. Yet divested of rhetoric that s the kernel of this case. My friend s client has had our cake and eaten it and we are having a run for our money. A duller, more commercial theme can not be imagined. But on my friend s lips the bald prose of this commonplace controversy blossomed into poetry of eloquence and beauty. Do you mean to tell me that the man who ef fected such a transformation would condescend to commonplace flattery*? No, sirs! If my adver sary had thought it necessary to gain your graces by showing that he knew your names, he would doubtless have addressed you in fluent rhyme like this: Richards, Foster, Adams, NORTON! Ferris, Folsom, Innes, ORTON! Thompson, Paulding, Ireland, LAWTON! [57] TWO FISHERS OF MEN The judge rapped loudly for order, but the room refused to take his gavel seriously until he himself had recovered his gravity. The counsel waited until quiet was restored, looking bored and not a little grieved at the interruption. "But passing from rhymes to reason," he con tinued, "or, in other words, from poetry to pota toes, what do we find? Why, an argument which disposes of the suspicion that the able counsel, mistrusting the merits of his case, tried to divert you with poetry, or attempted to tickle your van ity with straws. "Possibly, however, in the nervous tension of the moment waiting for the next name to be called, and wondering which one would be It you may have missed his potato argument. Let me repeat it. If you sold him rotten potatoes, he asks, would it serve you to answer that you did not warrant that they were fit for food? Well, gentlemen, if he ate your potatoes and requested more, I think it might be assumed that he ap proved the quality. Those are precisely the facts in this case. The defendant was as familiar with our goods as his attorney was with your names. He had frequently tried them and found them to his liking. It hardly seems fair, though, to refer to the testimony, since my opponent did not do so. [58] TWO FISHERS OF MEN "However, you will remember what the wit nesses said. But the defendant claims he tried to turn our goods into something else and they were unsuited to his purpose, and we have no right to be paid for them, as we should have known he could not make what he desired to make with them. Suppose he had attempted to manu facture cherry brandy out of your potatoes, would you feel responsible for the failure, especially if the price of cherry brandy had fallen shortly after his experiment*? But this is another detail of testimony which, perhaps, I should not touch upon. I return again to your names, upon which my opponent loved to linger. Why he did so is a puzzle, but I have done my best to solve it, and asking, What s in a name? I find, in the initial letters of yours, a simple acrostic, spelling out your rightful verdict." The speaker paused for a few moments, and then took from the table the sheet of paper on which he had been scribbling during his opponent s speech. "The first letters of Foster, Orton, .Richards," he continued, "are F-O-R For; Paulding, Law- ton, ,4 dams, Innes, TVorton, make themselves P-L-A-I-N Plain; and Thompson, Ireland, Fer ris, Folsom spell T-I-F-F tiff; in other words, [59] TWO FISHERS OF MEN Tor Plaintiff. Pray take this significant arrange ment of your names with you, gentlemen, when you retire for your verdict." But the jury never retired to consider their ver dict. They found it without leaving their seats. [60] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT WEN Colonel Van Vechten s will was opened and it was discovered that he nad named one Bernard Fleck as his residuary legatee, there were many questions asked, but few answered, concerning the unknown beneficiary. Mrs. Van Vechten, however, vaguely recalled him as a poor relation of some sort, and further identification seemed unnecessary at the time, for the Colonel s prior bequests bade fair to exhaust his entire estate and leave nothing but a complimentary mention for the residuary claim ant. Under ordinary circumstances it is more than probable that this early estimate would have been justified, but the Van Vechten property un expectedly enhanced in value, and when it was demonstrated that there would be a twenty-five thousand dollar surplus in the estate after the pay ment of all other claims, interest in the person of Bernard Fleck speedily revived. It was at this juncture that a formal letter was [61] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT despatched to him requesting his attendance at the offices of Eustace, Deland & Delaplaine, coun- selors-at-law, where he would learn something to his immediate advantage. Mr. Eustace penned this note himself, as became a family solicitor of the old school, whose black satin stock had sur vived numerous decrees of fashion and was rap idly coming into favor again, and who regarded the typewriter as an agency destructive of that confidence which sanctifies communications be tween counsel and client. Not obtaining any answer to his letter the senior partner wrote an other at the end of a week and a few days later received a strange reply dated Hedden s Corners, March 4. "Mr. Bernard Fleck (it read) has got yours and says he doesn t know you and don t care to. Likeways he states that he s heard of your game and has no idee of coming on. So hopes you ll come off. " Mr. Eustace read this message twice, shook his head with a puzzled air and then took it to Mr. Deland. "What in the world does this mean?" he de manded gravely as he laid the letter on his asso ciate s desk. "Is the man crazy or drunk or what? [62] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT Deland picked up the half sheet of note-paper and chuckled softly to himself as he read the words scrawled upon it. "That fellow s all right!" he commented smil- ingly "He s cute that s all too cute for city sharks." "Will you be good enough to tell me what it all means?" Deland glanced at the old gentleman s solemn expression and suppressed a strong inclination to laugh in his face. "Why, don t you see?" he began gravely, but paused as he noticed the youngest member of the firm passing the door. "Here, Delaplaine!" he called out, "see if you can explain this to Mr. Eustace. He thinks the writer s crazy." One glance at the letter was enough for the junior partner. "Why, he takes you for a bunco-steerer!" he burst out, addressing Mr. Eustace. "A what?" demanded the old gentleman. "A bunco-steerer, sir. He believes you re try ing a new trick to make him come on, as the sharpers say, and buy a gold-brick. The old bird s been bitten sometime or another and doesn t in tend to be nipped again. Isn t it delicious?" "It is highly ridiculous," retorted the senior [63] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT partner stiffly. "Send one of the boys to the fool and explain the matter, but don t lead him to ex pect too much, or we ll have trouble." Mr. Eustace stalked indignantly from the room, leaving his associates to enjoy the joke by them selves. "This is too good to keep," chuckled Dela- plaine as the door closed. "If it is, we ll have to resign from the firm," hinted Deland. "The old man doesn t see any thing funny in it and he wouldn t appreciate be ing nicknamed the bunco-steerer/ Delaplaine nodded acquiescently, but the story did leak out somehow, to the huge delight of the clerical force, and when at last the cautious legatee was induced to call at the office, everybody, from the telephone boy to the junior partner took oc casion to walk through the library, where the visi tor awaited Mr. Eustace s convenience. Bernard Fleck was a tall, heavily-built man, well past middle age, with gray hair and beard, a clean-shaved upper lip and a large face deeply furrowed with wrinkles. His rusty black clothes were countrified, but neat, his bumpy congress shoes highly polished, his linen frayed but clean, and his black kid gloves, though worn to purple- white at the finger-ends, had been mended with [64] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT infinite care. Indeed, the whole appearance of the man bespoke self-respecting poverty and child like simplicity. His careworn face, however, was grave and weary to the point of sadness, his mouth and eyes alone suggesting the author of the mis sive which had ruffled the senior partner s dignity. Mr. Eustace was considerably older than his new client, but the two men. had much in common and instinctively recognized this almost the moment they were closeted together. "Our representative has, I believe, explained the purport of my letter," Mr. Eustace began stiffly, after a formal exchange of greetings. Mr. Fleck gravely nodded his massive head. "Yes, sir," he drawled, slowly smoothing his old, silk hat. "I didn t understand it at first, never havin had any trouble with lawyers before, and never hearin nothin 3 to their immediate ad vantage." Mr. Eustace glanced doubtfully at the speaker, but detected no signs of levity in his impassive stare. "Did you know your cousin well, Mr. Fleck*?" he continued after a pause. "Colonel Van Vechten*? No, sir. I hired some money from him one time when the children was [65] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT sick, but he got it back long time go and I ain t had no dealings with him since." The conversation flagged again and the visitor calmly drew a copy of the local paper from his pocket and settled back to read it with the utmost unconcern. Mr. Eustace covered his embarrass ment by hunting for a memorandum among the papers on his desk. "Did our representative inform you of the amount of your legacy, Mr. Fleck*?" he inquired at last. The old man looked up from his reading as he heard the question and slowly shook his head. "No, sir," he answered thoughtfully. "I ain t seen nobody except the young feller that came to the Corners, but he let on ther might be a few hundreds lyin round loose after the rest of the folks got what was comin to em." "A few thousands," asserted Mr. Eustace, glancing up from his memorandum to note the effect of this correction. Mr. Fleck laid aside his paper and stared at the lawyer in silent bewilderment. "Thousands, eh?" he ejaculated at last. "Well, I want to know !" "We hardly know ourselves just yet, Mr. [66] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT Fleck, but I think you may count on receiving eventually say er three thousand or so." Mr. Eustace watched the expression of intense astonishment which greeted this cautious state ment, and mentally determined that it would be unwise to advise the legatee of the full extent of his fortune at once. It might unsettle his mind. "I should think it would be quite three thou sand," he ventured gravely. Mr. Fleck sat speechless for some moments and then, drawing a long breath, whistled softly. "Three thousand !" he murmured at last. "My, but that sounds sorter bulky!" he chuckled, as though submitting the matter to a jocular test. "Never had as much in all my life, lawyer," he volunteered after a pause. Mr. Eustace beamed as he noticed the old- fashioned title. The fellow was a quaint, simple character, and his heart warmed to him with be nevolent interest. "You ve worked hard all your life, too, I ex pect, Mr. Fleck," he suggested sympathetically. "Yes, sir yes, sir," the old man ruminated. "I ve done my share of up-hill hauls, but never got ahead much. Six children is quite a heavy load for one pair of shafts, but I ve kept a pullin and mother s kept a pushin and the wagon ain t [67] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT never stopped for long. Never, except when our eldest boy went. Then I reckon we did sit down for a spell." Mr. Fleck removed his spectacles and wiped his glasses with his newspaper, while Mr. Eustace glanced discreetly out of the side window. "What is your business, Mr. Fleck?" he in quired after a pause. "Well, sir, I ve done a power of things one time an nother, but for the last fifteen years I ve been handlin freight down to the X. & C. yards." "Handling freight?" "Well, I ain t actually handled none for five six years not bein as husky as I was, but I keep tabs on it, check bills lading and such. It s light, but long." "The X. & C. pays well, I suppose?" "Not what they ought to, seeing the piles o* money they make," the old man asserted. "But they give sixty a month and we ve done with less." Sixty a month, to keep this hard-working fel low and six others ! Clients interested in the rail roads had recently been complaining to Mr. Eus tace about the extravagant management of the company. There was certainly no waste in wages [68] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT here, though it might indicate a penny-wise- pound-foolish policy. Colonel Van Vechten s money was going to the right people, and Mr. Eustace played delightedly with the thought of the surprise he had in store. "Well, Mr. Fleck," he exclaimed, "I congratu late you on your cousin s generosity. You will have a tidy sum for a rainy day." The old man nodded reflectively. "Three thousand? Yes, it ll sure help when we get it," he added doubtfully. "You will have it in a few months at most." Mr. Fleck s solemn countenance relaxed in a broad smile of satisfaction. "Do tell!" he ejaculated gleefully. Then his smile disappeared under the shadow of a doubt. "Reckon I won t tell mother till it s cash money," he remarked warily. "Something might happen, eh?" "I don t think so But perhaps it s best to be on the safe side." Mr. Eustace chuckled J ; ke a boy over his secret, as he offered his hand at parting, and the old countryman stood grasping it for some time as though lost in thought. "It d be kinder good to make it an even five [69] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT wouldn t it?" he confided in an absent-minded way. Mr. Eustace instantly dropped his visitor s hand. There was something jarring in the wist ful tone of his voice something which, in Mr. Fleck, sounded like avarice and ingratitude, and marred the perfection of the coming surprise. "Don t get your expectations too high, my friend," he remarked warningly. "However, call again in two or three days, and perhaps we will make you a payment on account. I want you to look upon yourself as a client of this office, Mr. Fleck," he went on paternally, "and we want every client to regard us as friends. Your inter ests are our interests, and your affairs will receive the same attention as would be given them were you our only client." Mr. Fleck departed with clumsy expressions of simple gratitude, and, returning at the end of a week, received a check for three thousand dollars, and a delicate intimation that more might be forthcoming in another month. But he only winked incredulously as Mr. Eustace broadened the hint. "Blessed are them as don t expect nothin , for they don t get left," he quoted. "I seen that in a [70] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT calendar," he added jocosely as he departed, leav ing Mr. Eustace in a genial glow of good-will. At the end of the month he reappeared as calm, respectable and simple as ever, but with a weekly edition of the city paper instead of the local sheet bulging from his pocket. He d taken a day off, as the railroad was blocked by a wash-out, and no freight was coming through, he explained to his counsel. It must have been a bad year for the railroads, Mr. Eustace reflected, what with storms and floods and traffic disturbances of all kinds. Mr. Fleck didn t see this. Only made delay, he asserted. Railroad got all the freight there was anyway, and it didn t make no particular differ ence which day they carried it on act of God protectin them against damages. Mr. Eustace felt himself resenting an expres sion of opinion on the part of Bernard Fleck. What business had the fellow to contradict a man versed in large affairs! The idea of his as serting his country-store opinions on railroading to the legal adviser of the largest creditors of the very railroad he was talking about! If this was the effect of a little money, the next install ment would make him insufferable. It was a trifling matter, but Mr. Eustace ex perienced a distinct sense of disappointment in the [71] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT man, which culminated in his calm reception of the news that there was $10,000 more to his credit from the Van Vechten legacy. "I kinder hoped it might be more," was all he said. Some six weeks passed before the office saw him again, but Mr. Eustace was out when he called, and this seemed to make the visitor nerv ous and ill at ease. He no longer sat quietly in the library, but paced restlessly up and down the room or stood anxiously peering out of the win dow. One of the boys offered him a morning paper to pass the time away, but he answered roughly that he d read it and it was nothing but a pack of lies anyway. Gol darn such stuff ! He pulled his own crumpled copy from his pocket and tossed it disgustedly into the waste-paper basket. Mr. Eustace, returning to the office, wasted no time in pleasing preliminaries, as on former occa sions, but proceeded straight to business. He had lost interest in Bernard Fleck at their last inter view, and there was no satisfaction in planning to surprise a man who expected more than he would receive. With a clear, business-like ac count in his hand, the senior partner explained that there was a balance of $12,000 still remain ing in the estate, took a receipt for all but $2,ooo, [72] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT and requested Mr. Fleck to call in another month and close the entire transaction. "I shall be very glad to assist you in investing the money, Mr. Fleck, if you care for advice," he remarked coldly as he wrote out a check for the third payment on account. "I reckon I know a stocking this ll fit into," the old man responded, with a glance of suspicion. "No doubt, no doubt," Mr. Eustace answered testily, "but a good mortgage pays better than the toes of stockings, and it s quite as safe." "Mortgage, eh? sniffed Mr. Fleck. "There s a Jew-man, down our way, hires out all s needed in that line, and I don t reckon to compete with him." Mr. Eustace shrugged his shoulders as he de livered the check into his client s ready hand, and then suggestively rang the bell upon his desk. Although Mr. Fleck reappeared two weeks ahead of his next appointment, he had changed so greatly in the interval that the clerks in the outer office scarcely recognized him. Not only had his face aged, but his whole appearance and manner had suffered an alarming transformation. He hurried breathlessly into the office and, gripping the nearest boy by the shoulder, demanded an im mediate interview with Mr. Eustace. The startled [73] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT youngster slipped from under his grasp and in formed him that the boss was out. "You lie gol darn you !" shouted the old man, threatening the lad with his stick. The uproar which ensued brought Mr. Delaplaine to his door. "What s the matter here 4 ?" he demanded sternly of a clerk who had armed himself with an inkstand. "Matter!" roared the old man. "Hell s the matter ! That s what ! Here I come for my money and this unlicked pup up and tells me his boss is out. I know that game! It s been tried before. He was out last time when I wanted him to pay up, but I ain t got no time for foolin now, and I ll have what s comin to me right away quick, or know the reason why !" "Sit down, Mr. Fleck," commanded Delaplaine sharply. "There s not the slightest occasion for excitement or disturbance of any sort. Sit down and I ll see you in a few moments." "You ll see me now, young feller!" shouted the angry visitor, striding forward. "I tell you I ain t got no time for foolin or being fooled. It s a matter of life and death, man!" he whispered hoarsely, as he reached the junior partner s side. Delaplaine caught the beseeching note in this wild appeal and quickly took his cue. [74] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT "Come in here, sir" he directed, and, motioning the excited man into his private room, stepped inside and calmly closed the door. Mr. Fleck staggered to a chair and immediately collapsed, burying his head in his arms and breath ing heavily in tremulous, nervous gasps. Mr. Delaplaine watched him for a moment in silence, and then, stepping forward, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "What is the matter, Mr. Fleck 5 ?" he inquired kindly. "Are you ill?" "It s my head!" panted the old man, raising his haggard face from his arms. "The figures are driving me crazy! I m mad with em already! But I can t understand I just can t under stand!" He pressed his hands to his brow and, staring straight before him, rocked back and forth as he moaned the words in a pitiful, broken voice. "Perhaps I could help you if you d tell me what the trouble is. I m pretty good at figures," sug gested Delaplaine. The old man ceased his rocking and looked up at the young lawyer with hopeful confidence. "By gum, I ll try ye!" he burst out suddenly. "Here! See what you kin make of these, and these, and these !" [75] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT He tore a bundle of papers from his inside pocket, tossed it on the table, and then fishing out some loose sheets, soiled with handling, smashed them down on top of the bundle. Delaplaine drew a chair to the table, and, seat ing himself, picked up the crumpled papers. One glance was enough to make him spring to his feet, the papers shaking in his hands. "You have been speculating in X. & C.?" he cried incredulously. "Speculatin 3 ?" repeated the old man. "No, sir, I ain t been speculatin I ve been investin . I didn t know nothing cept about X. & C., but I seen what they was doin ; so when I got the three thousand off Mr. Eustace, I thought I d just make it five by buy in what I knowed was good. But something went wrong, and the brokers said I could even up by buyin lower an averagin , and "You put the next ten in^" interrupted Dela plaine aghast. "I bought enough to make the first lot a sight cheaper," responded the old man. "And it was cheap, too!" he added defiantly. "I reckon I ought to know with the heap o business I see doing every day long at the Corners. I tell you there s something wrong with them figures!" he [76] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT burst out fiercely. "They re fixed up to cheat me, but I ll beat em yet!" Delaplaine had taken down the pile of can celled checks in the Van Vechten estate as Fleck talked and was feverishly examining the indorse ments. Every one of those drawn to the residuary legatee had been transferred directly to the Wall Street firm, whose complicated statements lay scattered on the table, and the lawyer dropping the checks, eagerly scanned the last brokerage ac count submitted to Mr. Fleck. It showed a bal ance of barely $1,000. "Is this all there is left?" he demanded of the crushed figure in the chair. "They say they got to have two thousand more!" was the hopeless answer, and Mr. Fleck held out a letter in his trembling hands. Dela plaine snatched it from him and read a demand for $2,000 more margin, to protect the stock al ready purchased, or it would have to be sold and all would be lost. "And all will be lost!" he repeated scornfully. We ll save what s left anyway!" he muttered, snatching the telephone receiver from its hook Mr. Fleck sprang to his feet as he heard the words, his eyes flashing excitedly. "Yes, by gum ! [77] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT We ll save it save it all !" he shouted. "Get the two thousand quick !" "Keep still !" commanded Delaplaine impa tiently. "We ll throw no more good money after bad. Let them sell!" he added, as he called up the brokers number. "Let them sell! N-e-v-e-r! Here! Give me my money! What you won t?" roared the old man, dragging Delaplaine from his desk. "I tell ye I ve got to have it, and if I don t I ll " The door opened and Mr. Eustace stood upon the threshold. "What s the meaning of all this disturbance?" he demanded. "He won t give me my money!" shouted Fleck. "But I ll get it out of you you old " The speaker stopped, glared for a moment, and then sank back exhausted in the chair. "Is he mad?" demanded Eustace. "Nearly," panted Delaplaine. "He s been speculating in X. & C.," he whispered. "In X. & C. ! Good God ! I ve just won our motion appointing a receiver! Doesn t he know we re the attorneys for the creditors and " "Hush!" implored Delaplaine. "He won t understand !" [78] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT But the old man had already caught the words and sprang to his feet with a roar. "So, it s you that s been workin again me is it?" he yelled, his face purple with rage. "Calm yourself, Mr. Fleck," commanded Mr. Eustace sympathetically. "Been plannin* to ruin me all the time eh? ,Yer Judas!" The old man s voice broke on the words and he paused, glaring wildly at his counsel. "Waited to get my money in the road before yer bust it, and " "The road has not been solvent for years, sir," interrupted Mr. Eustace indignantly. "If you had consulted us, we would have told you the condition of affairs and saved you " "Saved me! Yer ve sold me out damn yer! But nothin 11 save yer now !" There was a rush and whir of a heavy stick through the air, and Delaplaine pulled his asso ciate aside just as the lamp on the table was shiv ered into splinters, and the giant figure of the frenzied client crashed forward over the ruins. In another moment he was harmless in strong arms, and Mr. Delaplaine was madly telephoning the brokers to sell out. But he was too late. The market had fallen again on the news of the re- [79] THE UNEARNED INCREMENT ceivership, and Bernard Fleck already owed more than twice the $2,000 still due him from the Van Vechten estate. His frenzy had apparently expended itself with his fall on the table, and he was quite docile and passive by the time a doctor arrived. For some days he remained dazed, but gradually recovered with careful nursing in Mr. Eustace s own home. Finally, when the exact condition of his affairs was explained to him by his host, he faced the disaster with the same calm he had displayed at the discovery of his fortune. Of the two, Mr. Eustace was the more affected. Indeed, there were signs of a tear in the senior partner s eyes as he bade his guest good-by. "I m sorry more sorry than I can say, Mr. Fleck," he whispered, as he pressed his visitor s hand at parting. "Sorry for you and the mother and everybody." The old man nodded comprehendingly, and a faint smile flickered for a moment on his trem bling lips. "Blessed are them as don t expect nothing," he quoted musingly. "Guess the only smart thing I done was rememberin that motto. . . . Things can go on bout the same, I reckon. I ve never let on to the folks at The Corners." [80] VI THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS GORDON told us this story about Carteret one evening in the club corner shortly after the distinguished lawyer died. There was nothing in the conversation which led up to the tale to justify me in thinking it referred to Carteret and perhaps my guess would never have been confirmed had it not been for Mason s assertiveness. The story, as I remember it, ran something like this: The Christmas dance at the Country Club had lasted until the "wee sma hours" of the morning, when trains to town were few and far between, and the poker party, inaugurated as a stop-gap, ran far beyond its time limit. Therefore, when Gordon reached his rooms and found a note in structing him to appear for his client, The Mer