!\ 
 .IBRARY 
 JNI/ERSITY OF 
 CAIIPORNIA J 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 THE ROMANTIC ADVENTURES 
 OF A GENTLE MAN 
 
 BY 
 
 SINCLAIR LEWIS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 MAIN STREET, 
 BABBITT, ETC. 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
 Made in the United Statei of America 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 COPYRIGHT. 1B14. BY HARPER ft BROTHERS 
 
 PRINTED II* THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
 PUBLISHED FEBRUARY. 1914 
 
TO 
 
 GRACE LIVINGSTONE HEGGER 
 
 518 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGZ 
 
 I. MR. WRENN is LONELY i 
 
 II. HE WALKS WITH Miss THERESA 18 
 
 III. HE STARTS FOR THE LAND OF ELSEWHERE . . 38 
 
 IV. HE BECOMES THE GREAT LlTTLE BlLL WRENN . 49 
 
 V. HE FINDS MUCH QUAINT ENGLISH FLAVOR . . 60 
 
 VI. HE is AN ORPHAN 68 
 
 VII. HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT 80 
 
 VIII. HE TIFFINS 96 
 
 IX. HE ENCOUNTERS THE INTELLECTUALS .... 109 
 
 X. HE GOES A-GiPSYiNG 124 
 
 XL HE BUYS AN ORANGE TIE 134 
 
 XII. HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 146 
 
 XIII. HE is "OuR MR. WRENN" 164 
 
 XIV. HE ENTERS SOCIETY 179 
 
 XV. HE STUDIES FIVE HUNDRED, SAVOIR FAIRE, AND 
 
 LOTSA-SNAP OFFICE MOTTOES 191 
 
 XVI. HE BECOMES MILDLY RELIGIOUS AND HIGHLY 
 
 LITERARY 203 
 
 XVII. HE is BLOWN BY THE WHIRLWIND 223 
 
 XVIII. AND FOLLOWS A WANDERING FLAME THROUGH 
 
 PERILOUS SEAS 241 
 
 XIX. To A HAPPY SHORE 250 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 MR. WRENN IS LONELY 
 
 THE ticket-taker of the Nickelorion Moving-Picture 
 Show is a public personage, who stands out on 
 Fourteenth Street, New York, wearing a gorgeous light- 
 blue coat of numerous brass buttons. He nods to all the 
 patrons, and his nod is the most cordial in town. Mr. 
 Wrenn used to trot down to Fourteenth Street, passing 
 ever so many other shows, just to get that cordial nod, 
 because he had a lonely furnished room for evenings, and 
 for daytime a tedious job that always made his head 
 stuffy. 
 
 He stands out in the correspondence of the Souvenir 
 and Art Novelty Company as "Our Mr. Wrenn," who 
 would be writing you directly and explaining everything 
 most satisfactorily. At thirty-four Mr. Wrenn was the 
 sales-entry clerk of the Souvenir Company. He was 
 always bending over bills and columns of figures at a desk 
 behind the stock-room. He was a meek little bachelor a 
 person of inconspicuous blue ready-made suits, and a 
 small unsuccessful mustache. 
 
 To-day historians have established the date as April 
 9, 1910 there had been some confusing mixed orders 
 from the Wisconsin retailers, and Mr. Wrenn had been 
 
OU.R MR. WRENN 
 
 "called down" by the office manager, Mr. Mortimer R. 
 Guilfogle. He needed the friendly nod of the Nickelorion 
 ticket-taker. He found Fourteenth Street, after office 
 hours, swept by a dusty wind that whisked the skirts of 
 countless plump Jewish girls, whose V-necked blouses 
 showed soft throats of a warm brown. Under the Elevated 
 station he secretly made believe that he was in Paris, for 
 here beautiful Italian boys swayed with trays of violets; 
 a tramp displayed crimson mechanical rabbits, which 
 squeaked, on silvery leading-strings; and a newsstand 
 was heaped with the orange and green and gold of maga 
 zine covers. 
 
 "Gee!" inarticulated Mr. Wrenn. "Lots of colors. 
 Hope I see foreign stuff like that in the moving pictures." 
 
 He came primly up to the Nickelorion, feeling in his 
 vest pockets for a nickel and peering around the booth at 
 the friendly ticket-taker. But the latter was thinking 
 about buying Johnny s pants. Should he get them at 
 the Fourteenth Street Store, or Siegel-Cooper s, or over at 
 Aronson s, near home? So ruminating, he twiddled his 
 wheel mechanically, and Mr. Wrenn s pasteboard slip was 
 indifferently received in the plate-glass gullet of the 
 grinder without the taker s even seeing the clerk s bow 
 and smile. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn trembled into the door of the Nickelorion. 
 He wanted to turn back and rebuke this fellow, but was 
 restrained by shyness. He had liked the man s "Fine 
 evenin , sir" rain or shine but he wouldn t stand for 
 being cut. Wasn t he making nineteen dollars a week, as 
 against the ticket-taker s ten or twelve? He shook his 
 head with the defiance of a cornered mouse, fussed with 
 his mustache, and regarded the moving pictures gloomily. 
 
 They helped him. After a Selig domestic drama came 
 a stirring Vitagraph Western scene, "The Goat of the 
 Rancho," which depicted with much humor and tumult 
 the revolt of a ranch cook, a Chinaman. Mr. Wrenn was 
 really seeing, not cow-punchers and sage-brush, but him- 
 
 2 
 
MR. WRENN IS LONELY 
 
 self, defying the office manager s surliness and revolting 
 against the ticket-man s rudeness. Now he was ready 
 for the nearly overpowering delight of travel-pictures. 
 He bounced slightly as a Gaumont film presented Java. 
 
 He was a connoisseur of travel-pictures, for all his life 
 he had been planning a great journey. Though he had 
 done Staten Island and patronized an excursion to Bound 
 Brook, neither of these was his grand tour. It was yet to 
 be taken. In Mr. Wrenn, apparently fastened to New 
 York like a domestic-minded barnacle, lay the possibilities 
 of heroic roaming. He knew it. He, too, like the man 
 who had taken the Gaumont pictures, would saunter 
 among dusky Javan natives in "markets with tiles on the 
 roofs and temples and and uh,well places!" The scent 
 of Oriental spices was in his broadened nostrils as he scam 
 pered out of the Nickelorion, without a look at the ticket- 
 taker, and headed for "home" for his third-floor-front 
 on West Sixteenth Street. 
 
 He wanted to prowl through his collection of steamship 
 brochures for a description of Java. But, of course, when 
 one s landlady has both the sciatica and a case of Patient 
 Suffering one stops in the basement dining-room to inquire 
 how she is. 
 
 Mrs. Zapp was a fat landlady. When she sat down 
 there was a straight line from her chin to her knees. She 
 was usually sitting down. When she moved she groaned, 
 and her apparel creaked. She groaned and creaked from 
 bed to breakfast, and ate five griddle-cakes, two helpin s 
 of scrapple, an egg, some rump steak, and three cups of 
 coffee, slowly and resentfully. She creaked and groaned 
 from breakfast to her rocking-chair, and sat about wonder 
 ing why Providence had inflicted upon her a weak diges 
 tion. Mr. Wrenn also wondered why, sympathetically, 
 but Mrs. Zapp was too conscientiously dolorous to be 
 much cheered by the sympathy of a nigger-lovin Yankee, 
 who couldn t appreciate the subtle sorrows of a Zapp. of 
 Zapp s Bog, allied to all the First Families of Virginia. 
 
 3 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 >Mr. Wrenn did nothing more presumptuous than sit 
 still, in the stuffy furniture-crowded basement room, 
 which smelled of dead food and deader pride in a race that 
 had never existed. He sat still because the chair was 
 broken. It had been broken now for four years. 
 
 For the hundred and twenty-ninth time in those years 
 Mrs. Zapp said, in her rich corruption of Southern negro 
 dialect, which can only be indicated here, "Ah been mean 
 ing to get that chair mended, Mist Wrenn." 
 
 He looked gratified and gazed upon the crayon enlarge 
 ments of Lee Theresa, the older Zapp daughter (who was 
 forewoman in a factory), and of Godiva. Godiva Zapp 
 was usually called "Goaty," and many times a day was 
 she called by Mrs. Zapp. A tamed child drudge was 
 Goaty, with adenoids, which Mrs. Zapp had been meanin 
 to have removed, and which she would continue to have 
 benevolent meanin s about till it should be too late, and 
 she should discover that Providence never would let 
 Goaty go to school. 
 
 "Yes, Mist Wrenn, Ah told Goaty she was to see the 
 man about getting that chair fixed, but she nev does 
 nothing Ah tell her." 
 
 In the kitchen was the noise of Goaty, ungovernable 
 Goaty, aged eight, still snivelingly washing, though not 
 cleaning, the incredible pile of dinner dishes. With a 
 trail of hesitating remarks on the sadness of sciatica and 
 windy evenings Mr. Wrenn sneaked forth from the 
 august presence of Mrs. Zapp and mounted to paradise 
 his third-floor-front. 
 
 It was an abjectly respectable room the bedspread 
 patched; no two pieces of furniture from the same family; 
 half-tones from the magazines pinned on the wall. But 
 on the old marble mantelpiece lived his friends, books 
 from wanderland. Other friends the room had rarely 
 known. It was hard enough for Mr. Wrenn to get ac 
 quainted with people, anyway, and Mrs. Zapp did not 
 expect her gennulman lodgers to entertain. So Mr. 
 
 4 
 
MR. WRENN IS LONELY 
 
 Wrenn had given up asking even Charley Carpenter, the 
 assistant bookkeeper at the Souvenir Company, to call. 
 That left him the books, which he now caressed with small 
 eager finger-tips. He picked out a P. & O. circular, and 
 hastily left for fairyland. 
 
 The April skies glowed with benevolence this Saturday 
 morning. The Metropolitan Tower was singing, bright 
 ivory tipped with gold, uplifted and intensely glad of the 
 morning. The buildings walling in Madison Square were 
 jubilant; the honest red-brick fronts, radiant; the new 
 marble, witty. The sparrows in the middle of Fifth 
 Avenue were all talking at once, scandalously but cleverly* 
 The polished brass of limousines threw off teethy smiles. 
 At least so Mr. Wrenn fancied as he whisked up Fifth 
 Avenue, the skirts of his small blue double-breasted coat 
 wagging. He was going blocks out of his way to the 
 office; ready to defy time and eternity, yes, and even the 
 office manager. He had awakened with Defiance as his 
 bedfellow, and throughout breakfast at the Hustler Dairy 
 Lunch sunshine had flickered over the dirty tessellated 
 floor. 
 
 He pranced up to the Souvenir Company s brick build 
 ing, on Twenty-eighth Street near Sixth Avenue. In the 
 office he chuckled at his ink-well and the untorn blotters 
 on his orderly desk. Though he sat under the weary 
 unnatural brilliance of a mercury-vapor light, he dashed 
 into his work, and was too keen about this business of 
 living merrily to be much flustered by the bustle of the 
 lady buyer s superior "Good morning." Even up to 
 ten-thirty he was still slamming down papers on his desk. 
 Just let any one try to stop his course, his readiness for 
 snapping fingers at The Job; just let them try it, that was 
 all he wanted! 
 
 Then he was shot out of his chair and four feet along 
 the corridor, in reflex response to the surly "Bur-r-r-r-r" 
 of the buzzer. Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the manager, 
 2 5 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 desired to see him. He scampered along the corridor 
 and slid decorously through the manager s doorway into 
 the long sun-bright room, ornate with rugs and souvenirs. 
 Seven Novelties glittered on the desk alone, including a 
 large rococo Shakespeare-style glass ink-well containing 
 cloves and a small iron Pittsburg-style one containing ink. 
 Mr. Wrenn blinked like a noon-roused owlet in the bril 
 liance. The manager dropped his fist on the desk, glared, 
 smoothed his flowered prairie of waistcoat, and growled, 
 his red jowls quivering: 
 
 "Look here, Wrenn, what s the matter with you? The 
 Bronx Emporium order for May Day novelties was filled 
 twice, they write me." 
 
 "They ordered twice, sir. By phone," smiled Mr. 
 Wrenn, in an agony of politeness. 
 
 "They ordered hell, sir! Twice the same order?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; their buyer was prob 
 
 "They say they ve looked it up. Anyway, they won t 
 pay twice. I know em. We ll have to crawl down 
 
 graceful, and all because you I want to know why 
 
 you ain t more careful!" 
 
 The announcement that Mr. Wrenn twice wriggled his 
 head, and once tossed it, would not half denote his wrath. 
 At last! It was here the time for revolt, when he was 
 going to be defiant. He had been careful; old Gogle- 
 fogle was only barking; but why should he be barked at? 
 With his voice palpitating and his heart thudding so that 
 he felt sick he declared : 
 
 "I m sure, sir, about that order. I looked it up. 
 Their buyer was drunk!" 
 
 It was done. And now would he be discharged ? The 
 manager was speaking: 
 
 " Probably. You looked it up, eh ? Um ! Send me in 
 the two order-records. Well. But, anyway, I want you to 
 be more careful after this, Wrenn. You re pretty sloppy. 
 Now get out. Expect me to make firms pay twice for the 
 same order cause of your carelessness ?" 
 
 6 
 
MR. WRENN IS LONELY 
 
 Mr. Wrenn found himself outside in the dark corridor. 
 The manager hadn t seemed much impressed by his 
 revolt. 
 
 The manager wasn t. He called a stenographer and 
 dictated : 
 j "Bronx Emporium: 
 
 "GENTLEMEN: Our Mr. Wrenn has again (underline 
 that again/ Miss Blaustein), again looked up your order 
 for May Day novelties. As we wrote before, order cer 
 tainly was duplicated by phone. Our Mr. Wrenn is 
 thoroughly reliable, and we have his records of these two 
 orders. We shall therefore have to push collection on 
 both " 
 
 After all, Mr. Wrenn was thinking, the crafty man 
 ager might be merely concealing his hand. Perhaps he 
 had understood the defiance. That gladdened him till 
 after lunch. But at three, when his head was again 
 foggy with work and he had forgotten whether there was 
 still April anywhere, he began to dread what the manager 
 might do to him. Suppose he lost his job; The Job! 
 He worked unnecessarily late, hoping that the manager 
 would learn of it. As he wavered home, drunk with 
 weariness, his fear of losing The Job was almost equal to 
 his desire to resign from The Job. 
 
 He had worked so late that when he awoke on Sunday 
 morning he was still in a whirl of figures. As he went out 
 to his breakfast of coffee and whisked wheat at the 
 Hustler Lunch the lines between the blocks of the cement 
 walk, radiant in a white flare of sunshine, irritatingly re 
 called the cross-lines of order-lists, with the narrow cement 
 blocks at the curb standing for unfilled column-headings. 
 Even the ridges of the Hustler Lunch s imitation steel 
 ceiling, running in parallel lines, jeered down at him that 
 he was a prosaic man whose path was a ruler. 
 
 He went clear up to the branch post-office after break 
 fast to get the Sunday mail, but the mail was a disap- 
 
 7 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 pointment. He was awaiting a wonderful fully illustrated 
 guide to the Land of the Midnight Sun, a suggestion of 
 possible and coyly improbable trips, whereas he got only a 
 letter from his oldest acquaintance Cousin John, of 
 Parthenon, New York, the boy-who-comes-to-play of Mr. 
 Wrenn s back-yard days in Parthenon. Without opening 
 the letter Mr. Wrenn tucked it into his inside coat pocket, 
 threw away his toothpick, and turned to Sunday wayfaring. 
 
 He jogged down Twenty-third Street to the North 
 River ferries afoot. Trolleys took money, and of course 
 one saves up for future great traveling. Over him the 
 April clouds were fetterless vagabonds whose gaiety made 
 him shrug with excitement and take a curb with a frisk 
 as gambolsome as a Central Park lamb. There was no 
 hint of sales-lists in the clouds, at least. And with them 
 Mr. Wrenn s soul swept along, while his half-soled Cum- 
 Fee-Best $3.80 shoes were ambling past warehouses. 
 Only once did he condescend to being really on Twenty- 
 third Street. At the Ninth Avenue corner, under the 
 grimy Elevated, he sighted two blocks down to the 
 General Theological Seminary s brick Gothic and found in 
 a pointed doorway suggestions of alien beauty. 
 
 But his real object was to loll on a West and South 
 Railroad in luxury, and go sailing out into the foam and 
 perilous seas of North River. He passed through the 
 smoking-cabin. He didn t smoke the habit used up 
 travel-money. Once seated on the upper deck, he knew 
 that at last he was outward-bound on a liner. True, there 
 was no great motion, but Mr. Wrenn was inclined to let 
 realism off easily in this feature of his voyage. At least 
 there were undoubted life-preservers in the white racks 
 overhead; and everywhere the world, to his certain wit 
 nessing, was turned to crusading, to setting forth in great 
 ships as if it were again in the brisk morning of history 
 when the joy of adventure possessed the Argonauts. 
 
 He wasn t excited over the liners they passed. He was 
 so experienced in all of travel, save the traveling, as to 
 
 8 
 
MR. WRENN IS LONELY 
 
 have gained a calm interested knowledge. He knew the 
 Campagnia three docks away, and explained to a Harlem 
 grocer her fine points, speaking earnestly of stacks and 
 sticks, tonnage and knots. 
 
 Not excited, but where couldn t he go if he were pulling 
 out for Arcady on the Campagnia! Gee! What were 
 even the building-block towers of the Metropolitan and 
 Singer buildings and the Times s cream- stick compared 
 with some old shrine in a cathedral close that was misted 
 with centuries! 
 
 All this he felt and hummed to himself, though not in 
 words. He had never heard of Arcady, though for many 
 years he had been a citizen of that demesne. 
 
 Sure, he declared to himself, he was on the liner now; 
 he was sliding up the muddy Mersey (see the W. S. 
 Travel Notes for the source of his visions) ; he was off to 
 St. George s Square for an organ-recital (see the English 
 Baedeker); then an express for London and Gee! 
 
 The ferryboat was entering her slip. Mr. Wrenn 
 trotted toward the bow to thrill over the bump of the 
 boat s snub nose against the lofty swaying piles and the 
 swash of the brown waves heaped before her as she 
 sidled into place. He was carried by the herd on into the 
 station. 
 
 He did not notice the individual people in his exultation 
 as he heard the great chords of the station s paean. The 
 vast roof roared as the iron coursers stamped titanic hoofs 
 of scorn at the little stay-at-home. 
 
 That is a washed-out hint of how the poets might 
 describe Mr. Wrenn s passion. What he said was "Gee!" 
 
 He strolled by the lists of destinations hung on the 
 track gates. Chicago (the plains! the Rockies! sunset 
 over mining-camps!), Washington, and the magic South 
 land thither the iron horses would be galloping, their 
 swarthy smoke manes whipped back by the whirlwind, 
 pounding out with clamorous strong hoofs their sixty 
 miles an hour. Very well. In time he also would mount 
 
 9 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 upon the iron coursers and charge upon Chicago and the 
 Southland; just as soon as he got ready. 
 
 Then he headed for Cortlandt Street; for Long Island 
 City; finally, the Navy Yard. Along his way were the 
 docks of the tramp steamers where he might ship as 
 steward in the all-promising Sometime. He had never 
 done anything so reckless as actually to ask a skipper for 
 the chance to go a-sailing, but he had once gone into a 
 mission society s free shipping-office on West Street where 
 a disapproving elder had grumped at him, "Are you a 
 sailor? No? Can t do anything for you, my friend. 
 Are you saved ?" He wasn t going to risk another horror 
 like that, yet when the golden morning of Sometime 
 dawned he certainly was going to go cruising off to palm- 
 bordered lagoons. 
 
 As he walked through Long Island City he contrived 
 conversations with the sailors he passed. It would have 
 surprised a Norwegian bos un s mate to learn that he 
 was really a gun-runner, and that, as a matter of fact, he 
 was now telling yarns of the Spanish Main to the man who 
 slid deprecatingly by him. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn envied the jackies on the training-ship and 
 carelessly went to sea as the President s guest in the 
 admiral s barge and was frightened by the stare of a 
 sauntering shop-girl and arrived home before dusk, to 
 Mrs. Zapp s straitened approval. 
 
 Dusk made incantations in his third-floor-front. Pleas 
 antly fagged in those slight neat legs, after his walk, Mr. 
 Wrenn sat in the wicker rocker by the window, patting his 
 scrubby tan mustache and reviewing the day s wandering. 
 When the gas was lighted he yearned over pictures in a 
 geographical magazine for a happy hour, then yawned 
 to himself, " Well-1-1, Willum, guess it s time to crawl into 
 the downy." 
 
 He undressed and smoothed his ready-made suit on the 
 rocking-chair back. Sitting on the edge of his bed, quaint 
 in his cotton night-gown, like a rare little bird of dull 
 
 10 
 
MR. WRENN IS LONELY 
 
 plumage, he rubbed his head sleepily. Um-m-m-m-m ! 
 How tired he was ! He went to open the window. Then 
 his tamed heart leaped into a waltz, and he forgot third- 
 floor-fronts and sleepiness. 
 
 Through the window came the chorus of fog-horns on 
 North River. "Boom-m-m!" That must be a giant 
 liner, battling up through the fog. (It was a ferry.) A 
 liner! She d be roaring just like that if she were off the 
 Banks! If he were only off the Banks! "Toot! Toot!" 
 That was a tug. "Whawn-n-n!" Another liner. The 
 tumultuous chorus repeated to him all the adventures of 
 the day. 
 
 He dropped upon the bed again and stared absently at 
 his clothes. Out of the inside coat pocket stuck the un 
 opened letter from Cousin John. 
 
 He read a paragraph of it. He sprang from the bed 
 and danced a tarantella, pranced in his cottony night 
 gown like a drunken Yaqui. The letter announced that 
 the flinty farm at Parthenon, left to Mr. Wrenn by his 
 father, had been sold. Its location on a river bluff had 
 made it valuable to the Parthenon Chautauqua Asso 
 ciation. There was now to his credit in the Parthenon 
 National Bank nine hundred and forty dollars! 
 
 He was wealthy, then. He had enough to stalk up and 
 down the earth for many venturesome (but economical) 
 months, till he should learn the trade of wandering, and 
 its mysterious trick of living without a job or a salary. 
 
 He crushed his pillow with burrowing head and sobbed 
 excitedly, with a terrible stomach - sinking and a chill 
 shaking. Then he laughed and wanted to but didn t 
 rush into the adjacent hall room and tell the total stranger 
 there of this world-changing news. He listened in the 
 hall to learn whether the Zapps were up, but heard noth 
 ing; returned and cantered up and down, gloating on a 
 map of the world. 
 
 "Gee! It s happened. I could travel all the time. I 
 guess I won t be very much afraid of wrecks and 
 
 ii 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 stuff. . . . Things like that. . . . Gee! If I don t get to bed 
 I ll be late at the office in the morning!" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn lay awake till three o clock. Monday 
 morning he felt rather ashamed of having done so eccen 
 tric a thing. But he got to the office on time. He was 
 worried with the cares of wealth, with having to decide 
 when to leave for his world-wanderings, but he was also 
 very much aware that office managers are disagreeable 
 if one isn t on time. All morning he did nothing more 
 reckless than balance his new fortune, plus his savings, 
 against steamship fares on a waste half-sheet of paper. 
 
 The noon-hour was not The Job s, but his, for explora 
 tion of the parlous lands of romance that lie hard by 
 Twenty-eighth Street and Sixth Avenue. But he had to 
 go out to lunch with Charley Carpenter, the assistant 
 bookkeeper, that he might tell the news. As for Charley, 
 he needed frequently to have a confidant who knew per 
 sonally the tyrannous ways of the office manager, Mr. 
 Guilfogle. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn and Charley chose (that is to say, Charley 
 chose) 2 table at Driibel s Eating House. Mr. Wrenn 
 timidly hinted, "I ve got some big news to tell you." 
 
 But Charley interrupted, "Say, did you hear old 
 Goglefogle light into me this morning? I won t stand 
 for it. Say, did you hear him the old " 
 
 "What was the trouble, Charley?" 
 
 "Trouble? Nothing was the trouble. Except with 
 old Goglefogle. I made one little break in my accounts. 
 Why, if old Gogie had to keep track of seventy- leven 
 accounts and watch every single last movement of a fool 
 girl that can t even run the adding-machine, why, he d get 
 green around the gills. He d never do anything but make 
 mistakes! Well, I guess the old codger must have had a 
 bum breakfast this morning. Wanted some exercise to 
 digest it. Me, I was the exercise I was the goat. He 
 calls me in, and he calls me down, and me well, just lemme 
 tell you, Wrenn, I calls his bluff!" 
 
 12 
 
MR. WRENN IS LONELY 
 
 Charley Carpenter stopped his rapid tirade, delivered 
 with quick head-shakes like those of palsy, to raise his 
 smelly cigarette to his mouth. Midway in this slow 
 gesture the memory of his wrongs again overpowered him. 
 He flung his right hand back on the table, scattering 
 cigarette ashes, jerked back his head with the irritated 
 patience of a nervous martyr, then waved both hands 
 about spasmodically, while he snarled, with his cheaply 
 handsome smooth face more flushed than usual: 
 
 "Sure! You can just bet your bottom dollar I let him 
 see from the way I looked at him that I wasn t going to 
 stand for no more monkey business. You bet I did ! . . . 
 Fll fix him, I will. You just watch me. (Hey, Driibel, 
 got any lemon merang? Bring me a hunk, will yuh?) 
 Why, Wrenn, that cross-eyed double-jointed fat old slob, 
 
 Fll slam him in the slats so hard some day I will, 
 
 you just watch my smoke. If it wasn t for that messy 
 
 wife of mine I ought to desert her, and I will some 
 
 day, and " 
 
 "Yuh." Mr. Wrenn was curt for a second. ... "I know 
 how it is, Charley. But you ll get over it, honest you 
 will. Say, I ve got some news. Some land that my 
 Dad left me has sold for nearly a thousand plunks. By 
 the way, this lunch is on me. Let me pay for it, Charley." 
 
 Charley promised to let him pay, quite readily. And, 
 expanding, said: 
 
 "Great, Wrenn! Great! Lemme congratulate you. 
 Don t know anybody I d rather ve had this happen to. 
 You re a meek little baa-lamb, but you ve got lots of 
 stuff in you, old Wrennski. Oh say, by the w r ay, could 
 you let me have fifty cents till Saturday? Thanks. I ll 
 pay it back sure. By golly! you re the only man around 
 the office that predates what a double duck-lined old 
 fiend old Goglefogle is, the old " 
 
 "Aw, gee, Charley, I wish you wouldn t jump on 
 Guilfogle so hard. He s always treated me square." 
 
 "Gogie square? Yuh, he s square just like a hoop. 
 
 13 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 You know it, too, Wrenn. Now that you ve got enough 
 money so s you don t need to be scared about the job 
 you ll realize it, and you ll want to soak him, same s I do. 
 Say!" The impulse of a great idea made him gleefully 
 shake his fist sidewise. "Say! Why don t you soak him ? 
 They bank on you at the Souvenir Company. Darn* 
 sight more than you realize, lemme tell you. Why, you 
 do about half the stock-keeper s work sides your own. 
 Tell you what you do. You go to old Goglefogle and tell 
 him you want a raise to twenty-five, and want it right now. 
 Yes, by golly, thirty! You re worth that, or pretty darn* 
 near it, but course old Goglefogle 11 never give it to you. 
 He ll threaten to fire you if you say a thing more about it. 
 You can tell him to go ahead, and then where ll he be? 
 Guess that 11 call his bluff some!" 
 
 "Yes, but, Charley, then if Guilfogle feels he can t pay 
 me that much you know he s responsible to the directors; 
 he can t do everything he wants to why, he ll just have 
 to fire me, after I ve talked to him like that, whether 
 he wants to or not. And that d leave us that d 
 leave them without a sales clerk, right in the busy 
 season." 
 
 "Why, sure, Wrenn; that s what we want to do. If 
 you go it d leave em without just about two men. Bother 
 em like the deuce. It d bother Mr. Mortimer X. Y. 
 Guglefugle most of all, thank the Lord. He wouldn t 
 know where he was at trying to break in a man right in 
 the busy season. Here s your chance. Come on, kid; 
 don t pass it up." 
 
 "Oh gee, Charley, I can t do that. You wouldn t want 
 me to try to hurt the Souvenir Company after being there 
 for lemme see, it must be seven years." 
 
 "Well, maybe you like to get your cute little nose 
 rubbed on the grindstone! I suppose you d like to stay 
 on at nineteen per for the rest of your life." 
 
 "Aw, Charley, don t get sore; please don t! I d like 
 to get off, all right like to go traveling, and stuff like that. 
 
MR. WRENN IS LONELY 
 
 Gee! I d like to wander round. But I can t cut out right 
 in the bus 
 
 "But can t you see, you poor nut, you won t be leaving 
 em they ll either pay you what they ought to or lose 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, I don t know about that, Charley." 
 
 Charley was making up for some uncertainty as to his 
 own logic by beaming persuasiveness, and Mr. Wrenn was 
 afraid of being hypnotized. "No, no!" he throbbed, 
 rising. 
 
 "Well, all right!" snarled Charley, "if you like to be 
 Gogie s goat. . . . Oh, you re all right, Wrennski. I sup 
 pose you had ought to stay, if you feel you got to. ... 
 Well, so long. I ve got to beat it over and buy a pair of 
 socks before I go back." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn crept out of Driibel s behind him, very 
 melancholy. Even Charley admitted that he "had ought 
 to stay," then; and what chance was there of persuading 
 the dread Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle that he wished to be 
 looked upon as one resigning? Where, then, any chance 
 of globe-trotting; perhaps for months he would remain in 
 slavery, and he had hoped just that morning One 
 dreadful quarter-hour with Mr. Guilfogle and he might 
 be free. He grinned to himself as he admitted that this 
 was like seeing Europe after merely swimming the mid 
 winter Atlantic. 
 