chants Telegraph Company, in the District Police Court at 9 A. M., he had barely time to reach the court before the calendar was called. [81] THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS However, as the court room was cold, no one sus pected that his long overcoat concealed a dress suit. But Gordon was unpleasantly conscious of it as he stood near the Judge s desk and watched the long line of prisoners file across the "Bridge." There was nothing new to him in the sight of those miserables. He had seen them or others like them arraigned on that bridge dozens of times. It is not a cheerful picture under any circumstances, but, contrasted with the light and laughter and music of the Country Club, it sug gested uncomfortable comparisons. Gordon stud ied the sickly faces, noted the blotched complex ions and the bleary, tired eyes, and read in them the story of wasted and wasting lives. He knew the advisability of controlling police court sympathy, but this morning was an exception, and he permitted himself to moralize. Had those unfortunates all had a fair chance in life? Was that battered and tattered creature over there solely responsible for his condition? Would that hard-faced girl with the damp, drag gled skirt, leaning against the wall, be in that line if her circumstances had been a little ever so little different? What was the distinction be tween the dissipated-looking young fellow near- ing the bridge and the befuddled gentlemen who [82] THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS were probably still in the card-room of the Coun try Club? A policeman roughly jostled some of the pris oners near Gordon, swearing fiercely at them under his breath, and the lawyer quietly protested. "Aw, they re nothin but bums!" was the whis pered answer. A white-haired old woman, soiled and ragged to the point of filth, and so feeble that she could not ascend the bridge, stood beneath the Judge s desk. "Vagrancy," reported the officer. The Judge gave a quick glance of recognition at the squalid figure. "Ten days, Mary, he ordered. A protesting mutter caught his ear. "What does she say, officer?" he asked. The policeman bent down to the prisoner. "She says won t you please give her three months," he reported. "I said ten days," answered the Judge impa tiently. "Tell her it s only ten." The officer stooped and whispered again. "She says won t you please give her more, your Honor. Says she s nowhere to go and ten days 11 turn her out in cold weather. Wants your Honor [83] THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS to remember it s near Christmas time," the man added with a grin. "Make it three months," corrected the magis trate, not unkindly, but without smiling. Police courts unsettle one s sense of humor. The dissipated-looking young man whom Gor don had previously noticed was facing the Judge. He nodded at the question, "Is that your name?" and leaned indifferently against the railing of the bridge. He was shabbily dressed, dirty and dis heveled. But there was something in his attitude which showed a spirit of self-respecting independ ence just verging upon defiance. Gordon had noted the flash of his eyes when a policeman had hastened him forward with a push. Few of the herd resent handling not many of them notice it, and Gordon concluded that the man was not yet accustomed to police court familiarity. Intoxication and disorderly conduct was the charge, and the complainant, a red-faced, bull- necked individual, was present to support it. What had the prisoner to say"? Nothing much. He had stopped at the com plainant s stable and begged a lodging for his dog. It was, it appeared, more difficult to house one s dog than to take care of one s self when very out- at-elbows. Most people seem to think a poor man [84] THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS shouldn t own a dog. The prisoner had slept in the public square for two nights because no lodg ing-house would receive him and the dog, too. So he had addressed the stable man very civilly. "Go to the devil !" was the answer. The prisoner sug gested that the complainant meant "come," but admitted his authority to issue the invitation. Whereupon the complainant kicked at the dog and missed him, and the prisoner struck at the stable man and didn t miss him. That was all there was to it except that he had had a few drinks at the nearest saloon. You have to have rum in you for a night on the benches in December. Had he ever been arrested before*? Yes, he had. Once for being drunk and once for steal ing a ride on the cars. The answer was given with most impudent de fiance. "Ten dollars " "I haven t got a cent, Judge. * " Or ten days." "Get down step lively !" "Wait a moment, officer!" Gordon exchanged a few words with the pris oner and then turned and addressed the Court. "If your Honor please," he began, "this pris oner has not asked me to represent him, nor do I [85] THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS voluntarily appear for him. I ask a hearing only as friend of the Court. " The Judge smiled and nodded. Then Gordon commenced what he claimed would have been the greatest speech of his life had he not, in his earnestness, unbuttoned his overcoat and thrown it wide open, exposing his evening dress to the garish light of day. A shout of laughter from the audience instantly stopped his eloquence and the shout became a roar as Gordon glanced down at his clothes in dismay and hastily tried to cover them with the wide flung lapels. In his haste, however, the buttons seemed greased and all his fingers proved thumbs. No sooner did he fasten one button than another slipped out, and at every fumble the audience roared anew, until at last, when he ceased strug gling and stood upright with every button forced into the wrong buttonhole and the overcoat welt ed and skewed out of all shape, they absolutely howled men and women rocking to and fro on the benches and slapping one another s shoulders in their joy. "Shure, yur Anner!" burst out Counselor Fin- negan, rising from his seat and wiping the tears from his eyes, "shure, yur Anner I know what is meant by by a court costume. But I trust, your [86] THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS Anner, it ll create no precedint, for t would be hard sometimes to tell the prisoners from the counsel after a good night haul ! However, yur Anner, our friend Mr. Gordon is after making a great speech and I ll go bail his man s a good man. I want to contribute a dollar toward payin his fine. Shure I ve had that much fun !" He handed a bill to Gordon as he spoke. There were people in that audience, however, who took Finnegan more seriously than he intended. A woman with a shawl over her head stepped for ward and handed Gordon a quarter and a burly tough followed with fifty cents. "Your attorney s a dude but you re all right !" he whispered to the prisoner. "We sports have got to stand by one another," confided a horsey-looking personage as he pushed some loose change into Gordon s hand. "Say, what kind of a dog s yours?" he added, turning to the prisoner. "I ll be a dollar shy if he fines me ten, but I reckon one day more or less won t hurt me," vouchsafed a rum-soaked character in the line, as he stepped forward and contributed a greasy bill. "It s a Christmas present," whispered the hard- faced girl as she handed Gordon a quarter. "They re not all bums," admitted the officer [87] THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS whom Gordon had reproved. "Take this for your man." The fine was subscribed for and paid within five minutes. Then Gordon turned toward the prisoner, looked him squarely in the eyes and held out his hand. "This is Christmastide, my friend," he said. "A New Year is coming. You are free to make what you will of it. But more than a dozen men and women in this room have said to-day that they believe in you. It s the judgment of your peers,, man don t forget that. It s the judgment of your peers." He never forgot it, Gordon told us. But more than that he would not say. It was some time after Gordon told this yarn that the antecedents of certain well-known people were under discussion in the club corner. "There s a lot of queer history about New Yorkers that s never been written," observed Wilder regretfully. "I d heard that Carteret had a variegated career," I ventured. [88] THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS "He did," asserted Mason. "He began life as a waiter." Gordon shook his head. "I know he did," insisted Mason. "He was a waiter in a beefsteak restaurant on Sixth Avenue. I ve forgotten the name of the place, but " "The story does him no harm," interrupted Gordon quietly, "but it isn t true." "Well, I know it is!" contradicted Mason ag gressively. "And I know it isn t," retorted Gordon im patiently. "Carteret s first job in this city was as an usher in the Bentic Theater. I ought to know," he added in a low tone; "I gave him his first dress suit." [89] VII OF DISPOSING MEMORY GRATITUDE may be a lively sense of future favor, but it was not so in Clancey s case. He had never required my professional services but once, and I do not now recall the details of the legal tangle from which I originally extricated him. But Clancey did not forget the occasion, whatever it may have been, and the result was that I became, in his fond eyes, a sort of patron saint to whom it behooved him to pay his respects at more or less regular intervals. Of course I appreciated his kindly attention, but I must confess that his visits to my office were not an unmitigated joy, for he usually contrived to appear at an inconvenient hour and always out wore his welcome. Indeed, after the customary greetings had been exchanged he never had a word to say for himself, and as he made no at tempt to respond to my conversational efforts we were soon reduced to staring at each other with cheerful imbecility. [90] OF DISPOSING MEMORY Uncomfortable as these deadly pauses were to me they did not appear to disconcert Clancey. He would perch on the edge of my most capacious of fice chair with his great paws spread upon his knees, as though poised for flight, and beam at me interminably while I squirmed under his benevo lent scrutiny and strove to lure him into speech. It was on one of these distressing occasions that I endeavored to relieve the tension of silence by in quiring, casually, if he had ever thought of mak ing a will. I do not think I shall ever forget the expression of his face as the question fell from my foolish lips. Had he been suddenly informed that his hour had come and that he was practically a dead man the effect could scarcely have been more start ling. All the color rapidly faded from his great round cheeks, his little pig eyes became glassy with fright, their lids quivered nervously, every trace of his habitual humor and jollity vanished, and the big, red hands, clutching his knees, visibly trembled. The whole bulk of the man sagged. I gazed at him in absolute amazement, but he was the first to break the silence. "Is is it me heart, do you think, Sor?" he whispered awesomely. For a moment I was tempted to laugh in his [91] OF DISPOSING MEMORY face, but his tone was so desperately serious that I resisted the inclination, and endeavored to put a note of sympathy into my voice. "Is what your heart, Mike 4 ?" I inquired gently. Clancey swallowed once or twice with evident difficulty. "Me me disease, Sor," he answered hoarsely. "Your disease?" I responded. "Who in the world says there s anything the matter with you*?" He shook his head mournfully and raised a deprecating hand. "Shure, I ve feared it for many a day, Sor, and tis yure sharp eyes that has seen how it is." "Nonsense !" I exclaimed. "I didn t ask you if you d made a will because I think you re a sick man, but merely because you re an old client in whom I m interested. Making a will is an ordin ary act of prudence and, like taking out life insur ance, it ought to be done while one is well and hearty. My safe is full of wills made by people who are perfectly well. I never saw you looking better and I hope I ll live as long as you will." The only answer which Clancey vouchsafed to this breezy reassurance was another doleful shake of the head, but I could think of nothing more to say and we relapsed into silence. Finally he pro duced a pocket handkerchief, and moppingihis per- [92] OF DISPOSING MEMORY spiring forehead, hitched his chair an inch or two nearer mine. "Should I be afther making it to-day, Sor, do you think?" he whispered nervously. "Why, no," I answered lightly. "Any time will do, next week or next month or whenever you happen in at the office again. Of course there s no hurry." "God s will be done!" ejaculated Clancey. "I ll do it to-morrow, Sor, or -" "No, no, Mike," I interrupted to ward off an other visitation. "Don t bother about the matter at all now. Sometime or another, if you agree with me in thinking it s a wise thing to do, drop me a line and we ll take it up at our leisure. In the meanwhile talk it over with your wife and " Clancey leaned forward and laid a shaky hand upon my sleeve. "Shure, I ll not breathe a word av this to her, poor soul," he murmured. "Nonsense!" I protested sharply. "Mrs. Clan cey won t think that making a will is going to kill you and if you can t rid yourself of that ridiculous notion, why don t make it. The only reason I suggested it was because " " Twas very kind av you, Sor, and Til not [93] OF DISPOSING MEMORY forget it. But I ll bring no other into this trouble." I tossed a blotter impatiently to the other side of my desk and leaned back in my chair. "Mrs. Clancey is a highly sensible woman," I began, but Michael once more checked me with a trembling gesture. "She hasn t the stringth, Sor," he quavered and brushed away a tear. I was gradually becoming desperate, for the day was waning fast and my desk was piled high with work demanding attention. "I ll tell you what we ll do," I suggested with fatuous cheeriness. "Come down to see me some day next week and then " "I rather do it now, Sor," he interrupted plead ingly. "I m afraid I can t spare the time just at pres ent, Mike," I responded. "But I ll tell you what we can do," I continued, as I noted his expression of disappointment. "You can tell me how you want to dispose of your property now and I ll make notes and draw up the paper later." I picked up a pad and pencil as I spoke and looked inquiringly at Clancey. A long pause fol lowed. "Well?" I queried encouragingly. [94] OF DISPOSING MEMORY Michael s face remained a woful blank "Whatever you say ll be right, Sor," he whis pered with an ominous quaver. "O, this is your will not mine," I laughed. "But if you want a suggestion, I added, "what do you think about leaving everything to Mrs. Clancey for her life and letting it be equally di vided among the children after her death*?" Clancey passed the handkerchief, which he had rolled into a ball, from one moist fist to the other and pressed it against his mouth. But not a word escaped his mournful lips. "Well? I prompted sharply. " Tis as you like, Sor." I suppose I ought to have been touched by this unusual mark of confidence, but I had no desire to control the disposal of Clancey s substance and his lack of interest was irritating. However, I was anxious to conclude the interview, and hastily scribbling a few notes, I rose, telling him that I would put them into the form of a will and mail it to him within a few days. I saw that he wanted me to draw the document then and there and let him sign it on the spot, but I pretended not to notice this, and almost leading him to the door by his clammy hand, I shook it and heaved a sigh of relief at his departure. Before long I had reason [95] OF DISPOSING MEMORY to wish that I had dedicated the rest of that de pleted afternoon exclusively to Clancey. Two days later I prepared the draft of his will and mailed it to him, and the next morning found him again on the edge of an office chair. "Well, is everything satisfactory?" I inquired, as he produced his crumpled copy. "Yes, Sor," he answered, "and I ve signed it." "Signed it?" I repeated. "You were a little too quick about that, Michael. Wills have to be executed with a good deal of formality and this was merely the rough copy from which " I paused as my eye caught the paper he handed me. It was subscribed in a shaking hand. "Yours very truly^ "MiKE CLANCEY." Poor old innocent! I could see by his face what an effort that performance had cost him. He undoubtedly regarded the document as his death warrant, and it seemed cruel to subject him to further mental agony. But there was no al ternative, so I gravely explained that I would have the paper engrossed and advise him as soon as it was ready for his signature. Was he sure that it was just to his liking? Entirely. Had he talked it over with his wife? No? Well, he [96] OF DISPOSING MEMORY ought to do so. But if he had made up his mind that he could not, I would say no more. Twenty-four hours later the engrosser handed me the completed copy a perfect specimen of his art, the proper names in beautiful Old English characters, the script as legible as the finest hand set type, and the whole embellished by flowing purple ribbons secured by formidable seals. Be fore I had time to advise Clancey of the arrival of this artistic creation, however, the man him self appeared upon the scene. I observed that he was impressed by the dignity of the paper, but its very formality seemed to redouble his fears and I thought it would be kind to let him sign it at once and get the whole matter off his mind. But when I proposed this, he assented in such dubious fashion that I knew something must be wrong. I, therefore, gave him the necessary open ing. Tis only a notion of Katie s," he began, apologetically, "but ye told me to talk it out with her, an " "I m glad you did," I interrupted. "What did Mrs. Clancey say*?" "Well, Sor, she do be afther thinking how I ought to give me little things to the children for [97] OF DISPOSING MEMORY kapesakes. Would it be much trouble to put them in?" "Why no," I answered. "I don t like to mar this paper, but perhaps I could insert what you want without entirely spoiling it. Is there much " " Tis only bits av tokens, Sor." "Well, let s see," I suggested, drawing a sheet of paper toward me and picking up a pencil. Clancey jerked his chair nearer me, glanced ap prehensively at the closed door and, with his el bow on my desk shelf and his hand screening his mouth, leaned confidentially toward me. "Me poipe for Willie," he whispered. "All right," I answered. "Speak up. Nobody can hear you." I had never detected a crafty expression in Clancey s face before, but he looked not only frightened, but sly, as he again glanced over his shoulder. "Me watch for Julia," he continued, almost under his breath. I noted the bequest. "Me silk suspenders for Jim." I nodded. "Me tobacco-box for Larry." I wrote again. [98] OF DISPOSING MEMORY "Me St. Patrick s sash for Dan." I looked up inquiringly, but Clancey s worried face showed he was struggling to remember some thing more. "Me sleeve buttons for Nora. . . . Me match box for Bernard. . . . Me boots no, me Bible for Sarah. . . . Me aisy chair for Dinnis and " "Hold on, Michael," I interrupted. "Are there any more children?" "Why yes, Sor. There do be Terrince and Bridget and little Katie." I turned over a page. "This paper will have to be redrawn," I re marked as I noted the final legacy. "But if you re sure you won t want to make any further altera tions you can call and sign it the day after to morrow." He was sure, and at the appointed hour I was once more closeted with him while he perused the amended document which had again been en grossed in ornamental script. To my inquiry if everything was now satisfactory, he gave a fu nereal assent, but his expression belied his words. "You think it s all right, don t you, Sor?" he added, pathetically. [99] OF DISPOSING MEMORY "Certainly," I replied. "I wouldn t let you sign it if it wasn t." "That s what I told Katie, Sor," he murmured. "But wimin don t understand." I began to repent of my insistence on Mrs. Clancey s participation in this little affair, but the least I could do under the circumstances was to ask what it was that she did not understand. " Tis only a trifle, Sor. I told her you d see that twould be all right. But if we was to die childless what would become of the property she don t know." "Die childless? I repeated. "Why, man! That s a rather remote possibility with thirteen living children, isn t it?" " Tis so, Sor. But Katie and me d hate to have some av the scuts av our family spindin our savings." "Well, you can provide against that if you think it s worth while," I responded wearily. Clancey did think it was worth while, and for an hour or more I wrestled with the absurd con tingency which involved a Trust for brother Bicey s "wild lads," an annuity for an aged sis ter, a Trust within a Trust for another relative, and more complicated provisions than I had ever encountered in all my previous experience. By [100] OF DISPOSING MEMORY this time the document had expanded from three to twelve pages and I determined to incur no fur ther expense on engrossing. It was well I did so, for the end was not yet. Indeed, Mrs. Clancey developed such a genius for evolving possibilities presenting nice questions of law, and such a dis tressing resourcefulness in making suggestions, that I grew to hate the woman and cursed the day I had burdened myself with this task. Finally, however, her ingenuity was exhausted and after announcing firmly that I could not undertake to anticipate the end of the world and would not re draft the instrument under any circumstances, the bulky manuscript, now swollen to over twenty pages, was consigned to the engrosser and another day and hour set for concluding the business. "You can bring your own witnesses, or I ll have some of my clerks act for you," I informed Clancey, as I noted the appointment. "Witnesses?" he repeated blankly. "Certainly," I answered sharply. "As I told you before, wills have to be executed with a good deal of care and formality, in the presence of dis interested witnesses. Some people like to have their friends act in that capacity, but it s not necessary. There are men right here in the office who can do it." [101] OF DISPOSING MEMORY "I think Katie d rather have our friends," sighed Clancey. I had no desire to oppose the lady s views on this point, and muttering "As you please," I dis missed my careworn client, devoutly hoping that he would outlive his wife and not leave me to administer his estate under her surveillance. I had not opened my mail on the morning ap pointed for Clancey s appearance when the office boy announced that a Mrs. O Hara was in the reception room waiting to see me. Not know ing any one of that name I finished reading my letters and did not think of her again until I was on the point of starting for court. Then I hur ried into the outer office and discovered a stout, kindly-faced old Irish woman, dressed in deep mourning, who told me in a voice shaken with emotion that she d called to witness "poor Mike Clancey s" will. "Well, you re a trifle early," I advised her. "Mr. Clancey won t be here till twelve." "Then I ll wait for him, poor man," she an nounced lugubriously, and leaving word that I would return by noon, I hurried off to court, where I was soon engaged in a legal skirmish which put Clancey and his teary-eyed witness com pletely out of my mind. In fact the proceedings [102] OF DISPOSING MEMORY detained me longer than I expected and it was half-past twelve when I again reached the office. Clancey had not arrived, the office boy informed me, but he d shown some of the witnesses into the library. "Some of the witnesses?" I repeated. "How many people has he sent?" "There s about a dozen there now," the boy as serted. "A dozen!" I strode past the grinning urchin and opened the library door. There, grouped about the long center table, sat more than a dozen men, women and children, some of them dressed in mourning and all of them evidently prepared for a heart-rending scene. In a corner two little girls were actually weeping, and Mrs. O Hara, playing with a black-edged handkerchief, was plainly on the verge of tears. The whole atmosphere of the room was heavy with the odor of crepe and the company suggested a highly respectable wake. "What is the meaning of all this?" I demanded sharply. "Who sent you here?" "Mr. Clancey asked me to witness the execu tion av his will," volunteered a solemn old mute near the door. "Is he not here yit?" [103] OF DISPOSING MEMORY I turned and fled into my private office, but before I could give the necessary instructions for clearing the library, Mrs. Clancey s arrival was announced, and deciding that it would be better for her to dismiss the mourners, I sent for her at once. By this time I was in no amiable mood and prepared to accord the cause of all my trouble a pretty cool reception. But the appearance of the culprit completely disarmed me. Indeed, a more utterly grief-stricken figure than Mrs. Clancey has never crossed the threshold of my office, and I could only help her into a chair and beg her to control herself while striving to phrase some sym pathetic words. Of course there was but one ex planation of her prostration and I was deeply shocked, remembering, with a guilty feeling, my ridicule of poor Clancey s heart trouble, and my annoyance at the ghastly company assembled in the library. Finally I laid my hand kindly on the woman s bowed shoulder. "Tell me all about it," I began quietly. "Clan cey has gone?" "No, Sor, but tis killin him it is !" she wailed. "Ah, Sor, won t ye let him off?" I stared at the old lady, who clutched my arm and gazed imploringly at me with streaming eyes. "Let him off what?" I exclaimed. [104] OF DISPOSING MEMORY "Makin his will, Sor. Shure he s wearin him self to a shadow and not a wink of sleep has come to him for days. Tis dyin av it he is. Let him off, Sor, and God ll reward ye ! See I ve brought the money, Sor, but if it s more " "Money?" I interrupted. "What money?" "For makin the will, Sor. That s what s kapin him to it, Sor. He says you ll never take it unless he ixecutes the will, and he never give you no business before and tis ashamed he is not to go on after you suggestin it. But it s wastin him, Sor. It is indeed! Won t you please to take the money " Mrs. Clancey laid twenty-five one-dollar bills on my desk and clasped her hands appealingly. I gazed at her in silence not knowing whether to laugh or to enter a dignified protest. But it seemed best to accept the situation without ex planation or delay. "Mrs. Clancey," I began, "hurry home to Mike and tell him I m more than satisfied that I don t want him to execute the will and that he shall have a receipt in full for my services in the morn ing. And, Mrs. Clancey," I added, "I ll donate the money to the Church if you ll take the wit nesses with you. I think they re growing rest less." [105] OF DISPOSING MEMORY Clancey died about ten years later and I m firmly convinced that Katie thinks I shortened his life. But I ve never been guilty of a similar offense. He was the last client to whom I ever suggested the wisdom of making a will. VIII SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS HAD I been a younger man when Mrs. Drysdale came under my observation, the "Medical Record" would long ago have contained my report of her case and my diagnosis would doubtless have been authoritative and convincing. But, either because I am grow ing old or because the matter