 Well, he had nine minutes more, by his two-dollar 
 watch; nine minutes of vagabondage. He gazed across 
 at a Greek restaurant with signs in real Greek letters like 
 "ruins at well, at Aythens." A Chinese chop-suey den 
 with a red-and-yellow carved dragon, and at an upper 
 window a squat Chinaman who might easily be carrying 
 a kris 9 "or whatever them Chink knives are," as he 
 observed for the hundredth time he had taken this journey. 
 A rotisserie, before whose upright fender of scarlet coals 
 whole ducks were happily roasting to a shiny brown. 
 In a furrier s window were Siberian foxes skins (Siberia! 
 
 15 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 huts of "awful brave convicks"; the steely Northern 
 Sea; guards in blouses, just as he d seen them at an 
 Academy of Music play) and a polar bear (meaning, to 
 him, the Northern Lights, the long hike, and the igloo at 
 night). And the florists! There were orchids that 
 (though he only half knew it, and that all inarticulately) 
 whispered to him of jungles where, in the hot hush, he 
 
 saw the slumbering python and "What was it in 
 
 that poem, that Mandalay thing? was it about jungles? 
 Anyway: 
 
 " Them garlicky smells, 
 
 And the sunshine and the palms and the bells. " 
 
 He had to hurry back to the office. He stopped only 
 to pat the head of a florist s delivery horse that looked 
 wistfully at him from the curb. " Poor old fella. What 
 you thinking about? Want to be a circus horse and 
 wander? Le s beat it together. You can t, eh? Poor 
 old fella!" 
 
 At three-thirty, the time when it seems to office persons 
 that the day s work never will end, even by a miracle, Mr. 
 Wrenn was shaky about his duty to the firm. He was 
 more so after an electrical interview with the manager, 
 who spent a few minutes, which he happened to have free, 
 in roaring "I want to know why" at Mr. Wrenn. There 
 was no particular "why" that he wanted to know; he was 
 merely getting scientific efficiency out of employees, a 
 phrase which Mr. Guilfogle had taken from a business 
 magazine that dilutes efficiency theories for inefficient 
 employers. 
 
 At five-twenty the manager summoned him, com 
 plimented him on nothing in particular, and suggested that 
 he stay late with Charley Carpenter and the stock-keeper 
 to inventory a line of desk-clocks which they were closing 
 out. 
 
 As Mr. Wrenn returned to his desk he stopped at a 
 
 16 
 
MR. WRENN IS LONELY 
 
 window on the corridor and coveted the bright late 
 afternoon. The cornices of lofty buildings glistened; 
 the sunset shone fierily through the glass-inclosed layer- 
 like upper floors. He wanted to be out there in the 
 streets with the shopping crowds. Old Goglefogle didn t 
 consider him; why should he consider the firm? 
 
II 
 
 HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 A> he left the Souvenir Company building after work 
 ing late at taking inventory and roamed down toward 
 Fourteenth Street, Mr. Wrenn felt forlornly aimless. 
 The worst of it all was that he could not go to the Nickelor- 
 ion for moving pictures; not after having been cut by the 
 ticket-taker. Then, there before him was the glaring 
 sign of the Nickelorion tempting him; a bill with "Great 
 Train Robbery Film To-night" made his heart thump like 
 stair-climbing and he dashed at the ticket-booth with a 
 nickel doughtily extended. He felt queer about the 
 scalp as the cashier girl slid out a coupon. Why did she 
 seem to be watching him so closely? As he dropped the 
 ticket in the chopper he tried to glance away from the 
 Brass-button Man. For one-nineteenth of a second he 
 kept his head turned. It turned back of itself; he stared 
 full at the man, half bowed and received a hearty absent- 
 minded nod and a "Fine evenin ." He sang to himself a 
 monotonous song of great joy. When he stumbled over 
 the feet of a large German in getting to a seat, he apolo 
 gized as though he were accustomed to laugh easily with 
 many friends. 
 
 The train-robbery film was well, he kept repeating 
 "Gee!" to himself pantingly. How the masked men did 
 sneak, simply sneak and sneak, behind the bushes! Mr. 
 Wrenn shrank as one of them leered out of the picture at 
 him. How gallantly the train dashed toward the robbers, 
 to the spirit-stirring roll of the snare-drum. The rush 
 
 18 
 
HE, WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 from the bushes followed; the battle with detectives con 
 cealed in the express -car. Mr. Wrenn was standing 
 sturdily and shooting coolly with the slender hawk-faced 
 Pinkerton man in puttees; with him he leaped to horse 
 and followed the robbers through the forest. He stayed 
 through the whole program twice to see the train robbery 
 again. 
 
 As he started to go out he found the ticket-taker chang 
 ing his long light-blue robe of state for a highly common 
 place sack-coat without brass buttons. In his astonish 
 ment at seeing how a Highness could be transformed into an 
 every-day man, Mr. Wrenn stopped, and, having stopped, 
 spoke: 
 
 "Uh that was quite a quite a picture that train 
 robbery. Wasn t it." 
 
 " Yuh, I guess Now where s the devil and his wife 
 
 flew away to with my hat? Them guys is always swiping 
 
 it. Picture, mister? Why, I didn t see it no more n 
 
 Say you, Pink Eye, say you crab-footed usher, did you swipe 
 my hat? Ain t he the cut-up, mister! Ain t both them 
 ushers the jingling sheepsheads, though! Being cute and 
 hiding my hat in the box-office. Picture? I don t get no 
 chance to see any of em. Funny, ain t it? me barking 
 for em like I was the grandmother of the guy that in 
 vented em, and not knowing whether the train rob 
 bery Now who stole my going-home shoes? . . . 
 
 Why, I don t know whether the train did any robbing or 
 not!" 
 
 He slapped Mr. Wrenn on the back, and the sales 
 clerk s heart bounded in comradeship. He was surprised 
 into declaring: 
 
 "Say uh I bowed to you the other night and you 
 well, honestly, you acted like you never saw me." 
 
 "Well, well, now, and that s what happens to me for 
 being the dad of five kids and a she-girl and a tom-cat. 
 Sure, I couldn t ve seen you. Me, I was probably that 
 busy with fambly cares I was probably thinking who was 
 
 19 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 it et the lemon pie on me was it Pete or Johnny, or shall 
 I lick em both together, or just bite me wife." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn knew that the ticket-taker had never, never 
 really considered biting his wife. He knew! His nod and 
 grin and "That s the idea!" were urbanely sophisticated. 
 He urged: 
 
 "Oh yes, I m sure you didn t intend to hand me the 
 icy mitt. Say! I m thirsty. Come on over to Moje s 
 and I ll buy you a drink." 
 
 He was aghast at this abyss of money-spending into 
 which he had leaped, and the Brass-button Man was 
 suspiciously wondering what this person wanted of him; 
 but they crossed to the adjacent saloon, a New York 
 corner saloon, which of course "glittered" with a large 
 mirror, heaped glasses, and a long shining foot-rail on 
 which, in bravado, Mr. Wrenn placed his Cum-Fee-Best 
 shoe. 
 
 "Uh?" said the bartender. 
 
 "Rye, Jimmy," said the Brass-button Man. 
 
 "Uh-h-h-h-h," said Mr. Wrenn, in a frightened diminu 
 endo, now that wealthy citizen though he had become 
 he was in danger of exposure as a mollycoddle who couldn t 
 choose his drink properly. "Stummick been hurting me. 
 Guess I d better just take a lemonade." 
 
 "You re the brother-in-law to a wise one," commented 
 the Brass-button Man. "Me, I ain t never got the sense 
 to do the traffic cop on the booze. The old woman she 
 says to me, Mory, she says, if you was in heaven and 
 there was a pail of beer on one side and a gold harp on 
 the other/ she says, and you was to have your pick, which 
 would you take? And what d yuh think I answers her?" 
 
 "The beer," said the bartender. "She had your num 
 ber, all right." 
 
 "Not on your tin-type," declared the ticket-taker. 
 " Me? I says to her. Me? I d pinch the harp and 
 pawn it for ten growlers of Dutch beer and some man- 
 sized rum! " 
 
 20 
 
HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 "Hee, hee hee!" grinned Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha!" grumbled the bartender. 
 
 "Well-1-1," yawned the ticket-taker, "the old woman 11 
 be chasing me best pants around the flat, if she don t have 
 me to chase, pretty soon. Guess I d better beat it. 
 Much obliged for the drink, Mr. Uh. So long, Jimmy." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn set off for home in a high state of exhilaration 
 which, he noticed, exactly resembled driving an aeroplane, 
 and went briskly up the steps of the Zapps genteel but 
 unexciting residence. He was much nearer to heaven than 
 West Sixteenth Street appears to be to the outsider. For 
 he was an explorer of the Arctic, a trusted man on the job, 
 an associate of witty Bohemians. He was an army 
 lieutenant who had, with his friend the hawk -faced 
 Pinkerton man, stood ofF bandits in an attack on a train. 
 He opened and closed the door gaily. He was 
 
 He was an apologetic little Mr. Wrenn. His landlady 
 stood on the bottom step of the hall stairs in a bunchy 
 Mother Hubbard, groaning: 
 
 "Mist Wrenn, if you got to come in so late, Ah wish 
 you wouldn t just make all the noise you can. Ah don t 
 see why Ah should have to be kept awake all night. Ah 
 suppose it s the will of the Lord that whenever Ah go out 
 to see Mrs. Muzzy and just drink a drop of coffee Ah must 
 get insomina, but Ah don t see why anybody that tries 
 to be a gennulman should have to go and bang the door 
 and just rack mah nerves." 
 
 He slunk up-stairs behind Mrs. Zapp s lumbering gloom. 
 
 "There s something I wanted to tell you, Mrs. Zapp 
 something that s happened to me. That s why I was out 
 celebrating last evening and got in so late." Mr. Wrenn 
 was diffidently sitting in the basement. 
 
 "Yes," dryly, "Ah noticed you was out late, Mist 
 Wrenn." 
 
 "You see, Mrs. Zapp, I uh my father left me some 
 land, and it s been sold for about one thousand plunks." 
 3 21 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Ah m awfuF glad, Mist* Wrenn," she said, funereally. 
 " Maybe you d like to take that hall room beside yours 
 now. The two rooms d make a nice apartment." (She 
 really said "nahs pahtmun ," you understand.) 
 
 "Why, I hadn t thought much about that yet." He 
 felt guilty, and was profusely cordial to Lee Theresa Zapp, 
 the factory forewoman, who had just thumped down-stairs. 
 
 Miss Theresa was a large young lady with a bust, much 
 black hair, and a handsome disdainful discontented face. 
 She waited till he had finished greeting her, then sniffed, 
 and at her mother she snarled: 
 
 "Ma, they went and kept us late again to-night. Fm 
 getting just about tired of having a bunch of Jews and 
 Yankees think I m a nigger. Uff! I hate them!" 
 
 "T resa, Mist Wrenn s just inherited two thousand 
 dollars, and he s going to take that upper hall room." 
 Mrs. Zapp beamed with maternal fondness at the timid 
 lodger. 
 
 But the gallant friend of Pinkertons faced her for the 
 first time. "Waste his travel-money?" he was inwardly 
 exclaiming as he said: 
 
 "But I thought you had some one in that room. I 
 heard som " 
 
 "That fellow! Oh, he ain t going to be perm nent. 
 And he promised me So you can have " 
 
 "I m awful sorry, Mrs. Zapp, but I m afraid I can t 
 take it. Fact is, I may go traveling for a while." 
 
 "Co se you ll keep your room if you do, Mist Wrenn?" 
 
 " Why, I m afraid I ll have to give it up, but Oh, 
 I may not be going for a long long while yet; and of course 
 I ll be glad to come I ll want to come back here when I 
 get back to New York. I won t be gone for more than, 
 oh, probably not more than a year anyway, and 
 
 "And Ah thought you said you was going to be perm 
 nent!" Mrs. Zapp began quietly, prefatory to working 
 herself up into hysterics. "And here Ah ve gone and had 
 your room fixed up just for you, and new paper put in, and 
 
 22 
 
HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 you ve always been talking such a lot about how you 
 wanted your furniture arranged, and Ah ve gone and made 
 all mah plans " 
 
 Mr. Wrenn had been a shyly paying guest of the Zapps 
 for four years. That famous new paper had been put 
 up two years before. So he spluttered : "Oh, I m awfully 
 sorry. I wish uh I don t " 
 
 "Ah d thank you, Mist Wrenn, if you could conveniently 
 let me know before you go running off and leaving me with 
 empty rooms, with the landlord after the rent, and me 
 turning away people that d pay more for the room, be 
 cause Ah wanted to keep it for you. And people always 
 coming to see you and making me answer the door 
 and " 
 
 Even the rooming-house worm was making small worm- 
 like sounds that presaged turning. Lee Theresa snapped 
 just in time, "Oh, cut it out, Ma, will you!" She had 
 been staring at the worm, for he had suddenly become 
 interesting and adorable and, incidentally, an heir. "I 
 don t see why Mr. Wrenn ain t giving us all the notice we 
 can expect. He said he mightn t be going for a long 
 time." 
 
 "Oh!" grunted Mrs. Zapp. "So mah own flesh and 
 blood is going to turn against me!" 
 
 She rose. Her appearance of majesty was somewhat 
 lessened by the creak of stays, but her instinct for un 
 pleasantness was always good. She said nothing as she 
 left them, and she plodded up-stairs with a train of sighs. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn looked as though sudden illness had over 
 powered him. But Theresa laughed, and remarked: 
 "You don t want to let Ma get on her high horse, Mr. 
 Wrenn. She s a bluff." 
 
 With much billowing of the lower, less stiff part of her 
 garments, she sailed to the cloudy mirror over the maga 
 zine-filled bookcase and inspected her cap of false curls, 
 with many prods of her large firm hands which flashed 
 with Brazilian diamonds. Though he had heard the 
 
 23 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 word "puffs," he did not know that half her hair was 
 false. He stared at it. Though in disgrace, he felt the 
 honor of knowing so ample and rustling a woman as 
 Miss Lee Theresa. 
 
 " But, say, I wish I could ve let her know I was going 
 earlier, Miss Zapp. I didn t know it myself, but it does 
 seem like a mean trick. I s pose I ought to pay her 
 something extra." 
 
 "Why, child, you won t do anything of the sort. Ma 
 hasn t got a bit of kick coming. You ve always been 
 awful nice, far as I can see." She smiled lavishly. "I 
 went for a walk to-night. ... I wish all those men wouldn t 
 stare at a girl so. I m sure I don t see why they should 
 stare at me." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn nodded, but that didn t seem to be the right 
 comment, so he shook his head, then looked frightfully 
 embarrassed. 
 
 "I went by that Armenian restaurant you were telling 
 me about, Mr. Wrenn. Some time I believe I ll go dine 
 there." Again she paused. 
 
 He said only, "Yes, it is a nice place." 
 
 Remarking to herself that there was no question about 
 it, after all, he was a little fool, Theresa continued the 
 siege. "Do you dine there often?" 
 
 "Oh yes. It is a nice place." 
 
 "Could a lady go there?" 
 
 "Why, yes, I " 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "I should think so," he finished. 
 