is somewhat per sonal, I have never been able to reduce my ex perience with that woman to the terms of scien tific testimony. I have made the attempt more than once; but, even when I have succeeded in embalming the facts in the dull, formal "history" which alone carries conviction to a pathologist, they still verge on the incredible to a degree which challenges conservative belief. Yet, if the his tory of this case was less embarrassing in itself, the diagnosis would find me wanting. I could easily frame one which would satisfy my brother practitioners. Most doctors, like other men, will blindly accept a familiar formula rather than [107] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS think for themselves. But to force unprecedented facts into a ready-made theory is, in my opinion, beneath the dignity of any investigator worthy of the name. I am convinced, however, that no one is justified in suppressing extraordinary cir cumstances merely because the special branch of knowledge which should supply an explanation fails to do so. On the contrary, I believe that all such happenings should be given the widest pos sible publicity, in the hope that they may find, in the world at large, some interpretation beneficial to humanity. With the assent of those concerned I have there fore decided to submit my account of Mrs. Drys- dale s case, with no pretense of authority, save such as an eyewitness and trained observer may reasonably command. If there had been any other physician available I would not have responded to the night sum mons which first called me to the Drysdale cot tage, urgent though the message was. For some years I had been exclusively engaged with my "Treatise on the Nervous System," and was not in active practice. But I could not well refuse to act in an emergency, at least, until the family physician should arrive. This I endeavored to explain to the person at the Drysdale end of the [108] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS telephone, but she was excited to the point of in coherence and neither my explanations nor my questions elicited any intelligent response. I therefore started for the house without the slight est idea of what I should find confronting me. I was aware that the Drysdales were my neigh bors, but beyond this I knew nothing whatever concerning them; for, being a bachelor and ab sorbed in my studies, I had had little or no social intercourse with the inhabitants of the lonely countryside to which I had retired for uninter rupted work. Young Albert Drysdale and I had greeted one another upon our occasional meetings upon the main road, but I do not remember ever having seen his mother before I was summoned to her house. Perhaps I may have heard that she was a widow, and that the young man was her only child, but I did not recall those facts as I hurriedly covered the half mile of country road which lay between my house and the white cot tage I knew she occupied. A frightened and disheveled servant answered my ring, and, after peering at me through an inch of opened door, admitted me with hysterical evi dences of relief. "Praise God, you ve come, doctor!" she panted, clutching my arm. "Praise God and his saints! [109] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS Twenty times tonight I ve telephoned you and never got an answer till fifteen minutes since. Another hour and I d have been mad myself!" "Who s the other lunatic?" I snapped, drawing my arm away, for I am always impatient of hys terical volubility, and the intimation that I had been dragged out of bed to grapple with a maniac roused my indignation. "Has somebody gone crazy here*?" I demanded, sharply, for the woman had not answered my question and gave indication of swooning. "It s Mrs. Drysdale, doctor," she whispered. "She s upstairs. Mr. Albert s away on a shooting trip in Canada. The cook left yesterday, and there s nobody else in the house. It s something terrible." "Is she violent?" I asked. "No, sir. That s the terrible thing. She don t move only looks and and looks!" "Looks at what?" I demanded, roughly. "Looks clean through you, doctor!" The woman s voice sank again to a horrified whisper and she crept shudderingly toward me, glancing nervously over her shoulder at the stairs as she spoke. She seemed dvercome by terror. "Well, looks can t hurt you," I asserted, un- [no] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS sympathetically, shaking off the trembling hand she had laid upon my arm. "Can t they, doctor?" she questioned, eagerly: "Mrs. Drysdale s chilled me to the bone. I felt my heart go like this," she closed her hand with a convulsive movement of the fingers. "How about the Evil Eye, sir*?" she inquired. "Evil fiddlesticks!" I muttered gruffly. "Where is Mrs. Drysdale s room*?" "At the head of the stairs, doctor." The woman pointed behind her without taking her eyes from me, and shuddered as she answered. "Then go and rout out some breakfast," I or dered. "It ll be daylight shortly, and there s nothing like food for curing fright. Is there a bell in Mrs. Drysdale s room?" "Yes, sir, alongside the door." "Then, listen !" I commanded, sternly. "If I ring once, run to the nearest farm and bring some of the men folks here to help me. If I ring twice, fetch me some breakfast. Otherwise, leave me alone. Do you understand?" She nodded assent and started toward the rear door. "Wait a moment," I continued. "Before you do anything else, telephone for Mrs. Drysdale s family physician and " Cm] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS "She hasn t any, as I know of, doctor," she interrupted. "I ve heard her say she was never sick a day in her life." "Then notify the nearest physician. I don t care who he is." I started up the dark stairway, as I spoke, and the woman watched me until I reached the top and knocked on the door, when she turned and fled with a gasp of terror. No response came to my summons, and, after listening for a moment at the keyhole, I shifted my revolver from my hip to my side pocket, and, turning the handle of the door, entered Mrs. Drys- dale s room. A small lamp stood on the table in the center of the apartment but in the dim light I could not at once distinguish the surrounding objects. Suddenly, however, I discerned a woman standing perfectly motionless behind the table, her head thrust forward, her shoulders slightly bent, one hand resting on her hip, and the other clinched tightly at her side. Then, as my eyes became accustomed to the light, I saw a face which was not only singularly beautiful, but also startling in its forceful expression. One glance at the rigid figure and staring eyes was sufficient to assure me that I was in the presence of a harmless cataleptic. But, familiar [112] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS as I was with such cases, I could understand the wild terror of the woman-servant; for, unearthly as this phenomenon always is, there was some thing about Mrs. Drysdale which made it par ticularly uncanny, and I shivered in spite of my intense professional interest in the spectacle. For fully half a minute I remained standing in the doorway, wondering what could have in duced the woman s catalepsy. The servant had said that her mistress had never been ill, there fore it was improbable that her condition was the indication or accompaniment of physical dis order. Moreover, there was nothing in the room which would be likely to affect any one especially sensitive to hypnotic influence. Mrs. Drysdale, it is true, stood facing the lamp, and, if its flames had been particularly bright and steady, there* would have been strong reason for suspecting its agency, but the light was shaded and its soft glow could have no influence on the subject one way or another. Plainly, then, the catalepsy was self-induced the direct result of an auto-sugges tion, the secret of which is possessed by many people, notably the fakirs of India and other countries in the East. One thing alone militated against this conclusion. The normal expression of a cataleptic is tranquillity itself, indicating com- SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS plete rest of the physical functions despite the usual muscular rigidity. But Mrs. Drysdale s face revealed a desperate mental anxiety, and the attitude of her body indicated intense nervous strain. In order to observe this peculiar phase to better advantage I closed the door, moved across the room, and was about to lay my medicine case on a chair when the sound of a voice startled me into dropping it on the floor. "Please don t step on his body, doctor." Involuntarily I glanced at the floor, and, at the same instant, realized that this was the first time I had ever heard a hypnotic speak, except in an swer to a suggestion. Had I uttered a word of any kind it would have been simple to adduce some explanation, for even a meaningless noise has been known to awake response from a subject endeavoring to interpret. But I had not even thought of anything remotely connected with "a body on the floor," and the pattern of the carpet was too vague to suggest anything of the sort. Of course I was aware that cataleptics are keenly conscious of their immediate surroundings, and my medical satchel might have suggested the title, "doctor." The inexplicable fact was that she should have spoken at all. Thinking that possi- SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS bly I had dropped the bag before she spoke, and that her meaningless remark might have been an effort to reply to the sound of something falling on the floor, I picked up the case, laid it on a chair, and followed up the action with a ques tion. "Now, where is the body, Mrs. Drysdalel" I asked. "Here at my feet," was the startling answer. Instinctively my eyes once more sought the floor, and I experienced an uncomfortably shiv ery sensation as I studied the gray-green carpet. Then I smiled at my susceptibility and began wondering how long the woman had been in the condition in which I found her. If the spell were allowed to continue indefinitely, the result might be injurious, but my professional curiosity was too fully aroused to admit of interference, and I in stantly made trial of a direct suggestion. "You are stooping, Mrs. Drysdale," I an nounced aloud. "Draw yourself up to your full height." "No," she answered, quietly "I dare not." To say that I was amazed at the answer but mildly expresses my feeling. She had not only re fused to follow my positive suggestion, but she had also resisted it with an equally positive, if in- [115] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS scrutable, reason, a result absolutely foreign to my not inconsiderable experience. She was cer tainly an abnormal subject, and I instinctively prayed that the local physician would not arrive until I had had sufficient opportunity to observe and record all the peculiar manifestations of the case. While carefully noting all the foregoing details in my memorandum book I determined to attempt to control my patient by the usual hypnotic processes, and resolved, if these should fail, to test some unproved theories suggested in my new treatise. I therefore moved the lamp into a favorable position, and, pushing back the table, seated my self on the edge so that my eyes would be on an exact level with my subject s. Then I concen trated my gaze on her staring and apparently un seeing eyes. I do not claim to be a hypnotist, as the word is generally understood, but all persons possess the faculty to a greater or less degree, and almost all modern physicians practise it, consciously or un consciously. I had frequently tested myself in this regard, but I had never exerted my full powers on any one and was not a little anxious to see what I could do with this particular subject. To my intense surprise, however, I no sooner SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS met Mrs. Drysdale s gaze than I experienced a complete loss of command which was almost in stantly followed by a sinking feeling impossible to describe. For a few seconds I fought against this weakness, but its influence was overpowering, and I yielded with a grateful relief such as usually accompanies the cessation of intense physical pain. This, in turn, was followed by a feeling of serene content and blissful composure. But these sensations were scarcely >recorlded Before my eyes encountered a scene which instantly put an end to all further self-consciousness and made me strain every nerve in the effort of comprehen sion. I found myself gazing into a bare and dilapi dated room, which, even in its ruin and decay, suggested the living room of some deserted back woods cabin. The wide entrance door had rotted from its hinges and had fallen inside, and in the dim moonlight I could distinguish grasses grow ing close to the threshold, and, beyond them, dark fir trees moving with the wind. The glass of the window panes was broken and had been patched with newspapers, bits of which were still sticking to the casings. The flooring was stained and rot ting, and the ceiling warped and sagging. No sign of furniture was anywhere apparent, but, SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS stored in the corner, I saw several barrels, bags, and boxes, before which stood a rude sort of fence or gate. Close beside this, on the rough-boarded and decaying floor, lay the body of a man, face downward. At first I thought he was dead, but almost at the moment my eyes fell upon him he turned upon his side and I saw that he was sleep ing. The next movement he made revealed his face, and it was without shock or even surprise, that I recognized young Albert Drysdale. He wore a blue flannel shirt, brown canvas trousers, army gaiters, and a coat of yellowish leather, showing an edge of red flannel lining. Under his head lay a cloth cap, and against the wall, in a corner, rested his rifle and hunting knife. But my eyes had no sooner noted these details than they again sought the door as if drawn there by some compelling force. Then, for the first time, I was made aware of the presence of two other men beside the sleeper. These men were roughly dressed, and their faces bespoke half-breed In dians of the lowest and most vicious type. They advanced stealthily upon young Drysdale, crawl ing toward him on their hands and knees, and proceeded to rifle his pockets with dexterous cun ning and rapidity. This done, one of them drew a hunting knife and aimed it at the sleeper s [us] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS heart, but his companion seized his arm, and, threatening him with fierce gestures, dragged him from the room and out into the screen of trees. For some minutes I watched the heavy breathing of the sleeper with undiminished apprehension, and then, suddenly, a shadow fell across the path of moonlight on the floor, and to my horror I de tected the murderous half-breed again stealing through the doorway toward his victim. But, on entering, the fellow rose to his full height and crossed the room, his moccasined feet making no sound. He stopped at what I had taken to be a gate guarding the assortment of bags and barrels in the corner, and examined it closely, touching it with his hand. Then, as he worked at it, I recog nized the contrivance as a deadfall, or trap for bears, so arranged that an immense beam would be dislodged by the slightest touch of the slender posts which supported it, and the victim crushed beneath its weight. His investigations ended, the half-breed knelt beside young Drysdale and listened to his breath ing. Then he drew him gently along the floor un til he had placed him, still sleeping, within the murderous trap, in such a position that his slight est movement would release the fatal beam. I saw the expression of hatred and revengeful SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS triumph on the murderer s face, but how he left the cabin I cannot say, for the instant I compre hended his design my whole thought concentrated upon one object, to keep young Drysdale in exactly the position he then occupied. If he should roll an inch to the right or to the left, the trap would be sprung and his death would be inevitable. He must remain absolutely rigid. I instinctively willed this, but I also felt some strong support behind my effort which inspired me with indomitable confidence that nothing could withstand my power. Then, as I held the sleeper in the rigidity of death, it was borne in upon me that I must wake him without releasing his mus cles, and I did it. He opened his eyes, and stared up at the beam overhanging him, noted the construction of the trap, but made no movement of any kind. Then, once more, I was conscious of a compelling influence upon me, and I willed that the man should worm himself along the floor upon a certain line designated in my mind. It was a feat requiring great muscular effort, and the devia tion of an inch would mean death. But it was possible and, if accomplished, it would enable Drysdale to escape from the trap without spring ing it. Never before or since have I experienced anything like the mental tension and physical [120] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS strain of those interminable moments as he moved, hairbreadth by hairbreadth, until there was only a yard between him and safety. Then, suddenly, something in my head seemed to burst, and, at the same instant, Drysdale s sleeve brushed one of the supporting posts, and the beam drove straight for his head, suddenly swerved, as if it had met some slight but deflecting ob struction, and crashed through the rotting floor with an upward flight of splinters. With the thud of the deadfall the scene in stantly disappeared and I found myself leaning against the edge of the center table, gazing down at Mrs. Drysdale, who was lying at my feet. I have had many conversations with Mrs. Drysdale since that night, but, though her story corroborates my experience in almost every par ticular, I have received but little real enlighten ment from her testimony. She recalls being domi nated by a strong premonition of her son s im pending danger, which excluded all other thought and gradually took shape in the scene we both witnessed. She likewise remembers calling some one to her aid at the moment of extreme peril. She further asserts that her summons was an swered by a strong sustaining force which lent [121] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS confidence and power to her mental effort. But she has no memory of having influenced me in any way, nor has she any recollection of ever hav ing seen me previous to the moment she recovered consciousness. What I have learned from young Drysdale also affords valuable corroboration of the essential facts, but it does not explain them. He reports a quarrel with one of his half-breed guides in the course of which a blow was struck, and relates that the men abandoned him in the wilds of Canada. His subsequent wanderings led him at night to a deserted cabin, used by some woods men for storing provisions. By accident, he slept under a deadfall set in the ground floor of the cabin to protect the stores from bears. He re gards his escape as miraculous, but can find little to support his mother s and my version of the affair, except the loss of his money, which he at tributes to carelessness. Thus, all the important questions remain open for scientific investigation and answer. Assuming that the boy s mother hypnotized me, was the mental picture transferred from her brain to mine*? And, if so, did she exert her, power upon me to exert mine on her son? Or did I do this independently? Again. Was Albert s safety [122] SUBMITTED ON THE FACTS insured only by our cooperation, or would her power alone have sufficed? She can answer none of these queries. But, of course, her firm conviction that she could not have saved the boy unaided is entitled to no weight whatsoever from a scientific point of view. There remains to report only the opinion of the local surgeon, who subsequently attended her. He testifies that the bruise which he found on her shoulder could not possibly have been caused by her fall when she collapsed on the carpeted floor of her room, A conclusion in which I concur. IX THE PERSONAL EQUATION THE senior partner of Ballister & Beck was prejudiced against Creighton from the start. The proposed salesman not only wore gloves and a stylish scarf, but his trou sers were carefully creased down the middle. There were other reasons for Mr. Ballister s un favorable impressions, but they were covered by the general accusation that the applicant dressed too well. The junior partner did not attempt to combat his associate s prejudice, but there was a position open, and his friend Creighton wanted work and wanted it badly. "Suppose you continue to handle the sellers without gloves and let Creighton wait on the buyers with them," he suggested, smilingly. "But the man s had no experience," his asso ciate objected. Mr. Beck admitted this. "But he used to play a mighty good game of poker," he added, reflectively. [124] THE PERSONAL EQUATION "A gambler, eh? sniffed Mr. Ballister. "I thought as much. A drinker, too, I suppose?" "Not at all. He neither drinks nor smokes, and the very sight of a tobacco-chewer makes him sick. No he s a clean fellow all the way through and I think we ought to give him a chance." The junior partner wisely refrained from push ing his protege s claims further for the time being, and about a week later Mr. Ballister consented that Creighton be taken on trial. The clerical force of Ballister & Beck took its cue from the head of the house in the matter of personal attire, and the newcomer looked like a fashion-plate among his fellow clerks. Even Mr. Beck, the best-dressed man in the house, felt shabby and untidy beside his immaculate subor dinate. Not only were his clothes superior in cut, workmanship, and material, but Creighton s way of wearing them was distinguished, and he al ways looked as clean and comfortable as though he had just emerged from his bath and the hands of a valet. Mr. Beck, covertly studying the man in his new surroundings, silently confessed that his partner was probably right, and that Creighton was too nice, too delicate too fastidious for practical purposes. He spoke almost timidly of him to THE PERSONAL EQUATION Mr. Ballister on the morning of his arrival, sug gesting that he be assigned to some easy duty until he had learned the ropes. "Not a bit of it!" growled the old gentleman. "Give him the hardest thing we have. If he s no good he ll quit right away and we won t have wasted time in teaching him. If he s worth any thing he ll stick it out and the rest 11 come easy. Start him on Coulson." "Coulson!" exclaimed the junior. "We might as well discharge him at once. We never had a salesman whom Coulson couldn t shave to the bleeding-point. He d simply eat up a tenderfoot like Creighton, and take a good big bite out of us in the bargain/ 5 "Not if you limit the price. Let your man tackle the job, anyway. If he s going to tuck his tail between his legs, the sooner we know it the better. Besides, we ought to have offered Coul son long ago." "Very well, sir. I suppose our low figure for him is seventy-eight, isn t it?" "I suppose so. We ought to get eighty this year, and we d do it too if we had a decent sales man in the place. There isn t much stuff on the market." The junior partner decided to say as little as THE PERSONAL EQUATION possible to Creighton about his coming experience. There was no use in frightening the novice before he began. Therefore he merely advised him that Coulson was the most important out-of-town buyer of Kopec gums in the market that the low price to him was seventy-eight, and that he was well, he was a trifle close at times close and er difficult. Mr. Beck further explained the gen eral condition of the Kopec market, emphasizing all the bull points, until the new salesman began to wonder why his firm wanted to sell at all with such a certainty of higher prices later in the year. The reasons for the expected rise, however, became somewhat jumbled in Creighton s mind, and before he arrived at his destination the only things he was sure of were that the low price was seventy-eight and that he was commissioned to sell merchandise a somewhat prosaic employment, but still not without an element of sporting in terest. The exterior of the building occupied by Coul son & Son was unpretentious, and the interior was dingy and uninviting. A number of seedy-looking clerks were huddled together in a bare and dirty pen formed of cheap wood partitions painted a sickly kitchen yellow. Everything about the place disgusted the fastidious Creighton to the core, and THE PERSONAL EQUATION he could scarcely believe that he was in the right office. But being reassured on this point by an ansemic office-boy sitting near the door, he in quired for Mr. Coulson and laid a visiting-card upon the youngster s desk. The boy looked at it indifferently for a moment, dropped it into the spittoon beside him, and jerked his thumb toward a door in the rear partition without lifting his eyes from the soiled novel he was perusing. Creighton felt a strong inclination to shake some manners into the absorbed reader, but restrained himself and knocked at the indicated door. Re ceiving no answer, he at last pushed it open and found himself in the private office of the firm. At a hacked and ink-stained deal table sat a corpulent, coarse-featured individual of about sixty, with a close-cropped, grizzled beard and mustache, and a large wen on the side of his big nose. His costume consisted of baggy blue trous ers, white socks, low shoes, and a linen shirt with out collar or cuffs. He wore neither coat nor waistcoat, and his spotted and dirty starched shirt bulged up alarmingly from his ponderous waist band with its overhanging roll of fat. At a desk in the corner of the disordered room sat the younger Coulson, the prototype of the head of the THE PERSONAL EQUATION house in feature and form, and obviously an imi tator in the matter of undress. The elder Coulson regarded the visitor with silent curiosity as he stated his errand, studying him from his patent-leather shoes to his carefully brushed hair, as though he were some freak of nature. Then he exchanged a wondering glance with his son, and resumed his inspection from the head downward, pausing fascinated by Creigh- ton s spotless gloves. At last he wiped away a smile with a slow movement of a big, puffy hand, rose heavily from his chair, and without taking his eyes from the salesman climbed to a high stool and perched there like a bloated bullfrog squat ting on a fence-post. The son shoved his chair back, and crossing his ponderous legs, also gazed silently at Creighton, who, having explained his business, was at a loss for further conversation. At last the elder man turned his back on the sales man, peered thoughtfully at the high rear win dows, through which the shipping of the harbor was plainly visible, and broke the silence. "I guess we ain t in the market for Kopec this year," he began, lugubriously. "I reckon there ain t no money in em any more. But sit down, young fellow" he waved his hand toward a kit chen chair, which Creighton accepted. [129] THE PERSONAL EQUATION "No, sir," he continued, sadly. "We had to pay sixty-nine or seventy for the last lot didn t we, Tom?" "Sixty-nine and a half," prompted the son from his corner. "So we done some study in to wrastle along without em," continued Coulson senior, "and we got things pretty nigh fixed." "As good as fixed," chorused Tom. "In that case," interposed Creighton, rising as he spoke, "there s no use in wasting your time." He was beginning to resent the bearing of these vulgar creatures, and wanted to have done with them at the earliest possible moment. Coulson and his son exchanged another mean ing glance, but the old man s gaze again centred on the moving panorama of the harbor as he drawled : "Don t be in a hurry young feller. It ain t, sociable. Kopec don t keep you so all-fired busy, I expect." "It does this year," observed Creighton, truth fully. "That so? What s new in it?" Creighton was inclined to say that he was, but efrained. "I expect your process for getting along with- [130] THE PERSONAL EQUATION out it is the newest thing, Mr. Coulson," he an swered, quietly. The old man half turned on his high perch to gaze at the speaker with new interest. There was just a possibility that this fashion-plate dude was not such a fool as he looked. A long pause ensued, and Creighton sought re lief from his hideous surroundings by gazing out of the long factory-like windows, each of which framed a picture whose beauty ministered to his artistic sensibilities. Was it possible that the great hulk on the stool saw anything of the won derful colors, lights, and shadows of the river and the river craft at which he was stupidly staring 4 ? . . . No, that flabby, perspiring personality blot ting the scene had no soul above Kopec gum! ... It was disgusting to have to treat with such people at all. . . . They should never buy a pound from him if he were Ballister and Beck ! "What you gettin for it now ?" Coulson had to repeat his question before he at tracted the salesman s attention. "I haven t offered any this year yet," he an swered, evasively. "Prices stiffening, eh? "Never known anything like it." "What s the reason? [130 THE PERSONAL EQUATION Creighton vaguely recalled Mr. Beck s refer ences to floods, famine, and pestilence, but they sounded too much like "battle, murder and sudden death," of the Litany, so he cast his teaching to the winds. "I really can t say;" he answered, truthfully, 1 except that there s an increased demand and a diminished supply." Coulson spat reflectively at the cuspidor and barely ringed it. "Hog!" muttered Creighton to himself as he edged his chair away. "I thought maybe/ the old man went on, slowly shifting his tobacco quid into his other cheek "I thought maybe there might be another flood same s last year." Creighton shook his head. "I think not," he answered. "It was the penter-bug year before last. Weren t it the penter-bug, Tom, that made the short sup ply?" Mr. Coulson continued, gravely. "Yes, sir penter-bug. They had em bad/ "Sure tain t them, sonny?" Mr. Coulson s face was as solemn as his in quiry but Creighton was equally serious. "I haven t heard of the penter-bug this year," he answered, gravely. THE PERSONAL EQUATION "Well, what s offerin"?" Coulson again made trial of the receptacle on the floor, but this time missed it altogether. "Beast!" shuddered Creighton, drawing in his legs. Coulson had ceased to be merely offensive to him. He was loathsome, repellent nause ating. "Little or nothing," he answered aloud. "If he does that again I ll leave the place!" he added, mentally. "Urn," reflected Mr. Coulson. "Good we don t want none. But, come to think of it, we may need a case or two until we get the new process cutered up. How much ll we take, Tom ?" "Don t need none," asserted Tom, with prompt ness. "Not an ounce." "Reckon you re right," commented the head of the house, "but if the stuff s marketable twon t do no harm to have a pound or two if we have to lay off on t other process for a while." "We won t have no need to lay off, and the stuff ll only clutter us up," growled Tom. "Guess you re right, boy, but I m gettin old an conservative, and this young feller s been so perlite an informin I hate to send him away empty-handed. What price for two cases, son?" [133] THE PERSONAL EQUATION Coulson shot twice at his floor target in rapid succession before Creighton could reply. "We don t deal in odd lots this year," he an swered with outward firmness and an inward shudder. Coulson started to smile, but contented himself with a nod of interested receptivity. "Well, what s askin for full lots ?" he inquired, carelessly, ranging his target into position. "Every time he does it," shrieked Creighton s thought, "I ll raise the price, if I lose my job!" Then aloud he queried, "Car lots ?" and moved discreetly out of range. "Yep!" Coulson leaned menacingly forward as he an swered, and Creighton silently quoted "Eighty!" as he averted his gaze in disgust. "Car lots?" he repeated, reflectively. "Spot or future?" Coulson illustrated his answer "Spot!" "Not under eighty-one!" resolved Creighton, with a shudder. "If the quantity were large," he began, slowly, "we might " He hesitated. "Do it if you dare !" he mentally challenged. "Might make a concession, maybe?" prompted Coulson, with an indulgent smile. [134] THE PERSONAL EQUATION "No we might not be able to deliver at any price," the ex-poker-player answered. "Sho!" "Tang!" went the cuspidor. "Eighty-two!" decided Creighton, sternly, to himself. "Well, let s say/ Coulson began "let s say" he paused and looked reflectively at the floor. "Better not better not!" threatened Creigh- ton s thought as he watched the movement. "Let s say ten cars," concluded the old man, with a well-directed deluge. "Eighty-three," answered Creighton, firmly. "Swine!" he whispered, fiercely, under his breath. Coulson gave a short laugh, slowly descended from his perch, took the quid from his mouth, and threw it into the waste-paper basket. "You can send us two cases, young feller, at seventy-eight. Not cause we need em, but for sake of old times," he announced, as he reseated himself at the table. "Sorry, Mr. Coulson, but car lots at eighty- three are the lowest figures to-day." "Then we ll wait for to-morrow." Coulson s expression of amusement altered for the worse as he jerked out his tobacco-pouch. [135] THE PERSONAL EQUATION "I can t keep the offer open," warned Creigh- ton. The old man eyed his imperturbable visitor with rapidly increasing wrath. "I m busy to-day, young gentleman, an I shall be to-morrow," he growled in an ugly tone. "You re new and young, and you were kind of amusin for a while. But the jokin s over. If you don t know who you re dealin with you oughtn t to be sent here. If you do know quit foolin and get down to business." Mr. Coulson angrily plucked a bunch of to bacco from his pouch as he spoke, and Creighton moved toward the door. "My business is over, Mr. Coulson," he an nounced. "I m sorry I can t leave our offer open, but " "You can t leave here too quick, you dressed- up jackanapes!" the old man burst out. "You re too smart for this business, and I ll assist you to get out of it. If you come up here thinkin you can dictate to us, you want to think again unless it strains you too much. I ll telegraph your firm to-night that I ll import my own Kopec hereafter and be damned to them, unless you ve got brains enough to pass the word yourself." [136] THE PERSONAL EQUATION "I m not a messenger!" retorted Creighton, with dignity, as he pulled on his gloves. "You re an ass!" roared the old man. "No light-weight dude can bluff this firm and if " The sentence ended in a mumble as he stuffed a fresh quid into his mouth. "If he begins again before I leave," Creighton mentally determined, "I ll resign rather than sell the beast at all." But the customer let him go with a few more threats, which Qreighton blandly answered by saying he would call next day. Coulson & Son s telegram to Ballister & Beck offering seventy-eight for ten car-lots of Kopec was received by the junior partner, who merely answered that their repesentative was in the neigh borhood and would call. Then came a telegram complaining of Creighton and threatening impor tations. Telegrams, however, were not the cus tom with Coulson & Son, and their haste indicated that their present needs were urgent. Mr. Beck, therefore, replied that the matter was in Creigh- ton s hands and that he had full authority. Two days later the new salesman returned with an order for twenty-five car-lots at eighty-three. The sale was unprecedented, but the man did not [137] THE PERSONAL EQUATION seem to realize his achievement, and was unac countably chary of details. "I thought he was the right sort/ observed Mr. Beck to his associate, "but I admit I didn t think he could tackle old man Coulson. "They must have had a hot fight," Mr. Bal- lister reflected. "Creighton says it was only a spat," answered the junior partner. [138] X IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY EVERY man on the troopship felt something of a thrill as he listened to the hoarse, al most savage cheering of the throngs gath ered to watch the embarkation of the Battalion of the C. I. V. s. The roar of voices struck the vessel s side in great waves of sound, but there was one man at least who could not join his comrades in the answering cheers. Had Corporal Saunders been of a little a very little different fibre, his patriotism would have expended itself in moist-eyed enthusiasm at the music halls. As it was he stood upon the deck of a troopship, hat in hand, glowing with a reveren tial awe such as he had often felt when the colors were saluted or the national anthem played. It was not until the steamer had glided from her moorings and the cheers were reaching her in fiercer but fainter volleys of encouragement and godspeed that Saunders awoke to what was going on about him. Then he leaped upon the rail [139] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY and yelled with all his might at the black mass upon the dock. John Saunders was a simple-minded fellow not very capable, perhaps, and not very command ing but his enthusiasm and earnestness had car ried weight and made him a corporal in the bat talion. What he lacked as a disciplinarian he made up by general popularity, for the men liked him and easily accepted his limited authority. As one of the squad put it, " E s a bit of a muff, is Saunders, but yer can t elp likin J im." Once in South Africa, however, troubles rained thick and fast on Corporal Saunders, C.I.V. They began with the opening engagement when Saun ders picked up the first man who fell and carried him to the rear. For this offense he was promptly reduced to the ranks. But Saunders made no complaint and answered all expressions of sympathy by admitting that what he had done was against good discipline and deserved censure. But it was only a day or two after his reduction that an officer located Private Saunders lying be hind a rock a hundred yards back of the firing line. He could get a better elevation there he [140] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY explained. With an oath the officer ordered him to the front. "Mark that man!" he said to the sergeant, as Saunders crawled in among his prostrate com rades. "He s been trying to get a better eleva tion a hundred yards back. If he tries it again ?? The speaker stopped suddenly as though listen ing, turned his head and fell crashing down upon Saunders outstretched form. The private extri cated himself and glanced at the officer s face. A thin trickle of blood was flowing from a tiny wound in the forehead between the eyes. Saunders placed his hand under the supine head. With a shriek he pulled it out dripping with blood. "Shut your mouth, blast yer!" muttered the man next him. "Ain t yer satisfied with avin im stand up an show the beggars where we are without a ollering at em 4 ?" He rolled the body over as he spoke and the shocking wound in the back of the head showed where the Mauser bullet had made its frightful exit. But war had already made these men famil iar with death and callous to its most horrid forms. They lay prostrate behind the low en trenchment, makin^ no sound lest it betray their IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY presence to the watchful enemy. But the dead officer had already done that, and almost instantly a shower of bullets began to drop on the mound before them, scattering the dirt or ricochetting on the rocks. The men only pressed their faces closer into the earth and lay there in silence, staring into one another s faces or at the backs of each other s heads. There was another shower of bullets, then a few scattering shots and then silence again. For ten minutes no one stirred or spoke. Then a sergeant wiped the mud from his eyes. "O, I say, Saunders!" he began without rais ing his head from the ground, "If yer still keen on gettin th V.C., me man, just tyke is body back." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the corpse. Saunders flushed as the men near him snickered, but made no reply. Then two or three other men turned their heads to listen, and the sergeant con tinued : "But don t forget to come back yourself this time, me ero. Yer don t fancy them little singin pills ? Well e don t mind em, e s bullet proof, e is, and you re gun-shy, ain t yer*?" A general laugh greeted this somewhat grisly jest, but Saunders made no answer, lying still as the stiffening corpse behind him. A stray bullet [142] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY topped the mound just above his head and set the earth flowing in little rivulets towards his crim soned face, which blanched as the hot dust touched it. Thus he crouched and burrowed till evening came. Just before the next engagement Saunders cut one of his fingers with a can-opener and asked the surgeon to detail him to camp duty. Then he began to be the general butt of the company. "As big as Saunders wound," was a saying of every tent and "Saunders rear elevation" the jest of every rifle. Saunders took it all good-naturedly, laughing weakly at the oft-repeated jests and al most morbidly anxious to be the first to see the point of any new shaft of wit. "O, I say, that is a ripper !" he cried as a Canadian introduced a new American drink as "a regular Saunders shake." Indeed, so meekly did he receive the torrent of ridicule that the fun of playing upon him soon palled. But the thing utterly ceased to be a joke when the ambulance corps picked up Saunders a few yards in front of the trenches from which his regiment had charged, and the surgeon declared there was absolutely nothing the matter with the man but sheer fright. Then his comrades set to in earnest and gave him no peace day or night. Youngsters half his size slapped his face, and [143] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY giants twice his weight knocked him down when he attempted to retaliate. The word was passed from company to company and from regiment to regiment. Many of his persecutors were men he had never seen before, but ever} one seemed to know and have a shy at the coward. Men sprang upon him when he slept and tossed him in his blankets. Men lay in wait behind boulders and in thickets, springing forth and startling him with yells. Men crept up behind him and rolled him on the earth, threatening him with their pistols till he ate dirt or grovelled for their amusement. Against all this, not one word of protest did John Saunders utter. In his heart he knew he was a coward and prayed that these things might cure him. But resolve as he might, at the very next oppor tunity the soul of the man shrivelled within him and he skulked and lied lied even to himself. At times there would be lulls in the fierce fight ing, and during these days he would nurse back something of the old feeling which had inspired him on the troopship. Then he would draw him self up and salute the flag with all the solemnity of a new oath of allegiance. It was after one of these respites that he man aged to get to the firing line with no visible signs [144] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY of fear. But his courage failed at the bayonet charge and he fell upon the ground feigning wounds. Nothing seemed to make any difference, neither honor nor disgrace, nor love of country, nor love of friends nor love of self. He was a physical coward with insufficient will power to conquer his weakness. Finally one day in a craze of fear he again feigned injury and this time crept under the body of a fallen comrade to protect his own carcass from stray bullets. Then the men stopped playing practical jokes and "sent him to Coventry. 55 Not a word was spoken to him except by way of orders. He was assigned to the hardest work the dirtiest jobs the longest hours of labor. At meal times when he took his place in line he would be ejected without a word, but with every sign of contempt. It was in a protracted period of inactivity, dur ing which Saunders had been slowly coaxing back his self-respect, that he started on one of the soli tary walks which had long been his only form of recreation. No one in camp would associate with him and he was debarred from every kind of sport, so he had taken to walking by himself as far as the limits of an extended camp would permit. For [145] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY a time he followed the turnings of a little stream and then sat down by its bank. As he did so he noticed, lying on the ground near him, a rough coat and hat and a bandolier similar to that worn by the Boers. The thought struck him that these would be looked upon as trophies by his com rades. Possibly he might aid in reinstating him self in their esteem by making presents of this booty to certain leaders of opinion. He walked to the place where the things lay, picked up the dirty coat and hat, and slinging the bandolier across his shoulders, lay down beside the stream. He was growing desperate with loneliness. How much longer could he stand the utter isola tion without going mad *? Was he the only coward in the regiment, or the only one who could not conceal it*? He had heard men curse the generals, the army, the government, the war even the uni form they were wearing the country they were serving. He could never do that ! In his bitterest moments he respected the very name of England. In his best, he worshipped it. To him the flag was a living thing toward which his spirit leaped even when his body shrank into shameful impo tence. He knew that he loved his country far more than many of his fellows who had done glorious deeds and died glorious deaths in her IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY name. If he could only surprise some of those sneering, callous men into an expression of fear! What encouragement there would be in that ! If he could only do something that looked coura geous what a triumph would be his ! Surely, he could spur himself to some noticeable act. Courage was so common it was difficult to obtain recogni tion for ordinary bravery. But in his case ? He laughed bitterly. The chill of evening warned him that he had stayed later than he should, for he had wandered farther than usual that afternoon, and snatching up the Boer coat and hat he hastened to retrace his steps. At first he was too much occupied with his thoughts to notice how long he had been walk ing, but the gathering darkness soon filled him with alarm lest he had missed his way, and it was with positive relief that he at last saw the smoke of camp fires in the distance. As he hurried forward his attention was sud denly attracted by a group of men, in a small clearing, screened by undergrowth from the road below, but quite exposed from the point at which he was then standing. Doubtless they were the set of gamblers who often gathered in out-of-the-way nooks to play cards and throw dice. A sudden thought struck EH?] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY him and he laughed outright. What if he should give these fellows a taste of practical joking and a bit of a scare? If he were to have any compan ion in cowardice, here was his chance. What if he could succeed in compelling the surrender of the entire group? He slipped on the Boer coat, threw the bando lier over his shoulders, and stuffing his own cap into his uniform pulled the rough hat over his eyes. He would sneak down on those fellows, and armed with a stick for a rifle, order them to throw down their weapons and hold up their hands. Then he would seize the discarded arms and com pel them yes compel them he was desperate enough to shed blood if necessary to march back to camp. Then let them call him a coward if they could? Picking up a straight stick he dropped into the bushes and began crawling toward the group of men. From the moment he left the roadway his quarry ceased to be in view, but he stopped every now and then and listened for the sound of voices. Nearer and nearer he crept, with movements he thought Indian-like in their stealth, and nearer and nearer, but no sound of voices rewarded his efforts. His plan was to reach the edge of the clearing unobserved, make sure of the identity of IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY the men in case they should flee, and then demand their surrender at the muzzle of his dummy rifle. He raised his head and listened. Not a sound was to be heard. He crept forward two or three paces a little more rapidly, looked up again and found himself covered by the rifles of a dozen men. They were a rough-looking lot. Some of them were without coats and some without hats, but such uniform as they did wear was regulation khaki. A glance told him he knew none of the party. Doubtless they were some of Torrington s Scouts. But the hope that they might not know him was instantly abandoned as he remembered how many times it had already deluded him. For a few heart-beats the group of soldiers and the practical joker stared at one another in silence. Then instinctively Saunders turned to his old refuge of good nature. "O, I say, you fellows," he began, "this is a rum go! I rather thought I d have you dancin this time but I fancy I can op a bit myself? Eh, 4 ?" No one answered this jquery, and Saunders continued : "Let s tumble back to camp, mates, an ave a wet on it fore roll-call. I m dry wot with walkin and crawlin through these bloomin bushes and, [149] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY my eye! but I J ave torn myself creepin so still- like " "Git up!" ordered one of the men sharply. "All right, matey, no hoffense, I ope." Git up, I said !" exclaimed the man again, "an* hold your hands up while yer do ut!" The prisoner raised his hands and inserting his thumb in his ears wriggled the free fingers in a manner but little suggestive of fear or respect. Continuing this he rose slowly to his feet and bringing his heels together saluted the party with a gesture that rested his thumb on the end of his nose. "Quit yur nonsense and tell us yur name," or dered the spokesman. "My name? Roberts, o course! Don t ye recognize your general? But, p raps, yer only acquainted with Gen. French, for you re Irish if I ever card it. The Irish only know French! That s not bad, I fancy. Irish only know French! See?" "Your name, an be spry about ut !" Again the hope that they might not know him overrode his judgment. "Tompkins," he answered, "Robert Tompkins, known to my friends as Bobs." [150] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY "Search him," directed the leader "and sthripe him to th skin, byes." Before he knew what was happening two men fell upon him and began tearing off his clothes, examining each article minutely even his shoes and socks. Only an envelope plainly addressed: "Corporal John Saunders, C.I.V.," rewarded their search. "So ye give false names to us, Corporal," queried the first speaker. " Tis little good twill do ye. Put on yer duds again all except thim," he pointed significantly to the Boer bandolier, coat and hat. One man was left to guard him and the rest of the group retired a few paces where they held an animated discussion. Meanwhile Saunders was thinking rapidly. Whatever happened he would show no fear. He would defy them, and, if they went too far, defend himself. He must come out of this scrape better than he went in. For ten minutes his captors debated and wrangled with considerable heat, and from time to time Saunders caught a few words. "No, Sor! Oi ll not hov ut! . . . Twas no more than they did to ther Boers pathriots in 30" . . . "Tis little Oi care fer thot" . . . "Sure he d not do ut ! Thry him if yer loike. Tis little IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY luck ye ll hov." . . . "Thin the rope fur him." At last one of the men approached. "Now, me boy," he began "sphake truth an twill do ye no harm. Where be the British batheries masked yonder?