 "Oh! ... I do get so awfully tired of the greasy stuff Ma 
 and Goaty dish up. They think a big stew that tastes 
 like dish-water is a dinner, and if they do have anything 
 I like they keep on having the same thing every day till 
 I throw it in the sink. I wish I could go to a restaurant 
 
 once in a while for a change, but of course I dunno s 
 
 it would be proper for a lady to go alone even there. 
 What do you think ? Oh dear!" She sat brooding sadly. 
 
 24 
 
HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 He had an inspiration. Perhaps Miss Theresa could be 
 persuaded to go out to dinner with him some time. lie 
 begged: 
 
 "Gee, I wish you d let me take you up there some 
 evening, Miss Zapp." 
 
 "Now, didn t I tell you to call me Miss Theresa ? 
 Well, I suppose you just don t want to be friends with me. 
 Nobody does." She brooded again. 
 
 "Oh, I didn t mean to hurt your feelings. Honest I 
 didn t. I ve always thought you d think I was fresh if I 
 called you Miss Theresa, and so I " 
 
 "Why, I guess I could go up to the Armenian with you, 
 perhaps. When would you like to go? You know I ve 
 always got lots of dates but I um let s see, I think I 
 could go to-morrow evening." 
 
 "Let s do it! Shall I call for you, Miss uh Theresa?" 
 
 "Yes, you may if you ll be a good boy. Good night." 
 She departed with an air of intimacy. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn scuttled to the Nickelorion, and admitted 
 to the Brass-button Man that he was "feeling pretty 
 good s evening." 
 
 He had never supposed that a handsome creature like 
 Miss Theresa could ever endure such a "slow fellow" as 
 himself. For about one minute he considered with a 
 chill the question of whether she was agreeable because 
 of his new wealth, but reproved the fiend who was making 
 the suggestion; for had he not heard her mention with 
 great scorn a second cousin who had married an old 
 Yankee for his money? That just settled that, he as 
 sured himself, and scowled at a passing messenger-boy 
 for having thus hinted, but hastily grimaced as the 
 youngster showed signs of loud displeasure. 
 
 The Armenian restaurant is peculiar, for it has foreign 
 food at low prices, and is below Thirtieth Street, yet it has 
 not become Bohemian. Consequently it has no bad 
 music and no crowd of persons from Missouri whose 
 
 25 
 
OUR MR, : WRENN 
 
 women risk salvation for an evening by smoking cigarettes. 
 Here prosperous Oriental merchants, of mild natures and 
 bandit faces, drink semi-liquid Turkish coffee and discuss 
 rugs and revolutions. 
 
 In fact, the place seemed so unartificial that Theresa, 
 facing Mr. Wrenn, was bored. And the menu was 
 foreign without being Society viands. It suggested rats 
 tails and birds nests, she was quite sure. She would 
 gladly have experimented with pate defoie gras or alligator- 
 pears, but what social prestige was there to be gained at 
 the factory by remarking that she "always did like 
 pahklava"? Mr. Wrenn did not see that she was glancing 
 about discontentedly, for he was delightedly listening to a 
 lanky young man at the next table who was remarking 
 to his vis-d-vis, a pale slithey lady in black, with the lines 
 of a torpedo-boat: "Try some of the stuffed vine-leaves, 
 child of the angels, and some wheat pilafand some bourma. 
 Your wheat pilaf is a comfortable food and cheering to the 
 stomach of man. Simply zoow-derful. As for the bourma, 
 he is a merry beast, a brown rose of pastry with honey 
 
 cunningly secreted between his petals and Here! 
 
 Waiter! Stuffed vine-leaves, wheat p laf, bourm twice 
 on the order and hustle it." 
 
 "When you get through listening to that man he talks 
 like a bar of soap tell me what there is on this bill of fare 
 that s safe to eat," snorted Theresa. 
 
 "I thought he was real funny," insisted Mr. Wrenn. . . . 
 "I m sure you ll like shish kebab and s " 
 
 " Shish kibub! Who ever heard of such a thing! 
 Haven t they any oh, I thought they d have stuff they 
 call Turkish Delight and things like that." 
 
 " Turkish Delights is cigarettes, I think." 
 
 "Well, I know it isn t, because I read about it in a 
 story in a magazine. And they were eating it. On the 
 terrace. . . . What is that shish kibub?" 
 
 "Kebab. . . . It s lamb roasted on skewers. I know 
 you ll like it." 
 
 26 
 
HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 "Well, I m not going to trust any heathens to cook my 
 meat. I ll take some eggs and some of that what was 
 it the idiot was talking about berma?" 
 
 " Bourma. . . . That s awful nice. With honey. And 
 do try some of the stuffed peppers and rice." 
 
 "All right," said Theresa, gloomily. 
 
 Somehow Mr. Wrenn wasn t vastly transformed even 
 by the possession of the two thousand dollars her mother 
 had reported. He was still "funny and sort of scary," not 
 like the overpowering Southern gentlemen she supposed 
 she remembered. Also, she was hungry. She listened 
 with stolid glumness to Mr. Wrenn s observation that 
 that was "an awful big hat the lady with the funny guy 
 had on." 
 
 He was chilled into quietness till Papa Gouroff, the 
 owner of the restaurant, arrived from above - stairs. 
 Papa Gouroff was a Russian Jew who had been a police 
 spy in Poland and a hotel proprietor in Mogador, where he 
 called himself Turkish and married a renegade Armenian. 
 He had a nose like a sickle and a neck like a blue-gum 
 nigger. He hoped that the place would degenerate into a 
 Bohemian restaurant where liberal clergymen would 
 think they were slumming, and barbers would think they 
 were entering society, so he always wore a fez and talked 
 bad Arabic. He was local color, atmosphere, Bohemian 
 flavor. Mr. Wrenn murmured to Theresa: 
 
 "Say, do you see that man? He s Signor Gouroff, the 
 owner. I ve talked to him a lot of times. Ain t he great! 
 Golly! look at that beak of his. Don t he make you 
 think of kiosks and hyrems and stuff? Gee! What does 
 he make you think " 
 
 "He s got on a dirty collar. . . . That waiter s awful 
 slow. . . . Would you please be so kind and pour me an 
 other glass of water?" 
 
 But when she reached the honied bourma she grew 
 tolerant toward Mr. Wrenn. She had two cups of cocoa 
 and felt fat about the eyes and affectionate. She had 
 
 27 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 mentioned that there were good shows in town. Now 
 she resumed: 
 
 "Have you been to The Gold Brick yet?" 
 "No, I uh I don t go to the theater much." 
 "Gwendolyn Muzzy was telling me that this was the 
 funniest show she d ever seen. Tells how two confidence 
 men fooled one of those terrible little jay towns. Shows 
 all the funny people, you know, like they have in jay 
 towns. ... I wish I could go to it, but of course I have to 
 
 help out the folks at home, so Well. . . . Oh dear." 
 
 "Say! I d like to take you, if I could. Let s go this 
 evening!" He quivered with the adventure of it. 
 
 "Why, I don t know; I didn t tell Ma I was going to be 
 out. But oh, I guess it would be all right if I was with 
 you." 
 
 "Let s go right up and get some tickets." 
 "All right." Her assent was too eager, but she imme 
 diately corrected that error by yawning, "I don t suppose 
 
 I d ought to go, but if you want to " 
 
 They were a very lively couple as they walked up. 
 He trickled sympathy when she told of the selfishness of 
 the factory girls under her and the meanness of the 
 superintendent over her, and he laughed several times as 
 she remarked that the superintendent "ought to be 
 boiled alive that s what all lobsters ought to be," so she 
 repeated the epigram with such increased jollity that they 
 swung up to the theater in a gale; and, once facing the 
 ennuied ticket-seller, he demanded dollar seats just as 
 though he had not been doing sums all the way up to 
 prove that seventy-five-cent seats were the best he could 
 afford. 
 
 The play was a glorification of Yankee smartness. 
 Mr. Wrenn was disturbed by the fact that the swindler 
 heroes robbed quite all the others, but he was stirred by 
 the brisk romance of money-making. The swindlers were 
 supermen blonde beasts with card indices and options 
 instead of clubs. Not that Mr. Wrenn made any obser- 
 
 28 
 
HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 vations regarding supermen. But when, by way of 
 commercial genius, the swindler robbed a young night 
 clerk Mr. Wrenn whispered to Theresa, "Gee! he cer 
 tainly does know how to jolly them, heh ?" 
 
 "Sh-h-h-h-h-h!" said Theresa. 
 
 Every one made millions, victims and all, in the last 
 act, as a proof of the social value of being a live American 
 business man. As they oozed along with the departing 
 audience Mr. Wrenn gurgled: 
 
 "That makes me feel just like Fd been making a million 
 dollars." Masterfully, he proposed, "Say, let s go some 
 place and have something to eat." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 "Let s I almost feel as if I could afford Rector s, 
 
 after that play; but, anyway, let s go to Allaire s." 
 
 Though he was ashamed of himself for it afterward, he 
 was almost haughty toward his waiter, and ordered Welsh 
 rabbits and beer quite as though he usually breakfasted 
 on them. He may even have strutted a little as he hailed 
 a car with an imaginary walking-stick. His parting with 
 Miss Theresa was intimate; he shook her hand warmly. 
 
 As he undressed he hoped that he had not been too 
 abrupt with the waiter, "poor cuss." But he lay awake 
 to think of Theresa s hair and hand-clasp; of polished 
 desks and florid gentlemen who curtly summoned bank- 
 presidents and who had he tossed the bedclothes about 
 in his struggle to get the word who had a punch! 
 
 He would do that Great Traveling of his in the land 
 of Big Business! 
 
 The five thousand princes of New York to protect them 
 selves against the four million ungrateful slaves had de 
 vised the sacred symbols of dress-coats, large houses, and 
 automobiles as the outward and visible signs of the virtue 
 of making money, to lure rebels into respectability and 
 teach them the social value of getting a dollar away from 
 that inhuman, socially injurious fiend, Some One Else. 
 That Our Mr. Wrenn should dream for dreaming s sake was 
 
 29 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 catastrophic; he might do things because he wanted to, 
 not because they were fashionable; whereupon, police 
 forces and the clergy would disband, Wall Street and 
 Fifth Avenue would go thundering down. Hence, for 
 him were provided those Y. M. C. A. night bookkeeping 
 classes administered by solemn earnest men of thirty 
 for solemn credulous youths of twenty-nine; those 
 sermons on content; articles on "building up the run 
 down store by live advertising"; Kiplingesque stories 
 about playing the game; and correspondence-school ad 
 vertisements that shrieked, "Mount the ladder to thor 
 ough knowledge the path to power and to the fuller, 
 pay-envelope." 
 
 To all these Mr. Wrenn had been indifferent, for they 
 showed no imagination. But when he saw Big Business 
 glorified by a humorous melodrama, then The Job appeared 
 to him as picaresque adventure, and he was in peril of^ 
 his imagination. 
 
 The eight-o clock sun, which usually found a wildly] 
 shaving Mr. Wrenn, discovered him dreaming that he 
 was the manager of the Souvenir Company. But that 
 was a complete misunderstanding of the case. The 
 manager of the Souvenir Company was Mr. Mortimer R.j 
 Guilfogle, and he called Mr. Wrenn in to acquaint him* 
 with that fact when the new magnate started his career- 
 in Big Business by arriving at the office one hour late. 
 
 What made it worse, considered Mr. Guilfogle, was that 1 
 this Wrenn had a higher average of punctuality than any! 
 one else in the office, which proved that he knew better. 
 Worst of all, the Guilfogle family eggs had not been 
 scrambled right at breakfast; they had been anemic. I 
 Mr. Guilfogle punched the buzzer and set his face toward \ 
 the door, with a scowl prepared. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn seemed weary, and not so intimidated as 1 
 usual. 
 
 "Look here, Wrenn; you were just about two hours late 
 
 30 
 
HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 this morning. What do you think this office is ? A club or 
 a reading-room for hoboes ? Ever occur to you we d like 
 to have you favor us with a call now and then so s we can 
 learn how you re getting along at golf or whatever you re 
 doing these days?" 
 
 There was a sample baby-shoe office pin-cushion on the 
 manager s desk. Mr. Wrenn eyed this, and said nothing. 
 ;The manager: 
 
 "Hear what I said? D yuh think I m talking to give 
 ; my throat exercise ?" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn was stubborn. "I couldn t help it." 
 
 "Couldn t help ! And you call that an explana 
 tion! I know just exactly what you re thinking, Wrenn; 
 you re thinking that because I ve let you have: a lot of 
 j chances to really work into the business lately you re 
 ; necessary to us, and not simply an expense 
 
 "Oh no, Mr. Guilfogle; honest, I didn t think " 
 
 "Well, hang it, man, you want to think. What do you 
 suppose we pay you a salary for? And just let me tell 
 you, Wrenn, right here and now, that if you can t conde 
 scend to spare us some of your valuable time, now and 
 then, we can good and plenty get along without you." 
 
 An old tale, oft told and never believed; but it inter 
 ested Mr. Wrenn just now. 
 
 "I m real glad you can get along without me. I ve 
 just inherited a big wad of money! I think I ll resign! 
 .Right now!" 
 
 Whether he or Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle was the 
 more aghast at hearing him bawl this no one knows. 
 f The manager was so worried at the thought of breaking 
 in a new man that his eye-glasses slipped off his poor 
 perspiring nose. He begged, in sudden tones of old 
 friendship: 
 
 "Why, you can t be thinking of leaving us! Why, we 
 expect to make a big man of you, Wrenn. I was joking 
 about firing you. You ought to know that, after the talk 
 we had at Mouquin s the other night. You can t be 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 thinking of leaving us! There s no end of possibilities 
 here." 
 
 "Sorry," said the dogged soldier of dreams. 
 
 "Why " wailed that hurt and astonished victim of 
 
 ingratitude, Mr. Guilfogle. 
 
 "I ll leave the middle of June. That s plenty of 
 notice," chirruped Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 At five that evening Mr. Wrenn dashed up to the 
 Brass-button Man at his station before the Nickelorion, 
 crying: 
 
 "Say! You come from Ireland, don t you?" 
 
 "Now what would you think? Me oh no; I m a 
 Chinaman from Oshkosh!" 
 
 "No, honest, straight, tell me. I ve got a chance to 
 travel. What d yuh think of that? Ain t it great! 
 And I m going right away. What I wanted to ask you 
 was, what s the best place in Ireland to see?" 
 
 " Donegal, o course. I was born there." 
 
 Hauling from his pocket a pencil and a worn envelope, 
 Mr. Wrenn joyously added the new point of interest to a 
 listjranging from Delagoa Bay to Denver. 
 
 He skipped up-town, looking at the stars. He shouted 
 as he saw the stacks of a big Cunarder bulking up at the 
 end of Fourteenth Street. He stopped to chuckle over a 
 lithograph of the Parthenon at the window of a Greek 
 bootblack s stand. Stars steamer temples, all these 
 were his. He owned them now. He was free. 
 
 Lee Theresa sat waiting for him in the basement living- 
 room till ten-thirty while he was flirting with trainboards 
 at the Grand Central. Then she went to bed, and, 
 though he knew it not, that prince of wealthy suitors, 
 Mr. Wrenn, had entirely lost the heart and hand of Miss 
 Zapp of the F. F. V. 
 