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder as he spoke. "The same as they were yesterday, the day afore and the day arter, Pat." "Spake better than thot, me lad, if yud live till marnin ! Ye moinde what they do by spoies in the army, me boy*?" Spies! Saunders looked into the face of the speaker for a moment without answering. Then he began to laugh. They were playing at being Boers ! Well, he had played in that game before. This time, however, they wouldn t catch him. "Spies are hanged by the neck until they are dead, and the Lord has mercy on their so-o-ouls !" he chanted, glibly. "Is ut crazy ye are thot ye laugh in death s face, man?" The words were almost a whisper and Saunders instantly stopped laughing. He must appear to take them seriously or lose some of the credit this chance might give him. If he showed them he knew the game, there would be no bravery in not fearing them. IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY "What do you want 4 ?" he asked, gravely. "If ye ll be afther tellin us whot guns the British hov on th lift and where the masked bat teries do be shure Oi think the byes 11 not sthring ye." "Will I betray my friends, you dirty traitors ? Is that what you mean? Won t you and the byes urry back to ell before the devil misses you " The man s face crimsoned, but he laid a trem bling hand on Saunders shoulder and whispered : "Oi m tryin to help ye, lad. If ye don t tell thim, tis swingin ye ll be. There s no coort mar tial here, remimber." A shade of suspicion crossed Saunders mind. What if they should be Boers after all? There were Irish in the Boer army. He had heard of the Irish Brigade. What if *? He would not allow himself the question. He must beat them at their own game. Now was his chance now or never. The man who had been questioning him awaited an answer for a moment, and then step ping back to the group of comrades spoke to them in a low tone. Again the leader approached Saun ders and solemnly addressed him. "Corp ral Saunders, you ve stolen into our lines [153] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY disguised and are a spoy deservin death be all th rules av war. But we spake th same tongue, so if ye ll join th gallant Brigade an give in- formashun accordin , we ll spare yer life and ra- port a foine recruit instid av hangin a spoy." Something in the speaker s voice made Saun- ders heart sink again but only for a moment. This was the same old game, better played that was all. He must rise to the occasion. So he smiled in the speaker s face. "I don t know as I m much use to er Majesty," he answered, slowly, "an I ave me doubts whether she d unt me up, but I can stop the mouth of the mut oo speaks bloody treason to one of er soldiers," and Saunders fist struck his questioner full across the mouth. In an instant he was felled to the ground. For some time he knew nothing, but as his senses slowly returned he heard voices speaking close to him and again he caught a few words. "No, Oi say Oi ll not hov ut! Tis a plucky lad and what the divil s difference does it make to you, O Toole, which way he goes?" The men continued to wrangle, but Saunders ceased listening. The words " Tis a plucky lad" rang in his ears. He had succeeded at last ! Now [154] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY let the game go on ! Nothing could frighten him hereafter. They led him to a tree and he faced their rifles with a generous smile of triumph. "Will ye put up a bit av a prayer, lad?" whis pered one of his guards. "God save the Queen!" responded Saunders. The man laid his rifle on the ground, and pull ing out a handkerchief started to bind the pris oner s eyes. Saunders stopped him with a gesture and addressed the group before him, speaking as gravely as he could. "Are you going to shoot me, mates?" No one answered, but the man by his side nodded and again started to bind his eyes. "O, I say, drop that," interrupted Saunders, pushing him off. "I may be gun-shy, you know, but I m not wantin blinders." "For the luv of Hivin man, hov ye no last requist?" murmured the man in a shaking voice. Saunders looked at him, doubt again assailing his heart. But he crushed it down and answered blithely : " Ave I any last request 4 ? Let me see? No. Yes, I ave a light for my poipe ere. Ave yer a match about yer, Paddy?" The man handed him the match and stepped [155] IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY back. As he struck it a dull volley sounded and Saunders fell to the ground pierced by a dozen bullets. A flag of truce accompanied by four men carry ing a litter approached the British lines. As the answering flag neared the party, the bearers rested the litter on the ground and retired. When the British reached the stretcher they found on it the body of a man to whose breast was pinned a bit of paper bearing these words: "The Irish Brigade have the honor of returning to his friends the body of Corporal Saunders, C.I.V., in recognition of the bravery with which ] ke met death, and as a soldier s tribute to a sol dier who, though an enemy, made his foes forget it in their admiration of the man" Most of those who first read that message laughed and thought no more about it. Some wondered what it meant, and a few solved it as delicious irony. A little later some of the Irish Brigade were captured. Then the paper was sent home to Saunders people. XI A DEBT OF HONOR AN Italian vendor of plaster casts had set up shop on the steps of a vacant house on Fifth Avenue. I had noticed the man before as Chandler and I passed on our morning walk down town, and wondering vaguely what he paid for the privilege of doing business there, I put the thought into a question as we approached. My companion glanced up carelessly at the im provised booth and came to a sudden halt. "Do you see anything good in that lot*?" he asked, disregarding my question and including the Italian s entire collection with a wide sweep of his arm. The peddler rose expectantly from his seat on the top step as we paused, but Chandler motioned him down with a wave of his hand. "Do you see anything good there ?" he re peated. I had no intention of being lured into the ex pression of an off-hand opinion on a question of art. Chandler was only too ready to use my ig- [157] A DEBT OF HONOR norance as a platform for academic utterances and I had been striving for some time to guard my few remaining illusions. So I hunted for an in nocuous phrase as I glanced critically at the little exhibit, vainly trying to remember whether it was the Wrestlers or the Winged Victory one was sup posed to admire, and being sorely tempted to praise the musicianly Cupids or the naked lady with a real looking-glass in her terra-cotta hand, in the hope of discouraging my would-be precep tor. But the experiment was risky and I lacked the courage to attempt it. Finally, however, I hit upon an absolutely barren phrase. "That one over there isn t altogether bad," I ventured cautiously. The statuette I indicated represented a young girl standing erect, her head slightly tilted, her eyes half veiled, her lips smiling, her arms spread in a wide droop with the palms of the hands turned outward the drapery gracefully flowing with the lines of the body, and the whole poise expressing a welcome or a joyous flight. It was roughly done as a study might be but it sug gested a fine work in the making. In fact I thought it remarkable, but I didn t intend to be caught in fault. "It s not altogether bad," I repeated and was [158] A DEBT OF HONOR congratulating myself on having silenced my friend when he turned upon me more in sorrow than in anger. "You miserable Philistine!" he exclaimed. "There isn t a vestige of generosity or courage in all your tribe !" Then he beckoned the Italian and ordered the statuette sent to his rooms without even inquiring the price. The man volunteered this information, however, as he noted his patron s name and ad dress, and Chandler paid him on the spot. "I trust your friend doesn t forget to deliver the goods," I observed, suggestively, as we con tinued up the avenue. "If he wasn t honest he wouldn t be in that business. He d be in some other more question able and lucrative line possibly a competitor of yours or mine." Chandler was evidently in an ugly mood that morning and I thought it just as well to ignore his attack. "What are you going to do with your pur chase^" I inquired before we parted. "I m going to give it to you when you re able to appreciate it," he snapped, and then added over his shoulder, a trifle hopelessly, I thought "This year, next year, sometime, never." A DEBT OF HONOR There is always a grateful lull in Commence ment festivities the night before a university boat race and Crosby, Wellman, Foster, Chandler and I took advantage of it to talk over men and events in a favorite resort of our undergraduate days. In the center of the room stood a round table, carved with initials, monograms and numerals, which looked familiar but which we found unde cipherable. Then we discovered that the top of our table had long since been removed and was hanging from the wall like an immense plaque, its scarred and furrowed face eloquent of a time which thank God seems like yesterday. The room was crowded early in the evening but we five outstayed the undergraduates, who, with the younger Alumni, departed for the campus, where we could hear them cheering something or somebody. Occasionally a belated arrival drifted in and prowled through the house searching for companionship, but except for these stragglers we had the place to ourselves. There was plently to talk about. It was the summer of the Spanish War, and we discussed men and events over the time-honored pewter half-pints, only descending to generalities when personalities were exhausted. We tried to imagine music-mad Stevens as a Captain of En- [160] A DEBT OF HONOR gineers and failed we heard of Melvin as a war correspondent and, on the quality of his fiction, approved the selection we placed Smalley on the quarter-deck of a cruiser and laughed. Then Crosby read us a newspaper clipping reporting the speech of some Spanish official a bit of flowery bombast akin to Favre s Not- a-stone-of -our- for tress not-an-inch-of-our-territories!" "The Yankee cannon [it read] will flame and belch and thunder in vain they will reach us only in reverberation! They cannot touch they cannot obliterate Spanish honor!" Under this was printed: "We can generally hit anything we can see." The humor was characteristically American terse, quiet and unanswerable. Even the printed words had a drawl and twang, and we were still laughing at them when a man entered the room and greeted Chandler with enthusiastic warmth. Chandler responded cordially enough, but I no ticed his momentary hesitation and felt certain that the recognition wasn t mutual. "I can usually recall something about people I ve met," he remarked as the man passed on, "but that friendly bird beats me. I don t remember him at all." [161] A DEBT OF HONOR "And I can t forget him," rejoined Wellman "or rather something about him. His name is Oxley Ephraim Oxley." "Well, who the devil is Ephraim Oxley? de manded Chandler. Wellman laughed. "Now that s just the trouble!" he exclaimed. "If I tell you who he is you ll all think me the smallest, meanest man on earth." "To achieve the superlative in any line is fame," interrupted Foster. "Who s Ephraim Oxley? "He s a man who borrowed ten dollars from me fifteen years ago and never paid it back. He s a first rate fellow, I believe, and I wish to good ness I didn t remember the loan every time we meet." "Apparently it doesn t embarrass him," inter posed Foster. "No, but I should have reminded him of it at the time, instead of charging it up against him all these years. He s a successful business man and not in the least a dead beat, but whenever I meet him I unconsciously calculate the interest on my miserable ten dollars. Of course he forgot the whole transaction long ago." "People shouldn t forget a thing of that sort. A DEBT OF HONOR It s as much a debt of honor as a bet," I objected. "Of course," agreed Chandler, "but perhaps he may remember it some day." "I ll bet you the ten dollars he never does," laughed Wellman. "I never bet," responded Chandler, seriously, "and I ll tell you why. I was reminded of it while we were reading this," he continued, picking up the newspaper clipping which lay upon the table. "There s many a true word spoken in jest and this joke about Spanish honor is a case in point,, I don t believe the average American un derstands the Latin race at all. Any way, I once knew a Spaniard whose sense of honor was altogether too delicate for our perceptions. He was a sculptor named Ramon and I met him when we were fellow students at the Beaux Arts. He was a man of ideas suggestions possibilities a creative genius and an artist, if ever there was one. In Paris he did well as a student almost brilliantly, but he had too much individuality to be a favorite in the ateliers. He was never con tented to sit very long at any one s feet. This man gave him one suggestion, and that one gave him another, but these suggestions became im pulses along his own line toward something he ,was working out for himself, and he never fol- [163] A DEBT OF HONOR lowed any teaching beyond a certain point. The Masters no sooner grew enthusiastic over him than they began to wring their hands in despair. He was untamable. It was a wise man who said The artist is lonely the artisan is gregarious/ and Ramon was lonely desperately lonely in the midst of imitators and moulders. He worked for a couple of years in Paris after finishing his course at the Beaux Arts and then came over here. Thank the Lord I didn t encourage him to come! Of all good seed wasted on stony ground, his was the most hopeless sowing. He had no pa tience with economy in a matter of Art. Specifi cations and restrictions he despised. A work of art must come into being absolutely unhampered/ he used to declare. To impose a condition is to" dispose of Art. It is not possible. That became his constant refrain in the face of the ever present limitations and requirements of the business world and he reiterated it again and again in accents varying from assertion to disgust. Fake work he would not tolerate for an instant, and he could detect it no matter how skilfully it was concealed. He was always reaching out for some big thing some elemental idea/ as he put it, and I con fess I often found his half -formed conceptions more inspiring than the matured performance of A DEBT OF HONOR the recognized Masters, though I continually urged him to limit himself and try for something within reach." " Why why? he would question in his ner vous impulsive manner. I am an artist. I can not do what I know is bad art. It would not be honorable. One day I shall create something for which I need not blush. If must be? Poor old chap ! He felt the God in him, you see." Chandler paused and the far-off sound of cheer ing floated in to us through the open windows. We stared silently at the hieroglyphics of the table top or into the blue cloud of smoke and waited for Chandler to continue. Most of us had felt the God in us at one time or another, I imagine. "I used to abuse the poor devil," Chandler went on, "and call him a dreamer and an incompetent, in the hope of shaming him into beginning at the foot of the ladder. It is you who are not pos sible! I thundered at him one day. You have the delusion of grandeur and sit eating your heart out and stoking your nerves up just because people won t take you on faith. If you d stop smoking you might get enough fresh, invigorating Ameri can air in your lungs to make a practical man of you. But I suppose, if you could do that, you could do other things, I added impatiently. A DEBT OF HONOR " You think I smoke too much? he questioned. " Look at your fingers/ I retorted, laughingly. "They were stained as yellow as a Chinaman s with nicotine, and Ramon examined them criti cally as he inhaled a deep breath of smoke." " You think it hurts my work? he asked, a little anxiously. " It doesn t do you any good, I answered, you re nervous and high strung enough, now, but " You think I could not stop that I have not the will power?" he interrupted, inquiringly. " Repentance oft I swore, but was I sober when I swore/ I quoted. " See ! he exclaimed, suddenly, as he took a long puff on his half-burned cigarette. This is my last smoke till three years, say? "He flicked the stump into the fireplace and the inhaled smoke slowly curled from his nostrils as he spoke. " The last till next time/ I prophesied, jest ingly. " T bet you/ he began I bet you twenty-five twenty-five dollars I smoke not for three years. " " Done/ I answered carelessly." Crosby laughed as Chandler paused. A DEBT OF HONOR "You had to take his word for it," he inter posed. "No, I might have shadowed him in the day time and hired detectives to watch him at night," retorted- Chandler. "Perhaps it was imprudent, but I risked his lying." Crosby cowered behind me chattering in mock terror. "Savage?" he whispered. "Wow!" Chandler s grave face relaxed into a smile. "I saw less and less of Ramon as time went on," he resumed, "but I heard of him in various competitions two of which he won, only to find himself barred by his nationality. Once he re ceived the highest commendation, but his work was rejected as too expensive. All this depressed and discouraged him horribly, but when I heard that he had declined two valuable commissions on the ground that the proposed conditions were incompatible with his idea of an artistic result, I stamped down to his studio, prepared to tell him what I thought of such high flown folly. But face to face with the man I relented. He looked ill, careworn and discouraged to the point of dis gust. When I mildly alluded to the rejected com missions he hunted up the proposals and laid them before me. A DEBT OF HONOR " They do not want art ! he exclaimed. They do not want nature they want so and such many square feet so and such many pounds weight. I must do this and this and that, and not do so or thus or I tell you it is not possible! he burst out. You must have room to spread your idea your conception as it forms you must round it round it out! " "In my heart of hearts I knew he was right. The thing was impossible from his standpoint, and I felt it with the guilty certitude of a hardened compromiser. I made some lame observations about the possibility of adjusting oneself to con ditions without sacrificing the spirit of one s art about the need of submitting to the discipline of practical utility as the price of liberty and the justification of a free hand. But I had no heart in what I said and though he listened, the tired shrug of his shoulders was eloquent. " I cannot/ he asserted wearily. I cannot ! I would as soon I would rather make good statu ettes for street peddling. It would be more honor able. " "I went home somewhat humbled and not a little dissatisfied with myself and my own work as a result of that interview." "Then Ramon disappeared for a while in the [168] A DEBT OF HONOR chaos of the city, and when he emerged again he was shabbier and more hollow-eyed perhaps, but there was a light in his eyes which I had not seen there for many a day and he was buoyantly cheer ful. He had nothing to report in the line of prac tical achievement. He had not received any com missions. As for the competitions, he bothered no more about them. But he had been working up an idea which had occurred to him. Oh what an idea! One study he had made for it. He would show me that some day, perhaps, but the conception was still largely undeveloped. But it was worth while. O, of that he felt sure ! It would take time, of course. But if he could bring it to perfection ! Ah ! it was a living thing a life work! His eyes brightened as he spoke, and I honestly envied the poor fellow his dreams undis turbed by rude intrusions of the work-a-day world, and his ideals undulled by compromises. I referred jokingly to our bet and he showed me his fingers from which the yellow stains had dis appeared." " It is easy now*? I suggested. "He shook his head. " There are times, he admitted, when I would gladly lose my bet if I had the money. "I offered to release him, but he instantly grew [169] A DEBT OF HONOR offended and I covered my retreat with a laugh which turned the tactless proposition into a jest. "About a week after this I received a line from him confessing that he had lost his bet. He was humiliated, he wrote, not to accompany the ad mission with a check. He could not look me in the face. But if I would wait a little a very little while, I should be paid. "I replied in a jesting spirit, begging him not to think of the matter until it was convenient. Then a week slipped by and I wrote asking him to dine with me. His answer came penned in a shaking hand. He could not come ... I would understand. ... he was humiliated. When he had paid his debt of honor . . . but until then I would perceive it was not possible. . . . "I intended to look him up at once, but work piled in upon me and before I realized it another week slipped by. Then one morning I received the check of an art dealer for twenty-five dollars, drawn to my order, and pinned to it was a bit of paper with the scrawl, I am so glad Ramon. "The same day I read of his suicide in a miser able boarding house. I could learn nothing of him there except that he had seemed worried and de jected about something for more than a fortnight. [170] A DEBT OF HONOR After the funeral I went to the art dealer whose check he had sent me. " How did you come to pay Monsieur Ramon this amount ? I asked. "He showed me a little statuette and the mo ment I set eyes on it I knew what had happened. He had sold the rough study of his great idea to pay his bet, and with it went his zest for living. I bought the original and whenever I come across a copy of it I take it off the market. But I don t make any more bets." Another great wave of cheering for something or somebody rolled through the open windows and we listened without moving, striving to catch its meaning in the echo of some name that faintly floated in the air. Then Crosby roused himself and hammered the table with his pewter mug. "Crazy!" he blurted out, as though in answer to some question. "Of course he was crazy crazy as they make em!" "Almost all those Spaniards are," asserted Fos ter. "In fact the whole Latin race is over trained." "I ve no doubt our friend Ephraim Oxley [171] A DEBT OF HONOR would agree with you," Chandler answered quiet ly, as he relit his pipe. "Tell him the story for me," laughed Wellman, smilingly. "It might remind him of something." As we walked back to the campus Chandler and I fell a pace or two behind the others. "I think I m qualified to receive the gift you promised me some time ago," I suggested. "Will you give it me?" Ramon s friend turned to me and nodded si lently almost gratefully, I thought. XII THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN THE night bell had rung three times with out eliciting any response from the back room of Ferris s drug-store where Mr. Jared Hunker, the night clerk, sat engrossed in literary labor. The fourth summons, however, was so prolonged and insistent that Mr. Hunker laid aside his pencil, and, without removing his eyes from his manuscript, groped for the speaking- tube, whistled through it interrogatively and then lifted it to his ear. The reply which reached him was the one word, "Poison!" Startling as this message was it did not arouse Mr. Hunker to any immediate activity. Indeed, his "All right!" muttered in response, was impa tient rather than reassuring, and having uttered it he continued his reading, merely pulling out the table drawer and tipping back his chair to accom modate the movement. At last he reluctantly placed his manuscript in side the drawer, closed and locked it, and put the [173] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN key in his pocket. Then for some seconds he re mained staring dreamily at the blank wall, before he roused himself sufficiently to look at his watch. It was three o clock in the morning, and Mr. Hunker frowned as he rose from his chair and, picking up a soiled collar proceeded to adjust it before a large mirror hanging against the opposite wall. The clean-shaven face reflected in the glass was small, pale and sickly, and its youthful fea tures were painfully insignificant, but Jared Hunker viewed himself with evident compla cency. Even after his toilet was completed he remained staring in the mirror, meditatively strok ing back the long, light yellow hair which poured over his head and down his neck like a sticky stream, slightly overflowing at the collar. He continued lost in self-contemplative delight until the night bell again set up a frantic ringing. The jangling noise made every fine-strung nerve in Jared s little body tingle. He hated the drug store, and despised every detail of its petty trad ing. His soul, winged with artistic aspirations, beat against the walls of his environment and then, exhausted with vain strivings, tenderly nursed its bruised pinions. From ten o clock at night till seven in the morning he lived in a world of his own making, fiercely resenting every interruption [174] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN of his literary labors. Even when he donned a dressing-gown of India shawl pattern and strode with miniature dignity toward the door, in an swer to the bell, he was still treading the courts of fancy, draped in the magic, hero-making mantle of unconquerable self-belief. The shop was dark by comparison with the back room, and Mr. Hunker guided himself across the tiled floor by the pin points of gas behind the big colored bottles which diffused a blurred glow of red and yellow against the plate-glass shop front. Outside the sky was black and the show windows merely mirrored a faint reflection of their own display. But through the glass door Mr. Hunker could distinguish a white face peering closely into the shop and the tall figure of a man leaning heavily against the panel. The appear ance of the visitor, his message and the hour, might well have combined to alarm a timid per son, but Jared Hunker displayed neither nervous ness nor interest. He calmly walked to the gas- jet, screened by the red bottle, turned it up, and unlocking the door opened it so suddenly that the customer pitched forward into the room. "Poison !" he gasped as he lurched toward the nearest chair, and then, as he sank into it, he re- [175] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN peated the word in a weary, almost confidential whisper. Mr. Hunker turned to the gas-jet without glancing at the speaker, carefully lowered it again, and locking the door mechanically tried the handle. "What sort of poison?" he inquired over his shoulder his voice sounding far away, as though he were thinking of something else. "Any kind!" "Any kind? The night clerk repeated the words in a puz zled, absent-minded way and turned toward the customer with his first indication of interest. "A peculiar case," he observed reflectively, "re quiring a universal antidote." The man in the chair made no reply and Jared moved to the counter and leaned against it, lan guidly studying the strange intruder. "I see," he continued meditatively after a pause, "you haven t taken poison you want to buy it. For rats, perhaps?" "For a rat baited by fortune and trapped by fate!" "Ah!" Mr. Hunker smoothed back his yellow hair as [176] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN he uttered the exclamation and his head nodded approvingly. "Baited by fortune and trapped by fate," he quoted dreamily as though speaking to himself. "Good very good excellent. I might have said baited by fame myself, but the other was well turned and doubtless fits the case. So you want to die?" he continued, directly addressing the stranger in the chair. "You ve guessed it, good drug-man. But don t stand there muttering in your sleep about it ! Get me something. Anything quick and sure will do." Mr. Hunker drew himself to his full height, and wrapping his dressing-gown tightly about his body, glared angrily at the speaker, who threw a leg over the arm of his chair and turned away un mindful of any offense. "Good drug-man!" Mr. Hunker s eyes blazed resentment at the figure in the chair. Who was this impudent fellow who presumed to patronize him*? It was preposterous enough that he should have been interrupted in work which would some day liberate him and force the world of letters and the world at large to recognize his genius. But to be insulted by an insolent night prowler was intolerable. He should not escape chastise- [177] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN ment. "Good drug-man" indeed! The irritat ing words infuriated the night clerk as he glow ered at his impassive victim. How could he best enforce a much needed lesson and avenge his dig nity? Physically he was no match for the offend er. But even if he could bodily eject him, the result would be unsatisfactory. The fellow had a mind his phrase about fortune and fate showed that. He must be mentally humbled and made to regret his attempted superiority. He must learn what manner of man he had presumed to patronize. . . . Mr. Hunker opened his lips, but paused in stinctively and continued his scrutiny of the visitor. The man was young scarcely older than Jared himself; his haggard face was handsome despite its disfiguring marks of dissipation, and his general appearance was still refined and gentle. He was carelessly dressed almost shabbily. But there was something in the very recklessness of his attitude which reinforced his tone of supe riority and supported it something which dom inated the little night clerk and made him hesitate with a withering sense of inferiority. "Well? The visitor turned impatiently toward the shop man, but his glance of imperious inquiry changed [178] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN to a smile of puzzled amusement as he noted Mr. Hunker s expression of lofty dignity. "Well? he repeated sharply. "What are we waiting for 4 ?" It was now or never. Yet the right word would not come to Jared s tongue. In another moment the opportunity for crushing this insolent intruder would be gone. He inwardly prayed for inspiration, and as he did so an idea gradually began to shape itself. "Are you a physician or a chemist? he inquired, raising his colorless eyebrows. The young man stared blankly at his ques tioner. "Am I a physician or a chemist?" he repeated wonderingly. "No. If I were I might be con tent to live." The answer ended in a mirthless laugh. "Why do you wish to die? "Because" the speaker paused, laughing bit terly to himself "Why, because I want to do something great," he went on mockingly, "and it is great to do that which shackles accident and bolts up change. No less a man than Shake speare compounded that prescription for immor tality good drug-man." [179] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN Mr. Hunker winced, but he checked the oath which rose to his lips. "Why do you want to die?" he repeated haugh tily. The customer looked at his questioner frown- ingly. "Isn t my reason good enough?" he demanded. "No, of course it isn t," he continued. "You re a druggist not a dreamer and you re entitled to an answer you can comprehend. I want to die because I cannot sleep, and nothing appeals to me so much as the sleep which knows no waking. Hand out the magic, balm, kind ^Esculapius." Mr. Hunker folded his dressing-gown more tightly about him, as though preparing for a spring. "There is a certain risk for both of us in com plying with your orders," he observed, with deadly calmness. "For you as well as me." "Risk?" laughed the young man. "What risk can there be for me ? The perchance of dreams ? I ll stake my hazard on the die and dead folks tell no tales, good drug-man." "Then help yourself !" Mr. Hunker blazed the words over his shoulder as he turned on his heel. "The shelves are full of poison and and other things," he added meaningly. [180] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN The customer swung himself about in his chair. "Hold on !" he protested, rising. "This won t do, you know. I can t tell one drug from another, and I might take a slow poison instead of a quick one, or " "You might draw an emetic. Quite so. Well, nothing venture, nothing win. Wait on yourself, my supercilious wreck, and good morrow or good-bye." The door closed with a triumphant bang, leav ing the customer staring hopelessly at the crowded shelves. For some moments he remained stand ing in the same position. Then he slowly crossed the shop, passed behind the counter and began an examination of the jars and bottles, peering closely at the abbreviated Latin names. Now and again he took down a bottle, removed the stopper and sniffed at the contents; but the labels were confusing or wholly inscrutable, and he hesitated to put his conclusions to the test. A mistake en tailed ludicrous possibilities, too humiliating to admit of risk. There was nothing dignified in a cramp something laughable about a stomach- pump. Even if he recognized laudanum or some grateful sleeping draught, he might render it in effective by taking the wrong quantity, and the next dose he tried might prove an antidote or an [181] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN emetic. The situation was comic ridiculously impossible, and the would-be suicide accepted it with a sobering laugh as he stood staring at the shelves. He had placed himself in an absurd position so absurd that a conceited, underbred clerk had taken advantage of it and made him recognize his own folly. By Jove, he had under estimated the little druggist! Worse he had wantonly insulted him. To plan suicide was a foolish weakness, but to act like a snobbish cad was a crime in a gentleman. He must have been drinking pretty heavily to have so far forgotten himself. There had been a delicious humor in the little chap s handling of the situation and a really masterful recognition of climacteric values. He was entitled to instant and complete reparation for the contemptuous treatment he had received! And he should have it before the offender lost all touch with humor and good-breeding ! The young man turned impulsively to the rear of the shop, knocked at the door, through which the night clerk had made his triumphant exit, and, receiving an inarticulate answer, turned the handle and passed into the back room. Mr. Hunker sat at his table, a green-shaded student-lamp beside his elbow, his pencil moving rapidly over a yellow pad and his attitude in- [182] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN dicating complete preoccupation. The visitor en tered quietly, and, taking a chair near the pre scription-table at the other side of the room, sat down and silently watched the worker. For some moments there was no sound save the purr of pen cil on paper, and then the night clerk paused, pushed back his chair and slowly turned to the intruder. "Aren t you dead yet?" he inquired disdain fully. "Not yet," was the smiling answer. "I ve come to tell you that you ve scored and scored neatly. You re a better man than I am, Gunga Din, and that s not much of a compliment either. It was keen of you to give me the freedom of your poison- arsenal, and though I m not overfond of life, I m glad I ve lived long enough to tell you so." The visitor rose and held out his hand. But Mr. Hunker merely tipped back his chair and nodded. "I didn t suppose you d come to much harm," he observed coolly. "There s a special Providence which looks after your sort." "After drunkards, you mean? Yes, I know. But it wasn t that. I was just afraid to take chances." "Tail end of a spree, I suppose?" THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN "No. I tried to get dead drunk that s all." "What for?" "To find rest. I haven t slept for a week. But the rum merely muddled and weakened me as the sleeping-powders did. I m achingly wide-awake now, but quite sober. I don t know why I am wasting your time telling you all this," he broke off suddenly. "I merely wanted to let you know how well you d scored. Good night." The speaker moved unsteadily toward the door. "What s the matter with you*?" Mr. Hunker growled out the words perfunc torily, but the visitor paused. "Oh, nothing. Nerves overwork, I suppose," he answered. "Overwork eh? What sort of work? "Critical." "Critical?" Mr. Hunker swung his chair toward the door and gazed with astonishment at the sick man swaying against it. "What kind of a critic are you?" he demanded. "A mere literary hack. Now you know why I ve so little use for life." The young man smiled faintly as he steadied himself with a hand on the door-knob. "On the contrary I consider your profession most most interesting." There was an uncon- THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN scious note of deference in Mr. Hunker s tone. "You see, I do a little in that line myself," he continued. "What! You a critic and live in a perfect treasury of relief?" The visitor pointed toward the shop and laughed incredulously. "I am not a critic," Mr. Hunker responded, stiffly. "But I am of the craft, sir the creative side of the profession." The young man caught himself smiling at the pompous speech, and instantly repressed an in clination to laugh. "You write?" he inquired gravely. "A little occasionally." "I sympathize with you. Once upon a time I wrote myself. You contribute to the magazines, I suppose?" "Sometimes. Won t you sit down, sir?" The critic lurched toward the nearest chair, vaguely noting the deferential tone, and Mr. Hunker, complacently smoothing back his yellow hair, settled down to sun himself in the compan ionship of a man who stood, as it were, within the portals of fame. "With what periodical are you associated?" he inquired fraternally. [185] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN "I m one of Copperth wait s people," was the weary answer. "An excellent magazine, sir most excellent. I er " The critic noted the hungry look in his host s face and strove to rise to the occasion. "You ought to send them something," he ven tured. Mr. Hunker beamed. "You see, I have so little time," he began, and then paused in sheer embarrassment. "You do most of your writing at night like this*?" the critic indicated the table and its papers. "I do my creative work between twelve and three; my polishing between three and six," Mr. Hunker vouchsafed confidentially. The guest groaned in spirit. "Your devotion does you credit," he com mented gravely. "And I m sure your work is good," he added weakly. Mr. Hunker glanced eagerly at the speaker, started to say something and then paused awk wardly. "The artist is seldom a good judge of his own creations," he began, striving to put indifference into his tone. "But but I ve a little something here which, if you d like, I ll read to you" he added in a burst of desperate longing. [186] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN The critic bowed his head submissively. Had he not insulted this Philistine*? Ought he not to welcome any opportunity to make the repara tion of a gentleman? "By all means let me hear it," he assented, with a gallant effort at cordiality. For a moment Jared Hunker could scarcely be lieve his ears. For years he had dreamed of the day when he would be sought by the editors and asked to give a reading from his works. Many a time he had pictured the scene to himself even practising a pose and rehearsing his replies against the hour when fame should find him. But he could not recall one of the phrases he had treas ured for the occasion. His hands trembled as he lifted the manuscript from his table drawer and adjusted the lamp- wick to the proper flame. Then, with a glance at his auditor, he began to read in a voice which shook with excitement at first, but grew steadier as he proceeded. The attention of the critic encouraged Mr. Hunker, but he paused perceptibly at the end of the first chapter before accepting a silent invita tion, to continue. Then he instinctively recog nized that the effect of the second scene would be lost without the third, and he read the two as one without a glance at his impassive auditor. THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN Never had his words seemed so nicely chosen; never had the pages read with such smoothness the restful quiet of the room affording a perfect atmosphere. It was impossible to stop at the fourth chapter, and the author hurried on with only a fleeting glance at his listener. The fifth chapter was, however, his most brilliant, and Mr. Hunker plunged into it without so much as an upward glance, fearing some interrupting question or comment which would spoil the whole effect. But this danger behind him, another threatened and urged him on. What if it should be suspect ed that he could not sustain, in the final chapters, the high level he had attempted in those already heard? As long as he held the attention of his critic it was superfluous to ask permission to con tinue. . . . The reading proceeded on its even course, swelled to its climax and came to a close with beads of perspiration glistening on the reader s brow. The author laid his manuscript aside and glanced expectantly at his critical auditor; but the man neither spoke nor moved. Mr. Hunker rose and, lifting the lamp, peered at his haggard visitor. The critic s eyes were closed, but the [188] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN sound of his breathing was plainly audible. The sufferer from insomnia had found a cure. Mr. Hunker flushed angrily as he glared into the sleeper s worn and tired face, and his wrath ful expression turned to a look of malicious hatred. Then he swiftly tiptoed across the room, filled a syringe with ice water and deliberately squirted a stream straight between the slumberer s eyes. The man awoke with a start, stared wildly about him for a moment, and, with a swift glance at the syringe in Hunker s hand, brushed the dripping water from his coat and rose unsteadily. "Your manuscript has unusual merits, sir very unusual," he observed gravely after a slight pause. "I answer for for its acceptance if you care to send it to our place " "But you slept while I read it!" Jared blurted indignantly. "Did you hear a single word?" he demanded in a conflict of resentment and hope. "We do not usually accept manuscripts with out a hearing," answered the critic coldly. "I haven t slept for days," he went on quietly, "but if I ever do sleep again it will not be for minutes but for months. Unless some one should be brutal cad enough to wake me and I know a gentleman when I see him, even if I don t always act like one myself." [189] THE WEAPONS OF A GENTLEMAN The calm, flat tone of statement was defensive. "Your manuscript is, as I say, unusual," he continued. "You will have our check for it to morrow if you send it early in the day. Here is my card. Good-night !" Mr. Hunker followed the speaker into the shop, vainly striving for ian adequate reply, but he reached the entrance without uttering a word and simply bowed his visitor out. Then he mechanically closed the door, and, pressing his face against the glass panel, followed the retreating figure into the darkness. When the light of dawn streaked through the glass it found him still standing there, wondering just what was meant by "the weapons of a gentle man," and why, in his hour of triumph he failed to feel the elation of a victor. fiQo] XIII PEWEE GLADIATOR SOME ONE discovered a few centuries or aeons ago that our virtues and vices are fearfully and wonderfully allied. Fru gality is said to be akin to meanness, firmness to obstinacy, self-reliance to conceit, courage to bru tality and even fear. Those who claim infalli bility in coping with such nice distinctions, how ever, are apt to have their confidence disturbed, and it is with the utmost deference to the opinion of others that I express mine concerning Pewee. I do not pretend to have sounded his depths of feeling or solved the secret of his soul. I merely submit my conclusions for what they are worth. I first observed him on the journey to the Jumping-Off Place, where I was to be marooned for a few midsummer days. The business-like, right-side-up method in which he carried the baby into the car would have attracted any one s at tention, and the pudgy infant sucking its thumb was so ridiculously like him, as it stared at me PEWEE GLADIATOR over his shoulder, that I felt instinctively sorry for the brat. There was nothing childish, how ever, in the words or actions of its sire. His in fantile features, miniature, curly side-whiskers, diminutive body and thin neck, were utterly de ceptive. The fellow was a born commander, an organizing force, an executive genius, a domestic Czar. A large complacent woman, with the figure and intelligence of an overfed setter, followed him into the car. With a sweep of her arm she could have felled him to the floor; with the turn of her wrist she could have wrung his scrawny neck, but he dominated her with a power which mocked mere brute strength, and she awaited his com mands with a foolish smile of wondering admira tion, waddling contentedly in any direction he or dained. The negress who trailed along in the ca pacity of nurse was, however, plainly controlled by fear. She positively chattered every time her employer opened his lips, and under his glance her wildly fluttering lids disclosed only the whites of her eyes. I assumed that this terrified African was the regular attendant of the child, but she was manifestly under waiting orders throughout the entire trip. Pewee I decided that must be his [192] PEWEE GLADIATOR name obviously brooked no interference in the nursery, and he certainly knew his business. He was thorough, too one had to admit it. He felt the infant s feet, he sampled its milk, he superintended the heating of its feeding bottle and he investigated its raiment with a completeness that was only saved from indecency by his profes sional touch. Even when the wobbly atom was rocked into unconsciousness by the negress and lay motionless on her lap, he did not relax his vigi lance. With knit brows, jaw firmly set, lower lip protruded, elbows on the arms of his chair and finger tips united he sat watching over his young as though the eyes of the world were upon him, and he was conscious of embodying in his, small person all the solemnity and responsibility of Parenthood. Gazing at him one felt like a trifler in the presence of a World-Builder. The whole family was well cared for on that trip. I can certify to that. Its every wish was anticipated, and every emergency had apparently been foreseen. At the slightest movement on the part of the sleeping infant, Pewee was instantly on the alert; anxious, thoughtful, inexorable terrible. Every time the baby manifested signs of waking the negress wriggled to the edge of her chair, and keeping her eyes fixed on her employer, [193] PEWEE GLADIATOR swung her knees from side to side with a sicken ing, pendulum-like motion, until the child appar ently succumbed. The treatment seemed inhu man to the inexperienced but it was certainly effective. Not once during all the tiresome jour ney did that baby utter a sound. But had it started howling Pewee would doubtless have in stantly calmed the storm. At the Jumping-Off Place I observed Pewee marshalling his forces, so I was not surprised, on looking from my window the next morning, to discover the collapsible baby carriage I had ob served among his possessions, standing on what passed for a lawn in front of the inn where all the summer residents stay for want of a choice. The baby was apparently taking its dejeuner, for the glitter of a glass bottle protruded from the edge of the carefully adjusted carriage hood and I judged that the negress must be in the immediate vicinity. Curious to see if she looked more human when relieved of Pewee s espionage I stepped to the window, as I adjusted my collar, and glanced down at the steps of the piazza. There sat Pewee-of-the-furrowed-brow mounting guard with the expression of Napoleon at St. Helena "gazing out at the sad and solemn sea." His cos tume, however, was more suggestive of a naval [194] PEWEE GLADIATOR than a military hero, for on his sparse locks perched a blue-black yachting cap, half a size too large, and his spindle legs were encased in white duck trousers. But those nautical effects were somewhat marred by cloth-top, dummy-button boots, a black cutaway coat, a stiff shirt and a white lawn tie. I was still admiring this delight fully varied costume when the little man suddenly rose and stood trembling with either rage or fear, but with determination depicted in every line of his pasty countenance. Then he darted forward and flew, rather than ran, toward the baby car riage. I swung about as he shot by and one glance disclosed the cause of his flight. There, close beside the infant Pewee, stood Ajax, an enormous ram, whose acquaintance I had formed on previous visits to the hostelry. Ajax was a household pet and the mildest old sinner that ever nibbled grass, but his appearance was certainly formidable. One blow of his horns could undoubtedly have shivered the collapsible chariot to splinters, and even at that moment his massive head was toying with the hood shading the sleeping babe. I opened the window and shouted a reassurance to Pewee. But my words were lost upon the little gamecock! Like an avenging fury he flew to the rescue, and falling [195] PEWEE GLADIATOR upon Ajax, he smote him upon the thigh and flank. Wholly unprepared for this spirited on slaught the animal backed briskly away and before it had time to recover from its astonishment Pe- wee clutched its horns with his puny hands, inter posing his feeble person between it and his de fenseless young. For a moment there was a pause and then began a conflict which would have crowded the arena of Rome and thrilled its brutal audiences to fiercest joy. Back, foot by foot, the little man pushed his ponderous adversary, and desperate indeed must have been the exertion that caused the heavy headed animal to yield. Certainly by the time he had gained thirty yards Pewee showed unmistak able signs of distress. His cap was gone, his collar was wilted, his face was purple, and his whole body was trembling under the strain. Yet he never faltered, and for five, ten, even fifteen yards further he forced the fighting. Then he paused from sheer exhaustion, and loosening his grip, started toward the still-sleeping child. But the ram ambled forward, and fearing to lose all he had gained, the little man once more grappled with the foe, and the gladiatorial struggle was renewed. Back, foot by foot and inch by inch, that diminutive Hercules drove the enemy. Again [196] PEWEE GLADIATOR and again he fell to his knees, the wet grass stain ing his white trousers and changing the color of his cloth-topped boots, but he stuck gamely to his desperate work and never once lost ground. Fully fifty yards were covered in the second en counter, but Pewee s strength was ebbing fast and the end was rapidly approaching. At last the critical moment came and with a final burst of energy he gained another five yards, and then re laxing his hold, turned and fled toward the baby carriage. On came the ram and Pewee stumbled, pitching headlong on the grass. But in an in stant he was up again, and snatching the sleeping infant from its nest, sped with it safely to the house. I was still standing in front of the window surveying the field of battle when I heard a pat ter of footsteps passing my door and, opening it, I caught sight of Margaret, the little five year old daughter of mine host, j.ust turning the corner of the stairs. "Margaret," I called out to her. "Run down and look after old Ajax. He s nosing that baby s carriage for the milk bottle." Her only answer was a wild clatter down the stairs, but by the time I reached the window again I saw my warning had come too late. Ajax had [197] PEWEE GLADIATOR located the treasure and was leisurely absorbing its contents with shameless relish. It was only for a moment, however, that he was permitted to in dulge himself in peace. Out from the house rushed the avenging Margaret and, mercilessly batting the offender with her big rag doll, she put him to flight trailing the bottle behind him, its tube gripped firmly in his mouth ! But even this consolation for so ignominious a retreat was de nied him, for the pursuer snatched up the glass receptacle as it slid over the grass and in the struggle for possession which ensued, the tube parted and Ajax s share of the prize was a tantal izing memory of the past. "That s the worst of bottle-fed rams," I inno cently remarked to Pewee, as I joined him at the front door where Margaret was displaying the damaged trophy of her chase. "They never for get." Pewee s face bore the absorbed expression of the resourceful man in the presence of disaster. "It s of no consequence, Sir," he responded with pursed lips and judicially wrinkled brow. "I am provided with a duplicate." It was so bravely spoken I desisted from glanc- [198] PEWEE GLADIATOR ing at the trampled yachting cap in the middle distance, and refrained from noticing the grass- stained pantaloons. I even kept my eyes off his face and thought how pathetic and foolish Ajax looked as he stood staring at us with the broken tube still held between his milk-stained lips. It was that which made me smile. I swear it! Pewee was a hero a gladiator! He didn t know that ram as well as I did. [199] XIV PEREGRINE PICKLE PEREGRINE PICKLE was what he said his name was. I did not believe him. But then I never believed anything he told me except one story which I submit for consider ation, and that may convict me of being too credu lous, for it was Peregrine s manner of telling the tale that carried conviction. Peregrine was a Knight of the Road. When I first encountered him he was seated on a pile of discarded ties near a little railroad station in Southern Wyoming, where I happened to be ma rooned for a few hours as a penalty for missing one of the few locals known to that deserted region. My attention was attracted to the man by the fact that he appeared to be making a fire on top of the lumber pile; but when I drew near I dis covered that his fire was on the ground, well shel tered by his perch, and that he was in the act of eating a meal which he had prepared with a true [200] PEREGRINE PICKLE woodsman s skill. I will not describe the repast which was served in three tomato cans of generous dimensions. A fourth can was suspended from, Peregrine s neck by a greasy string and was, I assume, used ordinarily as a portable drinking cup. On this occasion, however, it was merely an ornament, for one of his other receptacles con tained hot coffee. He tapped the empty can to show me that he was prepared for the unexpected guest. I declined his hospitality with many thanks, but accepted a seat on his throne and pre vailed upon him to share some of my cigars while we talked of "religion, soups and war." I say we talked, but as a matter of fact it was Peregrine who set the conversational pace and easily maintained it throughout our brief acquaint ance. I did not ask his name. One does not com mit that indiscretion with strangers in the more or less unsettled West. He volunteered the in formation and I accepted it at its face value, vaguely wondering if he had ever heard of the famous book by whose alliterative title he chose to be addressed. Possibly he had not only heard of it, but had read it, for he displayed consider able knowledge of classic literature, and his wan derings had apparently brought him into close touch with all sorts and conditions of men. Thus [201] PEREGRINE PICKLE I heard of his association with a camping party of collegians in the Rockies; of his attendance at various public lectures; of his intimacy with a gang of sheep-stealers ; of his friendship with a band of half-breed Indians; of his activity in a local political campaign where bullets rather than ballots carried the day; and of his initiation into the mysteries of a religious revival as practised by certain Eastern missionaries with motor car at tachments. In all of these more or less adventur ous experiences Peregrine invariably figured as the hero, and I thought, as I listened that, with a little touch of Art, his tales might have been made "just as good as true." Omar Khayyam says that a "hair perhaps divides the False and True" and sometimes it is merely the way the words are threaded together on the hair that dis tinguishes literature from lies. Peregrine, as I have said, was not convincing. I did not believe he had ever been a college man ; I doubted his ascendancy among the Indians and his potency in the councils of desperados; I re jected all his claims to political brigandage and discounted everything he had to say concerning his championship of the victims of the get-rich-quick missionaries. But I really think that he had, at one time, been in the Army, and I will tell you [202] PEREGRINE PICKLE why. Or rather I will let Peregrine himself tell you in his own words, as nearly as I can recall them after a lapse of several years. It was at the close of a wholly incredible episode in his alleged life among the half-breeds, that this strange hobo referred to his army experience. His stories melted into one another at the touch of his imag ination or his memory, as moving pictures dissolve and reappear. Therefore the transition did not seem as abrupt as it may sound. "Them fellers claimed they wuz some ways re lated to the Nez Perces" was the conclusion of his Indian yarn. "But they wuz a heap distant re lations to the real Nez Perces I hunted when I wuz Corporal of Troop B, 15th Cavalry. Say, wuz you ever in the Philippines ? No? Why? O jist because the 15th Cavalry has been pro- jectin 3 around them parts for the past three or four years, and I wuz wonderin if old Colonel Calderon wuz still above the ground. He wuz a fine old guy, wuz the Colonel stiff on discipline and sich, but all to the good on fightin Injins, same s I wuz meself. Many s