 He stood before the manager s god-like desk on June 
 14, 1910. Sadly: 
 
 "Good-by, Mr. Guilfogle. Leaving to-day. I wish 
 
 32 
 
HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 Gee ! I wish I could tell you, you know about how much 
 I appreciate " 
 
 The manager moved a wire basket of carbon copies of 
 letters from the left side of his desk to the right, staring 
 at them thoughtfully; rearranged his pencils in a pile 
 before his ink-well; glanced at the point of an indelible 
 pencil with a manner of startled examination; tapped his 
 desk-blotter with his knuckles; then raised his eyes. He 
 studied Mr. Wrenn, smiled, put on the look he used when 
 inviting him out for a drink. Mr. Guilfogle was essen 
 tially an honest fellow, harshened by The Job; a well- 
 satisfied victim, with the imagination clean gone out of 
 him, so that he took follow-up letters and the celerity of 
 office-boys as the only serious things in the world. He 
 was strong, alive, not at all a bad chap, merely efficient. 
 
 "Well, Wrenn, I suppose there s no use of rubbing it in. 
 Course you know what I think about the whole thing. It 
 strikes me you re a fool to leave a good job. But, after 
 all, that s your business, not ours. We like you, and 
 when you get tired of being just a bum, why, come back; 
 we ll always try to have a job open for you. Meanwhile 
 I hope you ll have a mighty good time, old man. Where 
 you going? When d yuh start out?" 
 
 "Why, first I m going to just kind of wander round 
 generally. Lots of things I d like to do. I think I ll get 
 away real soon now. . . . Thank you awfully, Mr. Guilfogle, 
 for keeping a place open for me. Course I prob ly won t 
 need it, but gee! I sure do appreciate it." 
 
 "Say, I don t believe you re so plumb crazy about 
 leaving us, after all, now that the cards are all dole out. 
 Straight now, are you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, it does make me feel a little blue been here 
 so long. But it 11 be awful good to get out at sea." 
 
 " Yuh, I know, Wrenn. I d like to go traveling myself 
 I suppose you fellows think I wouldn t care to go bum 
 ming around like you do and never have to worry about 
 
 how the firm s going to break even. But Well, 
 
 33 
 
OUR ;MR. WRENN 
 
 good-by, old man, and don t forget us. Drop me a line 
 now and then and let me know how you re getting along. 
 Oh say, if you happen to see any novelties that look good 
 let us hear about them. But drop me a line, anyway. 
 We ll always be glad to hear from you. Well, good-by 
 and good luck. Sure and drop me a line." 
 
 In the corner which had been his home for eight years 
 Mr. Wrenn could not devise any new and yet more im 
 proved arrangement of the wire baskets and clips and 
 desk reminders, so he cleaned a pen, blew some gray 
 eraser-dust from under his iron ink-well standard, and 
 decided that his desk was in order; reflecting: 
 
 He d been there a long time. Now he could never 
 come back to it, no matter how much he wanted to. ... 
 How good the manager had been to him. Gee! he 
 hadn t appreciated how considerut Guilfogle was! 
 
 He started down the corridor on a round of farewells 
 to the boys. "Too bad he hadn t never got better 
 acquainted with them, but it was too late now. Anyway, 
 they were such fine jolly sports; they d never miss a 
 stupid guy like him." 
 
 Just then he met them in the corridor, all of them 
 except Guilfogle, headed by Rabin, the traveling salesman, 
 and Charley Carpenter, who was bearing a box of handker 
 chiefs with a large green-and-crimson-paper label. 
 
 "Gov nor Wrenn," orated Charley, "upon this sus 
 picious occasion we have the pleasure of showing by this 
 small token of our esteem our preciation of your untiring 
 efforts in the investigation of Mortimer R. Gugglegiggle 
 of the Graft Trust and 
 
 "Say, old man, joking aside, we re mighty sorry you re 
 going and uh well, we d like to give you something to 
 show we re uh mighty sorry you re going. We thought 
 of a box of cigars, but you don t smoke much; anyway, 
 
 these han k chiefs 11 help to show Three cheers for 
 
 Wrenn, fellows!" 
 
 Afterward, by his desk, alone, holding the box of hand- 
 
 34 
 
HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 kerchiefs with the resplendent red-and-green label, Mr. 
 Wrenn began to cry. 
 
 He was lying abed at eight-thirty on a morning of late 
 June, two weeks after leaving the Souvenir Company, de 
 liberately hunting over his pillow for cool spots, very hot 
 and restless in the legs and enormously depressed in the 
 soul. He would have got up had there been anything to 
 get up for. There was nothing, yet he felt uneasily guilty. 
 For two weeks he had been afraid of losing, by neglect, the 
 job he had already voluntarily given up. So there are 
 men whom the fear of death has driven to suicide. 
 
 Nearly every morning he had driven himself from bed 
 and had finished shaving before he was quite satisfied 
 that he didn t have to get to the office on time. As he 
 wandered about during the day he remarked with fre 
 quency, "I m scared as teacher s pet playing hookey for 
 the first time, like what we used to do in Parthenon." 
 All proper persons were at work of a week-day afternoon. 
 What, then, was he doing walking along the street when 
 all morality demanded his sitting at a desk at the Souvenir 
 Company, being a little more careful, to win the divine 
 favor of Mortimer R. Guilfogle? 
 
 He was sure that if he were already out on the Great 
 Traveling he would be able to "push the buzzer on him 
 self and get up his nerve." But he did not know where to 
 go. He had planned so many trips these years that now 
 he couldn t keep any one of them finally decided on for 
 more than an hour. It rather stretched his short arms 
 to embrace at once a gay old dream of seeing Venice and 
 the stern civic duty of hunting abominably dangerous 
 beasts in the Guatemala bush. 
 
 The expense bothered him, too. He had through many 
 years so persistently saved money for the Great Traveling 
 that he begrudged money for that Traveling itself. 
 Indeed, he planned to spend not more than $300 of the 
 $1,235.80 he had now accumulated, on his first venture, 
 
 35 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 during which he hoped to learn the trade of wan 
 dering. 
 
 He was always influenced by a sentence he had read 
 somewhere about "one of those globe-trotters you meet 
 carrying a monkey-wrench in Calcutta, then in raiment 
 and a monocle at the Athenaeum." He would learn some 
 Kiplingy trade that would teach him the use of astonish 
 ingly technical tools, also daring and the location of 
 smugglers haunts, copra islands, and whaling - stations 
 with curious names. 
 
 He pictured himself shipping as third engineer at the 
 Manihiki Islands or engaged for taking moving pictures 
 of an aeroplane flight in Algiers. He had to get away 
 from Zappism. He had to be out on the iron seas, where 
 the battle-ships and liners went by like a marching 
 military band. But he couldn t get started. 
 
 Once beyond Sandy Hook, he would immediately know 
 all about engines and fighting. It would help, he was 
 certain, to be shanghaied. But no matter how wistfully, 
 no matter how late at night he timorously forced himself to 
 loiter among unwashed English stokers on West Street, he 
 couldn t get himself molested except by glib persons 
 wishing ten cents "for a place to sleep." 
 
 When he had dallied through breakfast that particular 
 morning he sat about. Once he had pictured sitting about 
 reading travel-books as a perfect occupation. But it con 
 cealed no exciting little surprises when he could be a Sunday 
 loafer on any plain Monday. Furthermore, Goaty never 
 made his bed till noon, and the gray-and-brown-patched 
 coverlet seemed to trail all about the disordered room. 
 
 Midway in a paragraph he rose, threw One Hundred 
 Ways to See California on the tumbled bed, and ran away 
 from Our Mr. Wrenn. But Our Mr. Wrenn pursued him 
 along the wharves, where the sun glared on oily water. 
 He had seen the wharves twelve times that fortnight. In 
 fact, he even cried viciously that "he had seen too blame 
 much of the blame wharves." 
 
 36 
 
HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA 
 
 Early in the afternoon he went to a moving-picture show, 
 but the first sight of the white giant figures bulking 
 against the gray background was wearily unreal; and 
 when the inevitable large-eyed black-braided Indian 
 maiden met the canonical cow-puncher he threshed about 
 in his seat, was irritated by the nervous click of the 
 machine and the hot stuffiness of the room, and ran away 
 just at the exciting moment when the Indian chief dashed 
 into camp and summoned his braves to the war-path. 
 
 Perhaps he could hide from thought at home. 
 
 As he came into his room he stood at gaze like a kitten 
 of good family beholding a mangy mongrel asleep in its 
 pink basket. For on his bed was Mrs. Zapp, her rotund 
 curves stretching behind her large flat feet, whose soles 
 were toward him. She was noisily somnolent; her stays 
 creaked regularly as she breathed, except when she moved 
 slightly and groaned. 
 
 Guiltily he tiptoed down-stairs and went snuffling along 
 the dusty unvaried brick side streets, wondering where in 
 all New York he could go. He read minutely a placard 
 advertising an excursion to the Catskills, to start that 
 evening. For an exhilarated moment he resolved to go, 
 but "oh, there was a lot of them rich society folks up 
 there." He bought a morning American and, sitting in 
 Union Square, gravely studied the humorous drawings. 
 
 He casually noticed the "Help Wanted" advertisements. 
 
 They suggested an uninteresting idea that somehow he 
 might find it economical to go venturing as a waiter or 
 farm-hand. 
 
 And so he came to the gate of paradise: 
 
 MEN WANTED. Free passage on cattle-boats to Liverpool 
 feeding cattle. Low fee. Easy work. Fast boats. Apply 
 International and Atlantic Employment Bureau, Greenwich 
 Street. 
 
 "Gee!" he cried, "I guess Providence has picked out my 
 first hike for me." 
 
 4 37 
 
Ill 
 
 HE STARTS FOR THE LAND OF ELSEWHERE 
 
 THE International and Atlantic Employment Bureau 
 is a long dirty room with the plaster cracked like 
 the outlines on a map, hung with steamship posters 
 and the laws of New York regarding employment offices, 
 which are regarded as humorous by the proprietor, 
 M. Baraieff, a short slender ejaculatory person with a 
 nervous black beard, lively blandness, and a knowledge 
 of all the incorrect usages of nine languages. Mr. Wrenn 
 edged into this junk-heap of nationalities with interested 
 wonder. M. BaraiefF rubbed his smooth wicked hands 
 together and bowed a number of times. 
 
 Confidentially leaning across the counter, Mr. Wrenn 
 murmured: "Say, I read your ad. about wanting cattle 
 men. I want to make a trip to Europe. How ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes, yes, Mistaire. I feex you up right 
 away. Ten dollars pleas-s-s-s." 
 
 "Well, what does that entitle me to?" 
 
 " I tole you I feex you up. Ha! ha! I know it; you are 
 a gentleman; you want a nice leetle trip on Europe. Sure. 
 I feex you right up. I send you off on a nice easy cattle- 
 boat where you won t have to work much hardly any. 
 Right away it goes. Ten dollars pleas-s-s-s." 
 
 "But when does the boat start? Where does it start 
 from?" Mr. Wrenn was a bit confused. He had never 
 met a man who grimaced so politely and so rapidly. 
 
 "Next Tuesday I send you right off. 5 * 
 
 Mr. Wrenn regretfully exchanged ten dollars for a card 
 
 38 
 
T.HE LAND OF ELSEWHERE 
 
 * ^ 
 
 informing Trubiggs, Atlantic Avenue, Boston, that Mr. 
 "Ren" was to be "ship 1st poss. catel boat right away 
 and charge my acct. fee paid Baraieff." Brightly declar 
 ing "I geef you a fine ship," M. Baraieff added, on the 
 margin of the card, in copper-plate script, "Best ship, 
 easy work." He caroled, "Come early next Tuesday 
 morning," and bowed out Mr. Wrenn like a Parisian shop 
 keeper. The row of waiting servant-girls curtsied as 
 though they were a hedge swayed by the wind, while Mr. 
 Wrenn self-consciously hurried to get past them. 
 
 He was too excited to worry over the patient and quiet 
 suffering with which Mrs. Zapp heard the announcement 
 that he was going. That Theresa laughed at him for a 
 cattleman, while Goaty, in the kitchen, audibly observed 
 that "nobody but a Yankee would travel in a pig-pen," 
 merely increased his joy in moving his belongings to a 
 storage warehouse. 
 
 Tuesday morning, clad in a sweater-jacket, tennis-shoes, 
 an old felt hat, a khaki shirt and corduroys, carrying a 
 suit-case packed to bursting with clothes and Baedekers, 
 with one hundred and fifty dollars in express-company 
 drafts craftily concealed, he dashed down to Baraieff s 
 hole. Though it was only eight-thirty, he was afraid he 
 was going to be late. 
 
 Till 2 P.M. he sat waiting, then was sent to the Joy 
 Steamship Line wharf with a ticket to Boston and a 
 letter to Trubiggs s shipping-office: "Give bearer Ren as 
 per inclosed receet one trip England catel boat charge my 
 
 acct. SYLVESTRE BARAIEFF, N. Y." 
 
 v 
 
 Standing on the hurricane-deck of the Joy Line boat, 
 with his suit-case guardedly beside him, he crooned to 
 himself tuneless chants with the refrain, "Free, free, out 
 to sea. Free, free, that s me!" He had persuaded him 
 self that there was practically no danger of the boat s 
 sinking or catching fire. Anyway, he just wasn t going 
 to be scared. As the steamer trudged up East River 
 
 39 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 he watched the late afternoon sun brighten the Manhattan 
 factories and make soft the stretches of Westchester 
 fields. (Of course, he "thrilled.") 
 
 He had no state-room, but was entitled to a place in a 
 twelve-berth room in the hold. Here large farmers with 
 out their shoes were grumpily talking all at once, so he 
 returned to the deck; and the rest of the night, while the 
 other passengers snored, he sat modestly on a canvas 
 stool, unblinkingly gloating over a sea-fabric of frosty 
 blue that was shot through with golden threads when 
 they passed lighthouses or ships. At dawn he was 
 weary, peppery-eyed, but he viewed the flooding light 
 with approval. 
 
 At last, Boston. 
 
 The front part of the shipping-office on Atlantic Avenue 
 was a glass-inclosed room littered with chairs, piles of 
 circulars, old pictures of Cunarders, older calendars, and 
 directories to be ranked as antiques. In the midst of 
 these remains a red-headed Yankee of forty, smoking a 
 Pittsburg stogie, sat tilted back in a kitchen chair, reading 
 the Boston American. Mr. Wrenn delivered M. BaraiefFs 
 letter and stood waiting, holding his suit-case, ready to 
 skip out and go aboard a cattle-boat immediately. 
 
 The shipping-agent glanced through the letter, then 
 snapped: 
 
 "BryfFs crazy. Always sends em too early. Wrenn, 
 you ought to come to me first. What j yuh go to that 
 Jew first for? Here he goes and sends you a day late 
 or couple days too early. *F you d got here last night 
 I could ve sent you off this morning on a Dominion Line 
 boat. All I got now is a Leyland boat that starts from 
 Portland Saturday. Le s see; this is Wednesday. 
 Thursday, Friday you ll have to wait three days. Now 
 you want me to fix you up, don t you? I might not be 
 able to get you off till a week from now, but you d like to 
 get off on a good boat Saturday instead, wouldn t you?" 
 