the time he ses to me, c Ef you wuz as good at fightin Red Eye as you is at fightin 5 red men, you d be all right, Peregrine me boy. "Red Eye?" I repeated inquiringly. [203] PEREGRINE PICKLE "Red Eye Whisky," Peregrine explained. "Kills at 40 rods and is advertised to make a rabbit spit in a bull dog s face same as all the sutlers sells. Well, as I wuz sayin , the Colonel set a heap o store by me, he did, and I liked him good enough when I wuzn t in the guard house, which I mostly wuz; the Colonel being the devil an all on discipline for infractions of th rules. He warn t no easier on his own boys tho than he wuz on th troopers, and all of his young uns jumped when he give th word or they d taste the end of his belt on their hinder-lands right smart. Well, he had one little snoozer that wuza terror for sure. Not more n siven or eight, he wuz, but for mischief My, O my! I never seen the like of him in all me life. Him and me wuz great pals tho , by reason of the stories I could tell him, for he wuz crazy about yarns, and he d sit and listen with his little eyes nearly poppin outer his face and his mouth open like a stranded trout, while I gassed to him about doin s among the Injins and cowboys and sich. I reckon it wuz on account er him I quit hittin the booze. Anyway, I didn t liquor up much after him and me wuz friends. Ridin and playin together most er the day we wuz, and many s the time he d run to me when he d been payin for some devilment, and [204] PEREGRINE PICKLE fergit all about his troubles in listenin to my yarns. But onest he went the limit and some more fer he took the notion that the bosses of the Squad ron ud look a heap sight better ef their tails wuz cut like the carriage people cuts em in the East and he puts this proposition right up to his old man. But the Colonel jest naturally wouldn t hear er that, and wouldn t allow that it ud im prove the looks of the Squadron to any great ex tent. How did he know it wouldn t? asks the kid. Had he ever tried it 4 ? No, the Colonel tells him and he ain t never goin to try it neither. Well, the boy he don t say nothin , but that same day he gits a big pair o shears and, blame me, ef he don t dock the tails of all the bosses in Troop B while they wuz standin in the stalls! I seen the Colonel when he gits his first sight o them there animiles and I knew that me young friend wuz in fer the hottest warmin he d ever got to date. So when I runs acrost him in the paddock, back of C barracks, I tips him the wink to pull his freight till his Old Man gits a little cooler under th collar. I reckon I must er scared him more n I thought to, fer ther wer n t no yaller streak in him and he took his tannin s as good as any colt I ever see hand-trained. But this time, dang me, ef he didn t run clear out onto the very [205] PEREGRINE PICKLE tip end o Lookout Point, a narrer ledge er rock that stuck out over the canyon like a flag-pole from a winder. I reckon there wer n t no man ever got where that young un got before that day, fer the rock wuz too narrer fer a grown-up to walk on, an the drop from it wuz 500 feet to the near est ledge below. He d got there jist the same, but he must er crawled to do it, fer when the folks seen him he wuz straddlin the very tip wid his back to what you might call the land. Well, there wuz a great screechin and weepin whin the women folks see where he had got to, and the Colonel hisself wuz sorter wobbly in his knees and had the shakes fer fair. He didn t even dare to speak to th kid fer fear of scarin him, but tells his mother to call out gentle like and coax him back to land. Th little cuss heard her all right. But whin he tried to edge back, he kinder got twisted and that seemed to put him wise to th fix he wuz in, fer he let out a panicky screech, and grabbin th ledge wid both arms, like it wuz th neck er his pony, lay there swayin s ef he wuz about to lose his grip. Well, th troopers got busy with th derrick, and the Colonel and all th officers wuz speedin em up to beat th band. But I seen th kid ud never hold on long nuf fer em to git th tackle ready, lessen somethin wuz [206] PEREGRINE PICKLE done right smart. So I starts to crawl out to where th kid wuz, an I m tellin you that wuz th slickest bit er track fer a slow race anywheres on this continent. I reckon I must er made about an inch a minute and when I got near half way I felt sicker to my stomach than any pup that ever lapped up paint. But I kept a goin , talkin soft like all th time ter th kid till I got within touch er him. Thin I grabbed him, not real sudden but kinder tight, and he give a twist that near sent th two of us into th big empty space below. I knowed right thin that ef I wuz to hold him till they got th derrick fer us, I d gotter keep him quieter than a cat before a mouse hole. Dave, I ses that wuz the young un s name Dave, I ses, keep still an I ll tell you another story about th Injin that fooled up the Panther by playin he wuz dead. I m scared ! he whimpered. So wuz the Injun, I tells him. An he had somthin to be scared of, you bet your padded pants. Wot was he scared of? he ses, thin-voiced like. The minit he said that, I knowed I had him ef I didn t stop to breathe. An you bet your neck I didn t. Gee willikens! I wisht I cud remember the yarn I told that kid. Gosh! but it must er bin some story ! But brand me fer a liar, ef I ve ever been able to call it ter mind from that day on ter this ! [207] PEREGRINE PICKLE Well anyway, th kid jist never winked an eye lash or turned a hair while I wuz tellin it, and when they swings the derrick over us and I stops fer the lowerin of the slings, wot do you t ink th little skeesicks says? Go on, Corf rail" he ses impatient like. Go on, Corporal, won t you? Did I go on? You bet your last cigar I did and I didn t stop neither whin I wuz fastenin the belts to us. Some story eh Boss? Ain t it a shame I plumb forgot it? Maybe it d put this yere author Rumyard Kipling on the blink. Eh?" "Haven t you any idea of what it was about?" I asked. "O I know the idee all right " he answered. "It was some thin like this " But just at that moment the whistle of my train sounded in the distance and I never heard Pere grine s version of his masterpiece. And I am glad of it. That story was never intended to be "a twice-told tale." [208] XV CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG GRACIOUS how you startled me !" Miss Bessie Dean, poised for flight on the edge of a high window seat, glanced with a mixture of indignation and relief at her chum, and then swung back upon her lofty perch drawing up her knees and patting her hair pins into place with a reassuring touch. The girl whose unexpected entrance had disturbed the quiet of the studio remained standing in the door for a moment, absent-mindedly withdrawing the pins from her hat, and then tossing it aside, vaulted into the unoccupied corner of the window-seat, and clasping her hands about her knees, gazed gloomily into the smiling eyes that questioned her. "Well?" Miss Moran paused inquiringly, but her com panion made no response. "What s the matter, Winifred? You look as though " [209] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG "My doll were stuffed with saw-dust? Well it is !" "Maybe it s breakfast food." "No. It s saw-dust, and poor quality too/ "Humph! As bad as that? Did you get an afternoon off?" "No, I took it, and I m going to take a lot more." "How will the Powers-that-be like that?" "I don t know and I don t care. I m going to resign." "Resign! You re joking, Winnie! Why I thought you adored the work and Mr. Sargeant told me that you were the most promising new Visitor the Allied Charities had on its staff. I felt proud of knowing you." The girl gave a contemptuous toss of her head and impatiently flung her gloves on a chair. "That was ages ago before I understood the game," she exclaimed. "But I know it now. Sci entific philanthropy, Bess, is merely the business of gathering inaccurate information concerning ir remediable conditions. And Charity is the catch word which induces simple-minded folk to pay the statistician s bills." "Whew! You must be pretty bitter to have [210] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG thought up those definitions. What s the trouble 4 ? Out with it!" "O, Bess, it isn t any one particular thing! It s the whole system. I go out every morning empty- handed to visit the sick and the afflicted and I return with a full note book. We re allowed to give advice good, bad or indifferent but no material relief whatever, and just because " "Now we re coming to it. I see it all. Just because you put your hand in your own pocket and gave money without asking authority from headquarters, you ve been criticized and feel hurt." "Hurt isn t the word. I m disgusted! I did what I thought was right, but since they object, let them get somebody else to wait on their Bar mecide feasts. Winifred Jessup is done with ob serving the poor! "Nonsense, Winnie. You know that only the most experienced Visitors are allowed to use their discretion in distributing monetary relief. They must have some system and " "System! It s all system. Why, Bess, the whole work is a mockery. They don t give money to the needy because it ll pauperize them, and they don t give them work because they haven t got it to give. Do you remember that fine old [211] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG Mrs. McCaffrey, I told you about? Well, my dear, she was on the Work List for two weeks, and when her turn came what do you think they offered her? "I m sure I don t know." "A place in the sewing room." "Well?" "Why she can t sew! They knew that. At least they ought to have known it they told me they had a complete record of her case when I found her almost dead in her pig pen of a tene ment." "Well, what can she do? "Washing." "Washing!" Miss Moran unclasped her knees and clapped her hands together in delight. "Saved saved!" she exclaimed. "Winnie, go and fetch Mrs. McCaffrey at once !" Miss Jessup stared at her companion in as tonishment. "Why, what do you mean?" she demanded. "I mean just what I say," Miss Moran re sponded joyfully. "I didn t intend to confess," she continued, with a sudden change of manner, "but you remember I boasted, when we took this apartment, that I could manage the housekeep- [212] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG ing without any trouble and I ve been ashamed to admit that I ve never been able to get our washing done properly. In fact I ve been at my wits end for weeks, and now you appear in a vision of glory trailing a Mrs. McCaffrey by the hand ! It s simply providential ! Are you sure she s used to fine work? Most of our prettiest things are in the clothes bag at this moment." Miss Jessup dropped down from the window- seat and began readjusting her hat before the glass. "Mrs. Me was at the head of a fancy laundry once," she responded. "This will be a godsend to her. I ll have her here in an hour or so. You don t think the people at the Charities will repri mand me too severely for giving her this work, do you?" "You run along and get some fresh air in your lungs, and then we ll discuss philanthropy. Off with you!" It was certainly a heavy load which Miss Jes- sup s protege bore away with her a few hours later. But she volunteered to complete her task in short order and departed leaving a pleasant glow of gratitude in her wake. Indeed, the fact of having found employment for the old lady had such an encouraging effect on Miss Jessup CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG that she returned to the Allied Charities with new zest for her duties. She had not, however, for given the Relief Superintendent for his remarks concerning unauthorized aid, and inwardly re joiced when her critic delivered himself into her hands a few days later by jocularly observing that they hadn t seen her friend Mrs. McCaffrey at the office of late. "No," she responded quietly. "I ve given her some work." "Really? What sort of work? The question was annoyingly incredulous, and Miss Jessup tingled with resentment. "Washing the only work she could do!" she retorted. "That s not against the rules, is it? The young Superintendent flushed under his pretty questioner s challenge. "No, of course not," he responded slowly. "It was very good hearted of you. Only O, well, I dare say it ll be all right." The official nodded and passed on, but there was quite enough in his tone to dampen Miss Jessup s little triumph, and she failed to report it to her chum, as she had intended to do at the opening of the encounter. Indeed, when the day for Mrs. McCaffrey s reappearance arrived she did not comment upon the fact. But before another [214] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG twenty-four hours had passed Miss Moran called it sharply to her attention. "O, Winnie," she remarked at breakfast, "Mrs. McCaffrey should have brought the work back yesterday shouldn t she*?" Miss Jessup glanced innocently at the calendar hanging on the wall. "Why yes, I suppose so," she answered. "Very likely the dear old thing has overestimated her strength. We gave her quite a task you remem ber. I ll drop in on her this afternoon and see how she s getting on." "I wish you would, dear, and get her to send back what she s finished anyway, for we re due at the Studio Dance to-night, you know, and neither of us has a thing to wear." Miss Jessup glanced hastily at her engagement book. "Gracious!" she exclaimed. "I d almost for gotten that. I ll see to it at once and get her to send enough for our present needs by this after noon." "Good. Will you be here for luncheon*?" "Yes, if I m not too much rushed." The girl was already in the hall as she answered and she hurried past the studio windows without waving a greeting, as she usually did on reaching CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG the street. Neither did she return for luncheon, and when four o clock arrived without bringing the wash, Miss Moran telephoned to advise her of that fact. But Miss Jessup, it appeared, had not been at the Allied Charities at all that day and nothing had been heard from her. This was somewhat disquieting, but Miss Moran fought down her anxiety until the dinner hour had long passed, when she became seriously alarmed. In deed, she had about determined to telephone to police headquarters when she heard the key turn in the lock, and rushing to the door, discovered Miss Jessup and a messenger boy in the act of carrying an enormous bundle into the hall. "Well, I ve got it!" exclaimed the prodigal, as the door closed on the diminutive messenger, and then without a word of warning she sank upon the floor beside the paper bundle and burst into a fit of laughter, ending in tears. "There, there, dear!" soothed Miss Moran. "Come and get something to eat before you tell me what s happened. It s after eight, but there s plenty of time and we can talk as we eat. I ex pect you ve had some adventures." "Adventures !" Miss Jessup gasped. "Well, it s all safely over now, thank goodness ! But I tell [216] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG you I couldn t live through it again I simply couldn t!" "Well, you won t have to, I m sure. Here, sit right down at the table and " The girl interrupted with a protesting gesture. "No," she exclaimed, "I feel too dirty to eat. Clean clothes will refresh me more than anything else at this moment." "I know exactly how you feel," Miss Moran responded sympathetically. "But don t stop to dress now. We ll have dinner at once. . . . There ! Now you feel better already, don t you*?" she continued as she hovered beside Winifred, so licitously watching her. The girl nodded smilingly and pressed her com panion s hand gratefully. "I m all right, dear," she protested. "If you wait on me any longer I won t tell you a word of my adventures." "Very well," laughed Miss Moran. "I ll put everything on the table and you can help your self. Now begin from the time you rushed off this morning." "I ll have to go further back than that, con fessed Winifred. "I suspected there was some thing wrong with Mrs. McCaffrey several days ago, but I d been hoping against hope, and it [217] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG wasn t until you reminded me of to-night s dance that I realized that I hadn t dared investigate her. That galvanized me into action, however, and I went straight to her rooms. There I got my first shock, for the door was opened by a strange wo man who didn t speak much English and knew nothing of Mrs. McCaffrey. You can imagine, my dismay. I rushed down to the janitor and questioned him with a sinking heart. Mrs. Me had vacated the premises a week ago, he informed me, but suggested that she might have left her address at the corner saloon. There was nothing to do but inquire there, so in I marched and, Bes sie! I ll never say anything against bartenders again ! The one in charge of that place was more courteous than lots of men we know and he took no end of trouble. He knew Mrs. Me and had given her some of his own washing, he said. He not only gave me her address, but got a boy to go with me because, he said, the neighborhood she lived in was not fit for a lady like me. And then oh dear! He he told me his name was O Callahan and said he hoped we d meet again! I don t know what I replied, but I m sure I blushed like a perfect fool, and then I hurried away with my guide, who brought me into a back alley of what do you think ?" [218! CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG "I m sure I can t imagine, dear." "Negro tenements, Bessie the worst I ve ever seen with a frightful gorilla of a janitor! Mrs. McCaffrey was in, he informed me. Yaas, she shorely was in, but he reckoned, I couldn t see her. "Why not?" I demanded. " Caze huh time ain t up," he retorted. "Her time?" I repeated blankly. " Yaas m , he grinned. You knows she s one of dem silent boozers and dey gits behin der do s an soaks emselves blin and don open till they s sobered up. "With this cheerful announcement he retired into his den and left me gasping. But I was not going to be defeated in that way, so without another word I marched off to the nearest police- court intending to lay the whole matter before the Magistrate." "I don t suppose you ve ever been in a police court. I never had until this morning and I hope I ll never have to enter another. It s the most dreadful place imaginable. I thought I could walk right in and talk privately with the Judge. But the room was simply packed to suffocation and I could barely squeeze myself inside the door. [219] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG Finally a policeman edged through the crowd and asked me what I was up for." "What you were up for?" gasped Miss Moran. "That s just what he said, Bessie, and you can imagine my wrath. With a great deal of dignity, I informed him who I was and what I wanted. Then what was I doing in the prisoners line? he demanded, and I had to give him my name and remain just where I was until he d examined the roll and made sure I was telling the truth." "The insolent scoundrel !" exclaimed Miss Moran. "Did you report him?" "Indeed I did not. He was very decent when he understood the matter and told me that I d better go to the police station and explain the mat ter there. It was then after twelve o clock, but I fought my way out and marched to the station house, where the sergeant in charge heard my story. He was very polite and ordered an officer to go with me to Mrs. McCaffrey s, telling me that if he wasn t successful in making her surrender the clothes I could return to the court and get a war rant, or something of that kind, later in the day. Well, off I went with my policeman, a huge, good looking, shy, young Irishman with a captivating smile. But you would have laughed, Bessie, to see the way that awful janitor kow-towed to him. [220] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG He marched into the place as though he owned it and, in my enthusiasm for his prowess, I remarked, as we climbed the stairs, that it must be splendid to be so big and strong. Yes, m , he responded gravely. Tis convanient at times but ye d find it tough in gittin pants to fit yer ! "Winifred!" "He hadn t the faintest suspicion, my dear, that he d said anything out of the way and the next moment he was pounding at Mrs. McCaffrey s door with noise enough to wake the dead. All the other tenants came pouring into the hall to know what the trouble was, but never an answer ing sound reached us from Mrs. McCaffrey s abode. Finally I urged my hero to break down the door, but he declared he had no warrant for that and advised that we return to the court. Then, armed with the necessary paper, we started once more for the alley. This time the black desperado of a janitor met us at the threshold. " She s out, he confided to the officer. But she s settin right on huh do way and ef she spy yo she ll bar de do . Let huh go, he continued, indicating me, and kinder draw huh out. "I saw the wisdom of this advice, and the offi cer concurring, I stole swiftly upstairs and con fronted Mrs. McCaffrey squatting on the floor in [22!] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG front of her opened door. Bessie, she was a dread ful wreck ! But she wasn t repentant and the only response I could get from her was that she d send my clothes when she got good and ready and not a minute sooner, and that I was to hold my horses and keep my shirt on. At this retort all the pickaninnies who had circled about us cheered and I almost lost my temper. However, I managed to control myself and continued to reason gently with her. But the softer I talked the louder and more abusive she became, so I changed my tone and announced that if she didn t surrender our things, then and there, I d have her arrested. That threat seemed to frighten her, and taking out my watch, I gave her just two minutes to make up her mind. She immediately began whimpering and wringing her hands, and then, Bess, the awful thought suddenly crossed my mind that she d sold our things and couldn t deliver them if she wanted to." Miss Moran positively gasped. "O, Winifred she hadn t done that, had she?" she exclaimed. "Well, she d pawned them. For a moment she denied it, and then whining Only a few, my dear only a few ! the whole truth came out. She d pawned every stitch we d given her. And, Bessie, [222] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG it was our fault. She had to live, and she hadn t any money, and we ought to have thought of that. O, the whole story was pitiful ! But I was merci less. Yes, I was! I demanded the pawn tickets, and when she said she didn t know where they were I threatened her so fiercely that she pulled herself to her feet, imploring me not to be too hard on her. My only answer was that she could either find those tickets or go to jail, and for half an hour she raked her rubbish heap of a room in a vain endeavor to locate them. Finally I discovered them myself and her delight was really pathetic. I was so happy that I gave her two dollars and hurried away with my big policeman to the pawn shop. He told me I needn t pay a cent to redeem our property, as it was stolen, but I knew it. was all our fault and I didn t think it would be right to take advantage of the law. It was a pretty dear washing, Bessie, but I redeemed the lot for three dollars. I didn t do so badly did I?" "Badly?" Miss Moran crossed to her companion, and perching on the edge of the chair, folded her in her arms. "You re a perfect trump, Winnie! I don t know how you had the courage to go through with it. We d have lost everything if it hadn t been [223] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG for you. Come and lie down on the sofa now, dear, if you ve had enough dinner. You must be tired out." "Indeed, I m not. What time ought we to begin to dress ?" "You re not thinking of going to the dance to-night after all you ve been through?" "I certainly am. Do I look so terribly faded # "You look perfectly sweet. But I was afraid you wouldn t feel up to dancing after having been on your feet all day." "Nothing would rest me so much. The mere thought of those clean clothes is refreshing. I m going to revel in them, and don the very prettiest I have." "Well, we ought to get ready right away if we re going. Here toss me something to cut this string and I ll open your treasure house," Miss Moran continued, as she dropped down beside the bundle. "I do hope Mrs. Me was a good laundress!" exclaimed Winifred, as she handed a knife to her companion. "I m almost afraid to have you look." "Nonsense! The pawnbroker wouldn t have loaned three dollars on them if they d been spoiled." [224] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG "That s so. I never thought of our being guar anteed in that way. You choose what I m to wear while I begin to make myself presentable." Miss Jessup passed into her bedroom as she spoke, but a cry of distress soon brought her flying into the studio again. There on the floor sat Miss Moran holding at arm s length a pair of red underflannels of dis tinctly masculine gender, and a white shirt adorned with purple horseshoes, while scattered around her lay gigantic socks, handkerchiefs the size of napkins, white waistcoats and flannel shirts of manly cut, duck trousers and a miscellaneous collection of collars and cuffs. "Winnie !" she gasped. "They ve given you the wrong bundle!" Miss Jessup gazed at the speaker in silence for a moment and then slipped down on the floor be side her. "Bessie," she murmured, "it s the right bundle but the wrong tickets! I discovered those tickets and insisted on taking them, never dreaming there might be others, and O, who do you sup pose has got our pretty things?" Miss Moran dived into the bundle, and pro ducing another garment, held it triumphantly aloft. [225] CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG "I m sure I don t know, Winnie/ she re sponded explosively, "but your friend the saloon man said he hoped you d meet again, didn t he? This is certainly a bartender s coat and My dear! It s a romance! Every one of these things is marked O Callahan ! " [226] XVI WAR THE storm of battle which had roared and raged through Pinesville, Virginia, in April, 1865, had turned St. Stephen s Church into a field hospital and then swept on ward, leaving the little building dismantled and apparently forgotten. In the distance thunderous cannonading still rattled the stained glass win dows from time to time, but the shuddering rever berations merely intensified the silence of desola tion that had settled upon the countryside. Not a leaf stirred behind the gray shroud of vapor over hanging the trampled meadows, the birds had long since whirled away in terror and all the voices of the field were stilled, as though nature itself had been throttled or stunned in the conflict. On a pole thrust from the belfry window a yellow hospital flag sagged drearily in the breathless at mosphere; and tumbled about in the tiny church yard, like uprooted coffins, lay scores of wooden pews hastily torn from their fastenings and tossed [227] WAR from doors and windows. Books, papers, bits of clothing, remnants of food, rubbish and wreck of every kind littered the ground, and propped up against a headstone almost hidden in long grass lay a stained and broken stretcher. Between the white columns of the portico gaped the entrance to the church, splintered fragments of the doors still clinging to the hinges, and on its threshold stood a woman, her tall, girlish figure sharply out lined in the misty