 "Oh yes; I would. I " 
 
 40 
 
THE LAND OF ELSEWHERE 
 
 "Well, I ll try to fix it. You can see for yourself; boats 
 ain t leaving every minute just to please Bryff. And 
 it s the busy season. Bunches of rah-rah boys wanting to 
 cross, and Canadians wanting to get back to England, and 
 Jews beating it to Poland to sling bombs at the Czar, 
 I guess. And lemme tell you, them Jews is all right. 
 They re willing to pay for a man s time and trouble in 
 getting em fixed up, and so " 
 
 With dignity Mr. William Wrenn stated, "Of course 
 Til be glad to uh make it worth your while." 
 
 "I thought you was a gentleman. Hey, Al! All" 
 An underfed boy with few teeth, dusty and grown out of 
 his trousers, appeared. "Clear off a chair for the gentle 
 man. Stick that valise on top my desk. ... Sit down, 
 Mr. Wrenn. You see, it s like this: I ll tell you in con 
 fidence, you understand. This letter from BryfF ain t 
 worth the paper it s written on. He ain t got any right 
 to be sending out men for cattle-boats. Me, I m running 
 that. I deal direct with all the Boston and Portland lines. 
 If you don t believe it just go out in the back room and 
 ask any of the cattlemen out there." 
 
 "Yes, I see," Mr. Wrenn observed, as though he were 
 ill, and toed an old almanac about the floor. "Uh Mr. 
 Trubiggs, is it?" 
 
 "Yump. Yump, my boy. Trubiggs. Tru by name 
 and true by nature. Heh?" 
 
 This last was said quite without conviction. It was 
 evidently a joke which had come down from earlier years. 
 Mr. Wrenn ignored it and declared, as stoutly as he could : 
 
 "You see, Mr. Trubiggs, I d be willing to pay you " 
 
 "I ll tell you just how it is, Mr. Wrenn. I ain t one of 
 these Sheeny employment bureaus; I m an American; 
 I like to look out for Americans. Even if you didn t come 
 to me first I ll watch out for your interests, same s if they 
 was mine. Now, do you want to get fixed up with a nice 
 fast boat that leaves Portland next Saturday, just a 
 couple of days wait?" 
 
 41 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Oh yes, I do, Mr. Trubiggs." 
 
 "Well, my list is really full men waiting, too but if 
 it d be worth five dollars to you to " 
 
 "Here s the five dollars/^ 
 
 The shipping-agent was disgusted. He had estimated 
 from Mr. Wrenn s cheap sweater-jacket and tennis-shoes 
 that he would be able to squeeze out only three or four 
 dollars, and here he might have made ten. More in 
 sorrow than in anger: 
 
 "Of course you understand I may have a lot of trouble 
 working you in on the next boat, you coming as late as 
 this. Course five dollars is less *n what I usually get." 
 He contemptuously tossed the bill on his desk. "If you 
 want me to slip a little something extra to the agents " 
 
 Mr. Wrenn was too head-achy to be customarily timid. 
 "Let s see that. Did I give you only five dollars?" Re 
 ceiving the bill, he folded it with much primness, tucked 
 it into the pocket of his shirt, and remarked: 
 
 "Now, you said you d fix me up for five dollars. Be 
 sides, that letter from Baraieff is a form with your name 
 printed on it; so I know you do business with him right 
 along. If five dollars ain t enough, why, then you can 
 just go to hell, Mr. Trubiggs; yes, sir, that s what you can 
 do. I m just getting tired of monkeying around. If 
 five is enough I ll give this back to you Friday, when you 
 send me off to Portland, if you give me a receipt. There!" 
 He almost snarled, so weary and discouraged was he. 
 
 Now, Trubiggs was a warm-hearted rogue, and he liked 
 the society of what he called "white people." He 
 laughed, poked a Pittsburg stogie at Mr. Wrenn, and 
 consented: 
 
 "All right. I ll fix you up. Have a smoke. Pay me 
 the five Friday, or pay it to my foreman when he puts 
 you on the cattle-boat. I don t care a rap which. You re 
 all right. Can t bluff you, eh ?" 
 
 And, further bluffing Mr. Wrenn, he suggested to him 
 a lodging-house for his two nights in Boston. "Tell the 
 
 42 
 
THE LAND OF ELSEWHERE 
 
 clerk that red-headed Trubiggs sent you, and he ll give 
 you the best in the house. Tell him you re a friend of 
 mine." 
 
 When Mr. Wrenn had gone Mr. Trubiggs remarked to 
 some one, by telephone, " Nother sucker coming, Blau- 
 geld. Now don t try to do me out of my bit or I ll 
 cap for some other joint, understand? Huh? Yuh, stick 
 him for a thirty-five-cent bed. S long." 
 
 The caravan of Trubiggs s cattlemen who left for Port 
 land by night steamer, Friday, was headed by a bulky- 
 shouldered boss, who wore no coat and whose corduroy 
 vest swung cheerfully open. A motley troupe were the 
 cattlemen Jews with small trunks, large imitation- 
 leather valises and assorted bundles, a stolid prophet- 
 bearded procession of weary men in tattered derbies and 
 sweat-shop clothes. 
 
 There were Englishmen with rope-bound pine chests. 
 A lewd-mouthed American named Tim, who said he was 
 a hatter out of work, and a loud-talking tough called 
 Pete mingled with a straggle of hoboes. 
 
 The boss counted the group and selected his confidants 
 for the trip to Portland Mr. Wrenn and a youth named 
 Morton. 
 
 Morton was a square heavy-fleshed young man with 
 stubby hands, who, up to his eyes, was stolid and solid as a 
 granite monument, but merry of eye and hinting friendli 
 ness in his tousled soft-brown hair. He was always 
 wielding a pipe and artfully blowing smoke through his 
 nostrils. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn and he smiled at each other searchingly as 
 the Portland boat pulled out, and a wind swept straight 
 from the Land of Elsewhere. 
 
 After dinner Morton, smoking a pipe shaped somewhat 
 like a golf-stick head and somewhat like a toad, at the 
 rail of the steamer, turned to Mr. Wrenn with : 
 
 "Classy bunch of cattlemen we ve got to go with. 
 Not! . . . My name s Morton." 
 
 43 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "I m awful glad to meet you, Mr. Morton. My name s 
 Wrenn." 
 
 "Glad to be off at last, ain t you?" 
 
 "Golly! I should say I am!" 
 
 "So m I. Been waiting for this for years. I m a clerk 
 for the P. R. R. in N York." 
 
 "I come from New York, too." 
 
 "So? Lived there long?" 
 
 "Uh-huh, I " began Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 "Well, I been working for the Penn. for seven years 
 now. Now I ve got a vacation of three months. On me. 
 Gives me a chance to travel a little. Got ten plunks and 
 a second-class ticket back from Glasgow. But I m going 
 to see England and France just the same. Prob ly Ger 
 many, too." 
 
 "Second class? Why don t you go steerage, and save?" 
 
 "Oh, got to come back like a gentleman. You know. 
 You re from New York, too, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, I m with an art-novelty company on Twenty- 
 eighth Street. I been wanting to get away for quite 
 some time, too. . . . How are you going to travel on ten 
 dollars?" 
 
 "Oh, work m way. Cinch. Always land on my feet. 
 Not on my uppers, at that. I m only twenty-eight, but 
 I ve been on my own, like the English fellow says, since 
 I was twelve. . . . Well, how about you? Traveling or 
 going somewhere?" 
 
 "Just traveling. I m glad we re going together, Mr. 
 Morton. I don t think most of these cattlemen are very 
 nice. Except for the old Jews. They seem to be fine old 
 coots. They make you think of oh you know 
 prophets and stuff. Watch em, over there, making tea. 
 I suppose the steamer grub ain t kosher. I seen one on 
 the Joy Line saying his prayers I suppose he was in a 
 kind of shawl." 
 
 "Well, well! You don t say so!" 
 
 Distinctly, Mr. Wrenn felt that he was one of the 
 
 44 
 
THE LAND OF ELSEWHERE 
 
 gentlemen who, in Kipling, stand at steamer rails ex 
 changing observations on strange lands. He uttered, 
 cosmopolitanly: 
 
 "Gee! Look at that sunset. Ain t that grand!" 
 
 "Holy smoke! it sure is. I don t see how anybody 
 could believe in religion after looking at that." 
 
 Shocked and confused at such a theory, yet excited at 
 rinding that Morton apparently had thoughts, Mr. Wrenn 
 piped: "Honestly, I don t see that at all. I don t see 
 how anybody could disbelieve anything after a sunset 
 like that. Makes me believe all sorts of thing gets me 
 going I imagine I m all sorts of places on the Nile 
 and so on." 
 
 "Sure! That s just it. Everything s so peaceful and 
 natural. Just is. Gives the imagination enough to do, 
 even by itself, without having to have religion." 
 
 "Well," reflected Mr. Wrenn, "I don t hardly ever go to 
 church. I don t believe much in all them highbrow ser 
 mons that don t come down to brass tacks ain t got 
 nothing to do with real folks." But just the same, I love 
 to go up to St. Patrick s Cathedral. Why, I get real 
 thrilled I hope you won t think I m trying to get high- 
 browed, Mr. Morton." 
 
 "Why, no. Cer nly not. I understand. Gwan." 
 
 "It gets me going when I look down the aisle at the 
 altar and see the arches and so on. And the priests in 
 their robes they look so so way up oh, I dunno just 
 how to say it so kind of uplifted." 
 
 "Sure, I know. Just the esthetic end of the game. 
 Esthetic, you know the beauty part of it." 
 
 " Yuh, sure, that s the word. Sthetic, that s what it is. 
 Yes, sthetic. But, just the same, it makes me feel s 
 though I believed in all sorts of things." 
 
 "Tell you what I believe may happen, though," 
 exulted Morton. "This socialism, and maybe even these 
 here International Workers of the World, may pan out 
 as a new kind of religion. I don t know much about it,, 
 
 45 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 I got to admit. But looks as though it might be that 
 way. It s dead certain the old political parties are just 
 gangs don t stand for anything except the name. But 
 this comrade business good stunt. Brotherhood of 
 man real brotherhood. My idea of religion. One that 
 is because it s got to be, not just because it always has 
 been. Yessir, me for a religion of guys working together 
 to make things easier for each other." 
 
 "You bet!" commented Mr. Wrenn, and they smote 
 each other upon the shoulder and laughed together in a 
 fine flame of shared hope. 
 
 "I wish I knew something about this socialism stuff," 
 mused Mr. Wrenn, with tilted head, examining the 
 burnt-umber edges of the sunset. 
 
 "Great stuff. Not working for some lazy cuss that s 
 inherited the right to boss you. And international 
 brotherhood, not just neighborhoods. New thing." 
 
 "Gee! I surely would like that, awfully," sighed Mr. 
 Wrenn. 
 
 He saw the processional of world brotherhood tramp 
 steadily through the paling sunset; saffron- vestured 
 Mandarin marching by flax-faced Norseman and languid 
 South Sea Islander the diverse peoples toward whom he 
 had always yearned. 
 
 "But I don t care so much for some of these ranting 
 street-corner socialists, though," mused Morton. "The 
 kind that holler Come get saved our way or go to hell! 
 Keep off scab guides to prosperity. " 
 
 "Yuh,sure. Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 "Huh! huh!" 
 
 Morton soon had another thought. "Still, same time, 
 us^guys that do the work have got to work out something 
 for ourselves. We can t bank on the rah-rah boys that 
 wear eye-glasses and condescend to like us cause they 
 think we ain t entirely too dirty for em to associate with, 
 and all these writer guys and so on. That s where you 
 got to hand it to the street-corner shouters." 
 
THE LAND OF ELSEWHERE 
 
 "Yes, that s so. Y right there, I guess, all right." 
 
 They looked at each other and laughed again; initiated 
 friends; tasting each other s souls. They shared sand 
 wiches and confessions. When the other passengers had 
 gone to bed and the sailors on watch seemed lonely the 
 two men were still declaring, shyly but delightedly, that 
 "things is curious." 
 
 In the damp discomfort of early morning the cattlemen 
 shuffled from the steamer at Portland and were herded 
 to f a lunch-room by the boss, who cheerfully smoked his 
 corn-cob and ejaculated to Mr. Wrenn and Morton such 
 interesting facts as: 
 
 "Trubiggs is a lobster. You don t want to let the 
 bosses bluff you aboard the Merian. They ll try to 
 chase you in where the steers 11 gore you. The grub 11 
 be " 
 
 "What grub do you get?" 
 
 "Scouse and bread. And water." 
 
 " What s scouse?" 
 
 "Beef stew without the beef. Oh, the grub 11 be 
 rotten. Trubiggs is a lobster. He wouldn t be nowhere 
 if t wa n t for me." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn appreciated England s need of roast beef, 
 but he timidly desired not to be gored by steers, w r hich 
 seemed imminent, before breakfast coffee. The streets 
 were coldly empty, and he was sleepy, and Morton was 
 silent. At the restaurant, sitting on a high stool before 
 a pine counter, he choked over an egg sandwich made 
 with thick crumby slices of a bread that had no person 
 ality to it. He roved forlornly about Portland, beside the 
 gloomy pipe-valiant Morton, fighting two fears: the com 
 pany might not need all of them this trip, and he might 
 have to wait; secondly, if he incredibly did get shipped 
 and started for England the steers might prove dreadfully 
 dangerous. After intense thinking he ejaculated, "Gee! 
 it s be bored or get gored." Which was much too good 
 not to tell Morton, so they laughed very much, and at 
 
 47 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 ten o clock were signed on for the trip and led, whooping, 
 to the deck of the S.S. Merian. 
 
 Cattle were still struggling down the chutes from the 
 dock. The dirty decks were confusingly littered with 
 cordage and the cattlemen s luggage. The Jewish elders 
 stared sepulchrally at the wilderness of open hatches and 
 rude passageways, as though they were prophesying 
 death. 
 
 But Mr. Wrenn, standing sturdily beside his suit-case 
 to guard it, fawned with romantic love upon the rusty 
 iron sides of their pilgrims caravel; and as the Merian 
 left the wharf with no more handkerchief-waving or tears 
 than attends a ferry s leaving he mumbled: 
 
 "Free, free, out to sea. Free, free, that s me!" 
 
 Then, "Gee! ... Gee whittakers!" 
 
IV 
 
 HE BECOMES THE GREAT LITTLE BILL WRENN 
 
 WHEN the Merian was three days out from Portland 
 the frightened cattleman stiff known as "Wrennie" 
 wanted to die, for he was now sure that the smell of the 
 fo c sle, in which he was lying on a thin mattress of straw 
 covered with damp gunny-sacking, both could and would 
 become daily a thicker smell, a stronger smell, a smell 
 increasingly diverse and deadly. 
 
 Though it was so late as eight bells of the evening, 
 Pete, the tough factory hand, and Tim, the down-and-out 
 hatter, were still playing seven-up at the dirty foVsle 
 table, while McGarver, under-boss of the Morris cattle 
 gang, lay in his berth, heavily studying the game and 
 blowing sulphurous fumes of Lunch Pail Plug Cut tobacco 
 up toward Wrennie. 
 
 Pete, the tough, was very evil. He sneered. He stole. 
 He bullied. He was a drunkard and a person without 
 cleanliness of speech. Tim, the hatter, was a loud-talking 
 weakling, under Pete s domination. Tim wore a dirty 
 rubber collar without a tie, and his soul was like his 
 neckware. 
 
 McGarver, the under-boss, was a good shepherd among 
 the men, though he had recently lost the head foremanship 
 by a spree complicated with language and violence. He 
 looked like one of the Merian bulls, with broad short neck 
 and short curly hair above a thick-skinned deeply wrinkled 
 low forehead. He never undressed, but was always seen, 
 as now, in heavy shoes and blue-gray woolen socks tucked 
 
 49 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 over the bottoms of his overalls. He was gruff and kind 
 and tyrannical and honest. 
 
 Wrennie shook and drew his breath sharply as the fog 
 horn yawped out its "Whawn-n-n-n" again, reminding 
 him that they were still in the Bank fog; that at any mo 
 ment they were likely to be stunned by a heart-stopping 
 crash as some liner s bow burst through the fo c sle s walls 
 in a collision. Bow-plates buckling in and shredding, 
 the in-thrust of an enormous black bow, water flooding in, 
 cries and - However, the horn did at least show that 
 They were awake up there on the bridge to steer him 
 through the fog; and weren t They experienced seamen? 
 Hadn t They made this trip ever so many times and never 
 got killed? Wouldn t They take all sorts of pains on 
 Their own account as well as on his ? 
 
 But just the same, would he really ever get to England 
 alive? And if he did, would he have to go on holding his 
 breath in terror for nine more days? Would the fo c sle 
 always keep heaving up up up, like this, then down 
 down down, as though it were going to sink? 
 
 "How do yuh like de fog-horn, Wrennie?" 
 
 Pete, the tough, spit the question up at him from a 
 corner of his mouth. "Hope we don t run into no ships." 
 
 He winked at Tim, the weakling hatter, who took the 
 cue and mourned: 
 
 "I m kinda afraid we re going to, ain t you, Pete? 
 The mate was telling me he was scared we would." 
 
 "Sures t ing you know. Hey, Wrennie, wait till youse 
 have to beat it down-stairs and tie up a bull in a storm. 
 Hully gee! Youse 11 last quick on de game, Birdie!" 
 
 "Oh, shut up," snapped Wrennie s friend Morton. 
 
 But Morton was seasick; and Pete, not heeding him, 
 outlined other dangers which he was happily sure were 
 threatening them. Wrennie shivered to hear that the 
 "grub d git worse." He writhed under Pete s loud 
 questions about his loss, in some cattle-pen, of the gray- 
 and-scarlet sweater-jacket which he had proudly and gaily 
 
 50 
 
GREAT LITTLE BILL WRENN 
 
 purchased in New York for his work on the ship. And 
 the card-players assured him that his suit-case, which he 
 had intrusted to the Croac ship s carpenter, would prob 
 ably be stolen by "Satan." 
 
 Satan! Wrennie shuddered still more. For Satan, 
 the gaunt-jawed hook-nosed rail-faced head foreman, 
 diabolically smiling when angry, sardonically sneering 
 when calm, was a lean human whip-lash. Pete sniggered. 
 He dilated upon Satan s wrath at Wrennie for not "com 
 ing across" with ten dollars for a bribe as he, Pete, had 
 done. 
 
 (He lied, of course. And his words have not been given 
 literally. They were not beautiful words.) 
 
 McGarver, the straw-boss, would always lie aw r ake to 
 enjoy a good brisk indecent story, but he liked Wrennie s 
 admiration of him, so, lunging with his bull-like head 
 out of his berth, he snorted: 
 
 "Hey, you, Pete, it s time to pound your ear. Cut it 
 out." " 
 
 Wrennie called down, sternly, "I ain t no theological 
 student, Pete, and I don t mind profanity, but I wish 
 you wouldn t talk like a garbage-scow." 
 
 "Hey, Poicy, did yuh bring your dictionary?" Pete 
 bellowed to Tim, two feet distant from him. To Wrennie, 
 "Say, Gladys, ain t you afraid one of them long woids 
 like t eological will turn around Jand bite you right on 
 the wrist?" 
 
 "Dry up!" irritatedly snapped a Canadian. 
 
 "Aw, cut it out, you ," groaned another. 
 
 "Shut up," added McGarver, the straw-boss. "Both 
 of you." Raging: "Gwan to bed, Pete, or I ll beat your 
 block clean off. I mean it, see? Hear me? 9 
 
 Yes, Pete heard him. Doubtless the first officer on the 
 bridge heard, too, and perhaps the inhabitants of New 
 foundland. But Pete took his time in scratching the 
 back of his neck and stretching before he crawled into 
 his berth. For half an hour he talked softly to Tim, for 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Wrennie s benefit, stating his belief that Satan, the head 
 boss, had once thrown overboard a Jew much like Wrennie, 
 and was likely thus to serve Wrennie, too. Tim pictured 
 the result when, after the capsizing of the steamer which 
 would undoubtedly occur if this long sickening motion 
 kept up, Wrennie had to take to a boat with Satan. 
 
 The fingers of Wrennie curled into shape for strangling 
 some one. 
 
 When Pete was asleep he worried off into thin slumber. 
 
 Then, there was Satan, the head boss, jerking him out 
 of his berth, stirring his cramped joints to another dawn 
 of drudgery two hours of work and two of waiting before 
 the daily eight-o clock insult called breakfast. He tugged 
 on his shoes, marveling at Mr. Wrenn s really being there, 
 at his sitting in cramped stoop on the side of a berth in a 
 dark filthy place that went up and down like a freight 
 elevator, subject to the orders of persons whom he did not 
 in the least like. 
 
 Through the damp gray sea-air he staggered hungrily 
 along the gangway to the hatch amidships, and trembled 
 down the iron ladder to McGarver s crew tween-decks. 
 
 First, watering the steers. Sickened by walking back 
 ward with pails of water he carried till he could see and 
 think of nothing in the world save the water-butt, the 
 puddle in front of it, and the cattlemen mercilessly dipping 
 out pails there, through centuries that would never end. 
 How those steers did drink! 
 
 McGarver s favorite bull, which he called "the Grena 
 dier/ took ten pails and still persisted in leering with 
 dripping gray mouth beyond the headboard, trying to 
 reach more. As Wrennie was carrying a pail to the 
 heifers beyond, the Grenadier s horn caught and tore his 
 overalls. The boat lurched. The pail whirled out of his 
 hand. He grasped an iron stanchion and kicked the 
 Grenadier in the jaw till the steer backed off, a reformed 
 character. 
 
 McGarver cheered, for such kicks were a rule of the game. 
 
 52 
 
GREAT LITTLE BILL WRENN 
 
 "Good work," ironically remarked Tim, the weakling 
 hatter. 
 
 "You go to hell," snapped Wrennie, and Tim looked 
 much more respectful. 
 
 But Wrennie lost this credit before they had finished 
 feeding out the hay, for he grew too dizzy to resent Tim s 
 remarks. 
 
 Straining to pitch forkfuls into the pens while the boat 
 rolled, slopping along the wet gangway, down by the 
 bunkers of coal, where the heat seemed a close-wound 
 choking shroud and the darkness was made only a little 
 pale by light coming through dust-caked port-holes, he 
 sneezed and coughed and grunted till he was exhausted. 
 The floating bits of hay-dust were a thousand impish 
 hands with poisoned nails scratching at the roof of his 
 mouth. His skin prickled all over. He constantly dis 
 covered new and aching muscles. But he wabbled on 
 until he finished the work, fifteen minutes after Tim had 
 given out. 
 
 He crawled up to the main deck and .huddled in the 
 shelter of a pile of hay-bales where Pete was declaring 
 to Tim and the rest that Satan "couldn t never get 
 nothing on him." 
 
 Morton broke into Pete s publicity with the question, 
 "Say, is it straight what they say, Pete, that you re the 
 guy that owns the Leyland Line and that s why you know 
 so much more than the rest of us poor lollops? Watson, 
 the needle, quick!" [Applause and laughter.] 
 
 Wrennie felt personally grateful to Morton for this, 
 but he went up to the aft top deck, where he could lie 
 alone on a pile of tarpaulins. He made himself observe the 
 sea which, as Kipling and Jack London had specifically 
 promised him in their stories, surrounded him, every 
 where shining free; but he glanced at it only once. To 
 the north was a liner bound for home. 
 
 Home! Gee! That was rubbing it in! While at 
 work, whether he was sick or not, he could forget things. 
 5 53 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 But the liner, fleeting on with bright ease, made the 
 cattle-boat seem about as romantic as Mrs. Zapp s 
 kitchen sink. 
 
 Why, he wondered "why had he been a chump? 
 Him a wanderer? No; he was a hired man on a sea 
 going dairy-farm. Well, he d get onto this confounded 
 job before he was through with it, but then gee! back 
 to God s Country!" 
 
 While the Merian, eleven days out, pleasantly rocked 
 through the Irish Sea, with the moon revealing the coast 
 of Anglesey, one Bill Wrenn lay on the after-deck, con 
 descending to the heavens. It was so warm that they 
 did not need to sleep below, and half a dozen of the 
 cattlemen had brought their mattresses up on deck. 
 Beside Bill Wrenn lay the man who had given him that 
 name Tim, the hatter, who had become weakly alarmed 
 and admiring as Wrennie learned to rise feeling like a boy 
 in early vacation-time, and to find shouting exhilaration 
 in sending a forkful of hay fifteen good feet. 
 
 Morton, who lay near by, had also adopted the name 
 "Bill Wrenn." Most of the trip Morton had discussed 
 Pete and Tim instead of the fact that "things is curious." 
 Mr. Wrenn had been jealous at first, but when he learned 
 from Morton the theory that even a Pete was a "victim of 
 vironment" he went out for knowing him quite system 
 atically. 
 
 To McGarver he had been "Bill Wrenn" since the fifth 
 day, when he had kept a hay-bale from slipping back 
 into the hold on the boss s head. Satan and Pete still 
 called him "Wrennie," but he was not thinking about 
 them just now with Tim listening admiringly to his 
 observations on socialism. 
 
 Tim fell asleep. Bill Wrenn lay quiet and let memory 
 color the sky above him. He recalled the gardens of 
 water which had flowered in foam for him, strange ships 
 and nomadic gulls, and the schools of sleekly black por- 
 
 54 
 
QREAT LITTLE BILL WRENN 
 
 poises that, for him, had whisked through violet waves. 
 Most of all, he brought back the yesterday s long excite 
 ment and delight of seeing the Irish coast hills his first 
 foreign land whose faint sky fresco had seemed magical 
 with the elfin lore of Ireland, a country that had ever 
 been to him the haunt not of potatoes and politicians, 
 but of fays. He had wanted fays. They were not 
 common on the asphalt of West Sixteenth Street. But 
 now he had seen them beckoning in Wanderland. 
 
 He was falling asleep under the dancing dome of the 
 sky, a happy Mr. Wrenn, when he was aroused as a furi 
 ous Bill, the cattleman. Pete was clogging near by, 
 singing hoarsely, "Dey was a skoit and er name was 
 Goity." 
 
 "You shut up!" commanded Bill Wrenn. 
 
 "Say, be careful!" the awakened Tim implored of him. 
 
 Pete snorted: "Who says to "shut up, hey? Who was 
 it, ..Satan?" 
 
 From the capstan, where he was still smoking, the 
 head foreman muttered: "What s the odds? The little 
 man won t say it again." 
 
 Pete stood by Bill Wrenn s mattress. "Who said 
 shut up ?" sounded ominously. 
 
 Bill popped out of bed with what he regarded as a 
 vicious fighting-crouch. For he was too sleepy to be 
 afraid. "I did! What you going to do about it?" More 
 mildly, as a fear of his own courage began to form, "I 
 want to sleep." 
 
 "Oh! You want to sleep. Little mollycoddle wants 
 to sleep, does he? Come here!" 
 
 The tough grabbed at Bill s shirt-collar across the 
 mattress. Bill ducked, stuck out his arm wildly, and 
 struck Pete, half by accident. Roaring, Pete bunted 
 him, and he went down, with Pete kneeling on his stomach 
 and pounding him. 
 
 Morton and honest McGarver, the straw-boss, sprang 
 to drag off Pete, while Satan, the panther, with the first 
 
 55 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 interest they had ever seen in his eyes, snarled: "Let 
 em fight fair. Rounds. You re a right, Bill." 
 
 "Right," commended Morton. 
 
 Armored with Satan s praise, firm but fearful in his 
 rubber sneakers, surprised and shocked to find himself 
 here doing this, Bill Wrenn squared at the rowdy. The 
 moon touched sadly the lightly sketched Anglesey coast 
 and the rippling wake, but Bill Wrenn, oblivious of dream 
 moon and headland, faced his fellow-bruiser. 
 
 They circled. Pete stuck out his foot gently. Morton 
 sprang in, bawling furiously, "None o them rough-and- 
 tumble tricks." 
 
 "Right-o," added McGarver. 
 
 Pete scowled. He was left powerless. He puffed and 
 grew dizzy as Bill Wrenn danced delicately about him, for 
 he could do nothing without back-street tactics. He did 
 bloody the nose of Bill and pummel his ribs, but many 
 cigarettes and much whisky told, and he was ready to 
 laugh foolishly and make peace when, at the end of the 
 sixth round, he felt Bill s neat little fist in a straight 
 and entirely accidental rip to the point of his 
 jaw. 
 
 Pete sent his opponent spinning with a back-hander 
 which awoke all the cruelty of the terrible Bill. Silently 
 Bill Wrenn plunged in with a smash! smash! smash! like 
 a murderous savage, using every grain of his strength. 
 
 Let us turn from the lamentable luck of Pete. He had 
 now got the idea that his supposed victim could really 
 fight. Dismayed, shocked, disgusted, he stumbled and 
 sought to flee, and was sent flat. 
 
 This time it was the great little Bill who had to be 
 dragged off. McGarver held him, kicking and yammering, 
 his mild mustache bristling like a battling cat s, till the 
 next round, when Pete was knocked out by a clumsy 
 whirlwind of fists. 
 
 He lay on the deck, with Bill standing over him and 
 demanding, "What s my name, heh?" 
 
 56 
 
GREAT LITTLE BILL WRENN 
 
 "I t ink it s Bill now, all right, Wrennie, old boss Bill, 
 old boss," groaned Pete. 
 
 He was permitted to sneak off into oblivion. 
 
 Bill Wrenn went below. In the dark passage by the 
 fidley be fell to tremorous weeping. But the brackish 
 hydrant water that stopped his nose-bleed saved him from 
 hysterics. He climbed to the top deck, and now he 
 could again see his brother pilgrim, the moon. 
 