twilight against the dark back ground. For a moment she gazed at the ruin and disorder about her with an expression of despair, which deepened, as her glance fell upon the dev astated fields beyond the soggy highway. But as she lifted her eyes to the darkening sky and, spreading out her arms, inhaled a deep breath of air, the look of hopelessness in her face changed to resolute calm. In the somber light she appeared pale and worn, but her simple, gray gown, open at the throat, showed a contrasting line of tan, her rolled-up sleeves disclosed strong, sun-burned arms and her erect, well moulded figure indicated vigorous bodily health. Absorbed in thought, she did not immediately notice the saturating mist, but presently, raising her hand and dusting the glistening moisture from her hair, she slowly un tied a broad apron from her waist, and fashion- [228] WAR ing it into a sort of hood, stepped from the por tico, and picking her way among the obstructing wreckage, to the edge of the graveyard, stopped and whistled softly. No response followed, but, as she waited, the church windows shivered and rattled again to some inaudible concussion, as though shaken by a ghostly hand. The effect was mournful and un canny, and the listener, shuddering involuntarily, whistled again louder than before. Receiving no reply she at last raised her hands to her mouth and called sharply. "Sergeant! Sergeant Henry!" A gruff halloo answered this summons and from a dilapidated wagon-shed in the rear of the church there emerged a coatless, hatless and bare footed tatterdemalion, his long gray beard, dis heveled hair and general appearance suggesting Rip Van Winkle, save for the huge cavalry re volver which protruded from the leather holster hanging from his belt. For a few moments he remained under cover, sleepily knuckling his heavy eye-lids and then shambled forward, halting be fore the woman with an inquiring glance and the semblance of a salute. "I hate to trouble you, Sergeant," she began, "but I want a couple of canteens of boiling water [229] WAR and I daren t leave my patient long enough "Ain t he gone yet?" The interruption was forbiddingly impatient, but the woman merely shook her head. "No, and he isn t going if I can help it," she responded, calmly. "You ll hurry, won t you?" The man lazily hitched his belt as though he had not heard the question. "What you want with canteens of boiling water?" he inquired, surlily. "I m going to use them for foot warmers. The church is horribly damp and I m afraid the Cap tain will " "The Captain indeed !" snorted the old soldier, contemptuously. "Where d y^ou suppose I m goin to git tinware for sech foolishness?" "I don t know, but I m sure you do." The veteran s hard mouth relaxed into some thing like a smile. "Humph !" he muttered. "You think I kin git anything and everything, don t yer?" The woman nodded gravely. "I know you re the best forager in the army," she responded diplomatically. "But you haven t brought me a doctor yet," she added reproach fully. [230] WAR "Ain t none passed by." "I m sure you could find one if you were to ride down the valley a bit." "And git gobbled up by the Rebs^ I see my self!" "Nonsense; they re retreating. "Well, maybe they is, but sometimes they does it in a circle. And then who s chasin who I wanter know? No reply greeted this query and the faint smile on the woman s lips quickly faded. "My patient is terribly low to-night, Sergeant," she resumed after a pause. "If you could find a doctor " "He ain t got no more use for doctors than a toad has for side pockets!" interrupted the old man. "Best thing he kin do is to die quick and quiet, for I kin tell you " "No, you can t," interposed the woman sharply. "That s treason in my camp and I won t listen to it. Now please hurry and see what you can do for me." The veteran leisurely thrust a hand into his pocket and producing a crumpled roll of paper extracted a small wad of tobacco and stuffed it into his cheek. [231] WAR "Major s orders was to stay by you, Miss," he muttered. "The Major s orders were to do everything possible for my patient," she corrected. "He s got a chance and I want to make the most of it. You know it s my chance too," she added, appealingly. Sergeant Henry stared at the calm, sweet face confronting him, and nodding comprehendingly, swung upon his heel. "You nurses are more trouble to me than all my money " he growled, as he moved away, but there was less harshness in his voice and when he spoke again his tone was almost kindly. "Don t go workin yourself to death over that young feller, Miss," he continued, "fer I kin tell you " He paused, glancing over his shoulder. But the woman was already out of hearing and after watching her for a moment, the veteran shrugged his shoulders, spat reflectively on the ground, and slouched off toward the wagon-shed. The church was dark and cold and the nurse shivered slightly as she groped her way over the straw-covered floor to a low cot standing near the altar and peered anxiously into the face of a man lying apparently in a deep stupor. For a moment she listened intently to his labored breath- WAR ing and then, stealthily slipping her hand beneath his blankets, laid her fingers lightly on his wrist, and with her other hand pressed against the ar teries of her own temple, counted his pulse. A shade of discouragement crossed her face as she noted the result and lighting a lantern, she swiftly drew some bandages from a pail standing beside the bed and wringing them out laid them across the patient s forehead and breast. The shock of the cold water against his fevered body forced a moan from the sufferer s lips and he turned rest lessly, tossing the wet cloths aside. Waiting until he quieted again, the nurse skilfully readjusted them and looking up found Sergeant Henry beside her, canteens in hand, and a look of suppressed excitement in his face. "I ve more if you want em," he muttered as she nodded her thanks, "and good news, too, if you want to hear it," he added in a lower tone. The woman glanced up expectantly. The doctor 5 ?" she whispered. "Have you seen one? "No, but I seen somebody else," he confided. "A dispatch bearer passed here just now. We re drivin em like sheep ! In another week we ll be around em and then God ! but I wanted to be in at the death! You take it pretty cool," he [233] WAR continued, as his hearer calmly resumed her work. "Well, I ll relieve you at ten." "Not to-night," was the quiet answer. "I couldn t leave him to-night." The old man picked up the lantern and holding it above his head peered down at the figure on the bed. Then he unbuckled his belt and slipping off his revolver laid it upon a chair. "There s something to keep you company in case you need it," he muttered, pointing to the weapon as he retreated. Left to herself the woman bent again over her patient and carefully raising his head, adjusted it more carefully on the folded blanket which served as a pillow. The flushed face into which she gazed was that of a young man shockingly aged and wasted, but with something of youthful beauty still remaining, and, as she smoothed back the thick, brown hair from his forehead, her lips trembled ominously. How she hated the barbarous war that was wrecking and destroying thousands of splendid lives like this ! She had claimed that there was a chance for her patient, but what chance had he in her inexperienced hands ? Had she not failed in every crisis she had faced during the hideous weeks that lay behind her 4 ? The Sergeant had under- [234] WAR stood what she meant by saying that this case was her chance. Everybody knew her humiliating record. No one but she, however, realized the full measure of her failure. The brutal realities of war, the monstrous indecencies of battle had robbed her, not only of courage, but of patriotism. Every feeling of loyalty to the cause which had inspired her enthusiasm in the well-ordered pro bationary hospitals had died at sight of the mad house scenes enacted in the first field hospital to which she had been assigned. Even now, when she closed her eyes, she again lived through that riot of death, hearing the agonizing sounds, seeing the contorted faces, breathing the poisonous reek, en during the appalling inhumanities that had frozen her blood and threatened her reason. Nothing in her previous experience had even suggested the possibility of such spectacles. Yet she had stood her ground, working desperately to aid the drip ping surgeons at their awful work, until a stretcher bearer, entering with something that had once been a man, had trod upon the raw stumps of a legless horror and, stumbling, cursed the helpless of fender. Then, for a time, everything had been blotted from her mind. But when consciousness returned she had felt the clutch of terror tighten ing upon her heart, and her whole being had re- [235] WAR volted against the cruelty of war with a passion which no will power could control or love of coun try conquer. Again and again she had reported for duty, but each time she had miserably faltered once during an operation upon a conscious man, strapped hand and foot upon a slippery table, be cause he could not yield quickly enough to the in fluence of chloroform once at sight of a fright ful blunder committed by a contract doctor and murderously corrected ; and again when a prisoner, crazed with agony, had struck a surgeon with one of his own knives and been instantly shot to death by the infuriated physician. Thenceforward she had been relegated to the loathsome work of a hospital drudge and when, by the merest chance, she had at last been recalled to special duty, all her patriotic impulses had waned. Even the news of victory failed to thrill her and, as she sat watching the man intrusted to her care, rebellious questions forced themselves upon her. . . . Why should she rejoice in the ferocities of victory or defeat? Who could distinguish friends from foes in the madmen that clutched and tore at one another s throats? All were alike inhuman in their murderous work. . . . The sacred cause? Both sides committed atrocities that mocked the [236] WAR words; each prayed to the same God for suc cess. Could any cause, or country, or God justify the bestial spectacles she had witnessed, the de pravities she had seen committed in the holiest of names? What purpose could sanctify, or even condone, the orgies that had confronted her on more than one battlefield, where glutted animals and gorged birds completed the work of men lapsed to the level of brutes ? What inspiration was there in restoring health to men whose only thought was to use their strength to maim or destroy other human beings as worthy or worthless as themselves ? If she did not save this man whose life was now burning out on the couch before her, perhaps some other life might be spared. Did not every soldier s hand that relaxed in death, release a brother s throat? Might it not be better, as her callous old bodyguard had said, if he were to die just as quickly as The woman passed her hand across her brow as though to thrust back the wild thoughts that were crowding upon her, and leaning forward, touched the bandages upon her patient s head and chest. They were almost dry and noting this she instantly dipped them into the pail again and began bathing him with the icy water. Once, as she worked, the man s eyes opened, and meeting [237] WAR his dull stare, she instinctively smiled at him and nodded encouragingly. It was only for an instant that his gaze rested upon her, but his fleet ing glance of hope and confidence diverted the current of her thoughts and set her wondering, for the first time, why he had been selected for special care. Who or what he was she did not know. All she remembered of the wild night that had witnessed her recall to duty was the merciless bundling of scores of wounded and dying men into ambu lances; the shouting, confusion, and wild haste of a great army movement, and the unexpected sum mons to take charge of this desperate case and to spare no effort upon it. There was no time for questions and the few hurried instructions uttered by the medical officer, as though he knew of her humiliating record and did not expect her to com prehend him, left her ill-prepared for an emer gency. At first she had not realized that she was to be left behind, but when the last ambulance had jolted away with its tortured load, she had breathed a prayer of thankfulness and turned her attention to her patient. Except for the blue uni form of an infantry captain which he had worn when first carried into the church, she had no clue to his identity; but one glance at the wound in [238] WAR his breast warned her that she had been assigned to a forlorn hope. A cruelly hasty operation had supplemented the work of a bullet and pneumonia was fast completing it. Again and again, during the long days and nights that followed, she had thought that life was extinct; but nature had re sponded to her efforts and death had been averted, encouraging her to hope that the splendid vitality of youth might yet withstand the strain that was being made upon it. For the last twelve hours, however, the fever had been gaming and, as she watched the man gasping in the vault-like atmos phere of the church, she felt the end approaching. . . . Well, that would complete her record of failure. She had not been able to save even one life. And what was worse, she was not sure she cared to. Why was that worse*? Existence in a world that not only tolerated but encouraged wholesale murder was not so great a boon. Surely the grave held no terrors for those who had lived through the nightmare horrors of war. The only restful faces she could remember were those of the dead. . . . The sound of the patient s irregular breathing caught her ear and, leaning forward, she counted the tell-tale respirations. Then her hand flew to his wrist and the thready pulse warned her that [239] WAR there was no time to lose. Raising his head she forced some brandy down his throat, but at the same moment her eyes fell upon the bandage ly ing across his chest and her own heart almost stopped beating. One glance at the spreading stain on the white linen was sufficient to tell her what was happening. His wound had opened and the man was rapidly bleeding to death. Drop ping upon her knees beside the cot she strove des perately to staunch the flow of blood, summoning all her small resources and bitterly upbraiding herself for her incompetence. ... If she knew a little a very little more, she might easily check this hemorrhage! Why had she not better prepared herself for such an emergency? Oh, the hours she had wasted when she might have learned how to meet it ! . . . She was ignorant criminally ignorant of even the rudiments of nursing. If this man died she would be responsible. She would have killed him just as certainly as though she had knowingly sought his life. Had it not been for her, some qualified per son would now be tending him. It was criminal of the surgeons to have placed him in her hands ! They knew she had had practically no experience. Only once in all her hospital work had she . . . What was it she had seen them do in that case? [240] WAR . . . Yes, Yes she had done that! . . . And this too! . . . But what else? What else! She must remember ! . . . Slower and slower throbbed the pulse quicker and quicker came the gasping respirations. She could almost feel the ebbing life slipping through her hands. . . . But it should not slip! This was her chance. This was a fight for life. He should not die ! . . . Now she remembered ! Now it all came back to her ! ... It was very simple only she must think quickly not get frightened and never give up until ! . . . Why did the church seem so deathly quiet? Had he ceased breath ing? Was it over already? . . . She hastily pressed her fingers ^against an artery and feeling the faint responsive throb, tore a sheet into strips and winding them tightly about the patient s limbs, grasped the foot of the cot and raised it, exerting all her strength to hold it at a slant and control the circulation of her patient s blood. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed and the desperate struggle continued. Every muscle in her body ached, and her over-wrought nerves throbbed as though something in her brain was on the point of bursting. But she dared not rest even for an instant. Behind the black shadows [241] WAR surrounding her, Death seemed to be lurking, watching for the moment when exhaustion should force her to yield the prey. Again and again she fancied a cold breath against her cheek and beyond the waving veil of mist that swung in the lantern s glow she seemed to see bodies of men lying upon the floor, twisted and tumbled in horrible, fantastic atti tudes as she had seen them upon the battle fields. She strained her eyes to pierce the floating vapor which sometimes screened her like a curtain and sometimes receded, hoping to solve the terrifying mystery. But the inert forms cluttering the floor would not fade. . . . Had the dead who had been carried from the gruesome hospital crawled from their shallow graves to this sanctuary*? Had the place become a charnel house? . . . How horribly still they lay! Was not Death satisfied with that grim harvest? Why should the one life entrusted to her care be coveted ? He should not be surrendered ! She would fight as long as breath remained in her body ! And until then he was safe ! She willed that he should live! The power was hers! She defied Death ! . . . Her fingers touched the patient s hands as she lowered the cot. They no longer had the icy [242] WAR chill that had numbed her heart, and the fresh bandage she applied showed a less rapidly spread ing stain. Was it possible that the hemorrhage had been checked ? With a gasp of hope she again lifted the cot, while from every corner of the church dark, shadowy hands seemed groping to touch the coverlet and bear her down. Nearer and nearer they swung toward her, heavier and heavier grew the strain upon her arms, until it seemed they must be torn from their sockets. ... If those tireless, grimly-reaching hands would pause, even for a heart beat, she could rest and recover her strength. But once they reached her burden she would be helpless ! . . . She could not keep up the struggle much longer. Her back was breaking! . . . Another moment and the greedy hands would clutch their prey, clawing at his wound. . . . There! It was almost over. But she had fallen fighting! The huddled dead, glaring at her from the floor, could testify that she had not yielded! . . . Ah it was ended! His wound had opened again. She could feel the fresh blood on her hands ! . . . Panting and exhausted she sank against the cot, her nerveless arms drooping at her side, her head buried in the tumbled coverings. For some seconds she lay there without moving, listening [243] WAR to the loud throbbing of her heart, and then, slow ly raising her head, gazed wonderingly about her. The silent church was flooded with moonlight and the swaying branches of the vines against the win dows were swinging long, black shadows back and forth across the floor littered with bundles of straw and cushions. For a moment she continued staring at the scene and then springing to her feet thrust her hands into the light. They were moist but not with blood ! Like a flash she turned to the man lying upon the couch and passed her fingers over his brow. It was beaded with per spiration ! The cry of joy which rose to her lips startled the patient and his closed eyelids twitched con vulsively, quieting as she laid her hand soothingly upon them. . . . There was no time to be lost now in idle rejoicing ! She must press her advantage, watch every opportunity, give no pause to the enemy! The slightest slip might yet undo her work! The fight was still all before her if she was to crown it with triumph! . . . Why had she never before felt the thrill that now revitalized her energies and glorified her task? Was it the possibility of her victory over disease and death? . . . [244] WAR The patient sighed wearily and turning toward her, answered her inquiring gaze with a faint smile of recognition. Then his eyes closed drow sily again and her hand stole once more to his pulse. It was holding steadily and the watcher s face lit up with hope as she set to work anew. ... If she could save this life, never again would she allow disgust or intolerance to master her! Terrible as war was, she had no right to condemn it as inhuman and without justification. Wiser heads than hers had failed to avert it, brav er hearts than hers daily confronted its terrors un afraid. Was it not perhaps a plague, bred of the centuries, which had tolerated and encouraged human slavery a visitation upon the people for their sin*? Might not its bloodshed and barbari ties be purging the nation of disease? Yes, yes! That was it! It was just as truly a conflict with disease and death as this life and death struggle which was teaching her humility and charity . . . Was her patient sleeping? . . . Not yet, but every muscle of his body was relaxed and the fever had broken. His breathing was light and regu- lar. . . . She procured fresh blankets from a bundle on the floor, skilfully substituted them for the old ones, and resettling his pillow spread her apron [245] WAR over it, laying his head more comfortably upon the cool, clean linen. If he could only sleep! . . . She tiptoed to the bedside and shielding the light of the lantern sank down beside the cot watching the haggard face. . . . War! Civilization s struggle against disease and death! How had she ever lost sight of that glorifying aspect"? She must never forget it again ! All the real progress of the world had come of such convulsions ! . . . She bent forward once more intently listening. . . . Yes, he was sleeping! . . . She must not stir now . . . nor breathe ! . . . Fainter and fainter grew the swinging shadows on the floor slower and slower their pendulous movement. The first gray light of dawn stealing through the windows found the man still sleeping, and the face of the watcher transfigured with triumph. Outside the land was ablaze with the glory of the rising sun, wondrous colors spreading in rapid succession over the fields, now purple now crim son and now gold. On the horizon floated a cloud of dust, billowing with every breath of the morn ing breeze and finally lifting to disclose a distant column of marching men. Nearer and nearer they [246] WAR approached, unmasking another column farther away, and then another and another moving in parallel lines great masses of men and horses, their arms and accouterments glittering in the sun, their guidons flapping bright bits of color, their flags showing bravely against the sky an army sweeping forward, the ground shaking un der its mighty tread. There was victory in the springy step, the rapid pace, the slanting banners in every aspect of the passing host, and the sound of a familiar chant rolled triumphantly across the fields : "He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call defeat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat. Oh! be swift my soul to answer him be jubilant my feet! Our God is marching on" Leaning against the white columns of the church portico the tired nurse pieced out the words as she listened. How splendidly they in terpreted her thought! She drew herself up and watched the scene exultantly. The clatter of hoofs upon the road turned her gaze from the fields to the highway. A little [247] WAR group of horsemen was approaching, among whom she recognized Sergeant Henry. So! He had found a doctor at last had he? Well, Mr. Sur geon had come too late to rob her of her triumph ! . . . They were bringing an ambulance, were they? . . . Probably the Sergeant had reported that she was incompetent to manage a desperate case and that it would be necessary to transfer the patient to a hospital ! Well, he would see ! They should all see! And she had something worth showing! She would say nothing until the sur geon discovered for himself what had happened and then Oho! Her heart laughed joyously within her. "You feel you cannot come with us ?" The woman leaning against the wrecked door way gazed at the travel-stained officer with a dazed expression as though she did not grasp his question. . . . What was he saying? Well, it did not matter. Nothing mattered now. . . . "I would wait if my orders permitted, but the wagon trains will be up before long and you can come then. Here is an order for your transporta tion." The nurse s fingers closed mechanically on the [248] WAR slip of paper. But she gave no sign of compre hending. "And I want to say," the man paused, grop ing for words "I want you to know I understand and am sorry. Good-bye." Dark clouds were moving rapidly across the sky and the woman s eyes followed the big black shadows racing over the sunlit church-yard until the clatter of hoofs died away. Then she slowly sank upon the doorstep burying her face in her hands. Not a breath of air stirred the yellow flag, which, having almost flapped itself free in the early morning breeze, now hung like a long, limp rag from the end of its staff. Not a sound broke the desolate hush. On a broken pew in the church-yard a snake slowly uncoiled and slid ing noiselessly to the grass, wriggled to shelter, as a distant mutter of thunder heralded the com ing storm, and the trees on the horizon swayed low under the massing clouds. The woman raised her head as the first fierce gust of wind reached her and, noting the lowering sky, rose and gazed after the distant ambulance creeping away with her patient, its broad wheels grating against the boulders in the road and lifting over them like big, clumsy feet. ... So this was the end! The end of her [249] WAR victory. Her victory! Ha! That must move the gods to mirth ! Her patient was a spy who d be hanged in a day or two at most ! . . . What had the officer said 4 ? That she had done well wonderfully well. But that this busi ness of nursing wounded spies into condition for execution did not appeal to him. ... To whom, dear God, did such a hellish thing appeal? Yet that had been her business that was the chance which war had given her ! She had been permit ted to save a life for the gallows ! Her victory over death was a mockery. One of the practical jokes of war! . . . Well, she could laugh! Not all the winds of the world could stifle her ! They should blow the sound of her laughter about the earth and send peal upon peal of it to heaven! Oho oo ! . . . For a moment she faced the furious rush of the wind, her eyes closed, her hands clenched, her face contorted, her clothes and hair at the mercy of the tearing blast. Then she retreated slowly, backing into the cavernous doorway behind her. The ambulance bumped and jolted forward, its inert burden slipping and sliding with every rise and fall of the hampered wheels. Suddenly Ser geant Henry reined in his horse and, turning in [250] WAR his saddle toward the coming storm, sat listening intently. Then he spurred furiously to the little escort of cavalrymen, and saluted the officer. "Will you halt the prisoner for a minute, Lieu tenant?" he whispered. "I think I heard a shot and and I left my revolver with that woman in the church !" The End. [250 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO 5O CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. MAY 29 1935 .. LD 21-100m-8, 34 H645 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY li!;i!Ji:-!i!!iil!!!!il!iliiiiiliiifii!i!iHi!l!lii iH&j ;|HH^ . ::k J I u . ..mm L i !?i!pq;;t>>H;fH illliili