 The stiffs and bosses were talking excitedly of the 
 fight. Tim rushed up to gurgle: "Great, Bill, old man! 
 You done just what I d a done if he d cussed me. I 
 told you Pete was a bluffer." 
 
 "Git out," said Satan. 
 
 Tim fled. 
 
 Morton came up, looked at Bill Wrenn, pounded him 
 on the shoulder, and went off to his mattress. The other 
 stiffs slouched away, but McGarver and Satan were still 
 discussing the fight. 
 
 Snuggling on the hard black pile of tarpaulins, Bill 
 talked to them, warmed to them, and became Mr. Wrenn. 
 He announced his determination to wander adown every 
 shining road of Europe. 
 
 "Nice work." "Sure." "You ll make a snappy little 
 ole globe-trotter." "Sure; ought to be able to get the 
 slickest kind of grub for four bits a day." "Nice work," 
 Satan interjected from time to time, with smooth irony. 
 "Sure. Go ahead. Like to hear your plans." 
 
 McGarver broke in: " Cut that out, Marvin. You re a 
 Satan all right. Quit your kidding the little man. He s 
 all right. And he done fine on the job last three-four 
 days." 
 
 Lying on his mattress, Bill stared at the network of the 
 ratlines against the brilliant sky. The crisscross lines 
 made him think of the ruled order-blanks of the Souvenir 
 Company. 
 
 "Gee!" he mused, "I d like to know if Jake is handling 
 my work the way we they like it. I d like to see the 
 
 57 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 old office again, and Charley Carpenter, just for a couple 
 of minutes. Gee! I wish they could have seen me put it 
 all over Pete to-night! That s what Fm going to do to the 
 blooming Englishmen if they don t like me." 
 
 The S.S. Merian panted softly beside the landing-stage 
 at Birkenhead, Liverpool s Jersey City, resting in the 
 sunshine after her voyage, while the cattle were unloaded. 
 They had encountered fog-banks at the mouth of the 
 Mersey River. Mr. Wrenn had ecstatically watched the 
 shores of England England! ride at him through the 
 fog, and had panted over the lines of English villas among 
 the dunes. It was like a dream, yet the shore had fsuch 
 amazingly safe solid colors, real red and green and yellow, 
 when contrasted with the fog-wet deck unearthily glancing 
 with mist-lights. 
 
 Now he was seeing his first foreign city, and to Morton, 
 stolidly curious beside him, he could say nothing save 
 "Gee!" With church-tower and swarthy dome behind 
 dome, Liverpool lay across the Mersey. Up through the 
 Liverpool streets that ran down to the river, as though 
 through peep-holes slashed straight back into the Middle 
 Ages, his vision plunged, and it wandered unchecked 
 through each street while he hummed: 
 
 "Free, free, in Eu-ro-pee, that s me! 9 
 
 The cattlemen were called to help unload the remaining 
 hay. They made a game of it. Even Satan smiled, even the 
 Jewish elders were lightly affable as they made pretendedly 
 fierce gestures at the squat patient hay-bales. Tim, the 
 hatter, danced a limber foolish jig upon the deck, and 
 McGarver bellowed, "The bon-nee bon-nee banks of 
 Loch Lo-o-o-o-mond." 
 
 The crowd bawled: "Come on, Bill Wrenn; your turn. 
 Hustle up with that bale, Pete, or we ll sic Bill on 
 you." 
 
 Bill Wrenn, standing very dignified, piped: "I m Colo 
 nel Armour. I own all these cattle, cept the Morris uns, 
 
GREAT LITTLE BILL WRENN 
 
 see? Gotta do what I say, savvy? Tim, walk on your 
 ear." 
 
 ; The hatter laid his head on the deck and waved his 
 anemic legs in accordance with directions from Colonel 
 Armour (late Wrenn). 
 
 ! The hay was off. The Merian tooted and headed across 
 the Mersey to the Huskinson Dock, in Liverpool, while 
 the cattlemen played tag about the deck. Whooping and 
 laughing, ;they made last splashy toilets at the water-butts, 
 dragged out their luggage, and descended to the dock- 
 house. 
 
 As the cattlemen passed Bill Wrenn and Morton, 
 shouting affectionate good-bys in English or courteous 
 Yiddish, Bill commented profanely to Morton on the 
 fact that the solid stone floor of the great shed seemed 
 to have enough sea-motion to "make a guy sick." It was 
 nearly his last utterance as Bill Wrenn. He became Mr. 
 Wrenn, absolute Mr. Wrenn, on the street, as he saw a real 
 English bobby, a real English carter, and the sign, "Cocoa 
 House. Tea id" 
 
 England! 
 
 "Now for some real grub!" cried Morton. "No more 
 scouse and willow-leaf tea." 
 
 Stretching out their legs under a table glorified with 
 toasted Sally Lunns and Melton Mowbrays, served by a 
 waitress who said "Thank you" with a rising inflection, 
 they gazed at the line of mirrors running Britishly all 
 around the room over the long lounge seat, and smiled 
 with the triumphant content which comes to him whose 
 hunger for dreams and hunger for meat-pies are satisfied 
 together. 
 
HE FINDS MUCH QUAINT ENGLISH FLAVOR 
 
 G wharves, all right. England sure is queen of 
 the sea, hen? Busy town, Liverpool. But, say, 
 there is a quaint English flavor to these shops. . . . Look 
 at that: Red Lion Inn/ . . . Overhead trams they call 
 the elevated. Real flavor, all right. English as can be? 
 ... I sure like to wander around these little shops. Street 
 crowd. That s where you get the real quaint flavor." 
 
 Thus Morton, to the glowing Mr. Wrenn, as they turned 
 into St. George s Square, noting the Lipton s Tea estab 
 lishment. Sir Thomas Lipton wasn t he a friend of the 
 king ? Anyway, he was some kind of a lord, and he owned 
 big society racing-yachts. 
 
 In the grandiose square Mr. Wrenn prayerfully re 
 marked, "Gee!" 
 
 "Greek temple. Fine," agreed Morton. 
 
 "That s St. George s Hall, where they have big 
 organ concerts," explained Mr. Wrenn. "And there s 
 the art-gallery across the Square, and here s the Lime 
 Street Station." He had studied his Baedeker as club 
 women study the cyclopedia. "Let s go over and look 
 at the trains." 
 
 "Funny little boxes, ain t they, Wrenn, them cars! 
 Quaint things. What is it they call em carriages? 
 First, second, third class. . . ." 
 
 "Just like in books." 
 
 "Booking-office. That s tickets. . . . Funny, eh?" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn insisted on paying for both their high teas 
 
 60 
 
ENGLISH FLAVOR 
 
 at the cheap restaurant, timidly but earnestly. Morton 
 was troubled. As they sat on a park bench, smoking those 
 most Anglican cigarettes, " Dainty Bits," Mr. Wrenn 
 begged: 
 
 "What s the matter, old man?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing. Just thinking." Morton smiled ar 
 tificially. He added, presently: "Well, old Bill, got to 
 make the break. Can t go on living on you this way." 
 
 "Aw, thunder! You ain t living on me. Besides, I 
 want you to. Honest I do. We can have a whole lot 
 better time together, Morty." 
 
 "Yes, but Nope; I can t do it. Nice of you. 
 
 Can t do it, though. Got to go on my own, like the 
 fellow says." 
 
 "Aw, come on. Look here; it s my money, ain t it? 
 I got a right to spend it the way I want to, haven t I? 
 Aw, come on. We ll bum along together, and then when 
 the money is gone we ll get some kind of job together. 
 Honest, I want you to." 
 
 "Hunka. Don t believe you d care for the kind of 
 knockabout jobs I ll have to get." 
 
 "Sure I would. Aw, come on, Morty. I 
 
 " You re too level-headed to like to bum around like a 
 fool hobo. You d darn soon get tired of it." 
 
 "What if I did ? Morty, look here. I ve been learning 
 something on this trip. I ve always wanted to just do one 
 thing see foreign places. Well, I want to do that just 
 as much as ever. But there s something that s a whole 
 lot more important. Somehow, I ain t ever had many 
 friends. Some ways you re about the best friend I ve 
 ever had you ain t neither too highbrow or too lowbrow. 
 And this friendship business it means such an awful lot. 
 It s like what I was reading about something by Elbert 
 Hubbard or thunder, I can t remember his name, but, 
 anyway, it s one of those poet guys that writes for the 
 back page of the Journal something about a joyous 
 adventure. That s what being friends is. Course you. 
 
 61 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 understand I wouldn t want to say this to most people, 
 but you ll understand how I mean. It s this friendship 
 business is just like those old crusaders ^-you know 
 they d start out on a fine morning you know; armor 
 shining, all that stuff. It wouldn t make any dif. what 
 they met as long as they was fighting together. Rainy 
 nights with folks sneaking through the rain to get at em, 
 and all sorts of things ready for anything, long as they 
 just stuck together. That s the way this friendship 
 business is, I b lieve. Just like it said in the Journal. 
 
 Yump, sure is. Gee! it s Chance to tell folks what 
 
 you think and really get some fun out of seeing places 
 together. And I ain t ever done it much. Course I don t 
 mean to say I ve been living off on any blooming desert 
 island all my life, but, just the same, I ve always been 
 kind of alone not knowing many folks. You know how 
 
 it is in a New York rooming-house. So now Aw, 
 
 don t slip up on me, Morty. Honestly, I don t care what 
 kind of work we do as long as we can stick together; I 
 don t care a hang if we don t get anything better to do 
 than scrub floors!" 
 
 Morton patted his arm and did not answer for a while. 
 Then: 
 
 "Yuh, I know how you mean. And it s good of you to 
 like beating it around with me. But you sure got the 
 exaggerated idee of me. And you d get sick of the holes 
 I m likely to land in." 
 
 There was a certain pride which seemed dreadfully to 
 shut Mr. Wrenn out as Morton added: 
 
 "Why, man, I m going to do all of Europe. From the 
 Turkish jails to oh, St. Petersburg. . . .You made good on 
 the Merian, all right. But you do like things shipshape." 
 
 "Oh, I d " 
 
 "We might stay friends if we busted up now and met 
 in New York again. But not if you get into all sorts of 
 bum places w " 
 
 "Why, look here, Morty " 
 
 62 
 
ENGLISH FLAVOR 
 
 " with me. . . . However, I ll think it over. Let s not 
 talk about it till to-morrow." 
 
 "Oh, please do think it over, Morty, old man, won t 
 you? And to-night you ll let me take you to a music- 
 hall, won t you?" 
 
 "Uh yes," Morton hesitated. 
 
 A music-hall not mere vaudeville! Mr. Wrenn could 
 hardly keep his feet on the pavement as they scampered 
 to it and got ninepenny seats. He would have thought 
 
 it absurd to pay eighteen cents for a ticket, but pence 
 
 They were out at nine-thirty. Happily tired, Mr. Wrenn 
 suggested that they go to a temperance hotel at his 
 expense, for he had read in Baedeker that temperance 
 hotels were respectable also cheap. 
 
 "No, no!" frowned Morton. "Tell you what you do, 
 Bill. You go to a hotel, and I ll beat it down to a lodging- 
 house on Duke Street. . . . Juke Street! . . . Remember how 
 I ran onto Pete on the street? He told me you could get 
 a cot down there for fourpence." 
 
 "Aw, come on to a hotel. Please dot It d just hurt 
 me to think of you sleeping in one of them holes. I 
 wouldn t sleep a bit if " 
 
 " Say, for the love of Mike, Wrenn, get wise ! Get wise, 
 son! I m not going to sponge on you, and that s all there 
 is to it." 
 
 Bill Wrenn strode into their company for a minute, 
 and quoth the terrible Bill: 
 
 "Well, you don t need to get so sore about it. I don t 
 go around asking folks can I give em a meal ticket all 
 
 the time, let me tell you, and when I do Oh rats! 
 
 Say, I didn t mean to get huffy, Morty. But, doggone 
 you, old man, you can t shake me this easy. I sye, old 
 top, I m peeved; yessir. We ll go Dutch to a lodging- 
 house, or even walk the streets." 
 
 "All right, sir; all right. I ll take you up on that. 
 We ll sleep in an areaway some place." 
 
 They walked to the outskirts of Liverpool, questing 
 
 63 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 the desirable dark alley. Awed by the solid quietude and 
 semigrandeur of the large private estates, through narrow 
 streets where dim trees leaned over high walls whose long 
 silent stretches were broken only by mysterious little 
 doors, they tramped bashfully, inspecting, but always re 
 jecting, nooks by lodge gates. 
 
 They came to a stone church with a porch easily reached 
 from the street, a large and airy stone porch, just suited, 
 Morton declared, "to a couple of hoboes like us. If a 
 bobby butts in, why, we ll just slide under them seats. 
 Then the bobby can go soak his head." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn had never so far defied society as to steal 
 a place for sleeping. He felt very uneasy, like a man left 
 naked on the street by robbers, as he rolled up his coat 
 for a pillow and removed his shoes in a place that was 
 perfectly open to the street. The paved floor was cold to 
 his bare feet, and, as he tried to go to sleep, it kept getting 
 colder and colder to his back. Reaching out his hand, 
 he fretfully rubbed the cracks between stones. He 
 scowled up at the ceiling of the porch. He couldn t bear 
 to look out through the door, for it framed the vicar s 
 house, with lamplight bodying forth latticed windows, 
 suggesting soft beds and laughter and comfortable books. 
 All the while his chilled back was aching in new places. 
 
 He sprang up, put on his shoes, and paced the church 
 yard. It seemed a great waste of educational advantages 
 not to study the tower of this foreign church, but he 
 thought much more about his aching shoulder-blades. 
 
 Morton came from the porch stiff" but grinning. 
 "Didn t like it much, eh, Bill? Afraid you wouldn t. 
 Must say I didn t either, though. Well, come on. Let s 
 beat it around and see if we can t find a better place." 
 
 In a vacant lot they discovered a pile of hay. Mr. 
 Wrenn hardly winced at the hearty slap Morton gave his 
 back, and he pronounced, "Some Waldorf-Astoria, that 
 stack!" as they sneaked into the lot. They had laid lov 
 ing hands upon the hay, remarking, "Well, I guess!" when 
 
ENGLISH FLAVOR 
 
 they heard from a low stable at the very back of 
 the lot: 
 
 "I say, you chaps, what are you doing there?" 
 
 A reflective carter, who had been twisting two straws, 
 ambled out of the shadow of the stable and prepared to 
 do battle. 
 
 " Say, old man, can t we sleep in your hay just to-night ?" 
 argued Morton. "We re Americans. Came over on a 
 cattle-boat. We ain t got only enough money to last us 
 for food," while Mr. Wrenn begged, "Aw, please let us." 
 
 "Oh! You re Americans, are you? You seem decent 
 enough. I ve got a brother in the States. He used to 
 own this stable with me. In St. Cloud, Minnesota, he is, 
 you know. Minnesota s some kind of a shire. Either 
 of you chaps been in Minnesota?" 
 
 "Sure," lied Morton; "I ve hunted bear there." 
 
 "Oh, I say, bear now! My brother s never written 
 m- 
 
 "Oh, that was way up in the northern part, in the Big 
 Woods. I ve had some narrow escapes." 
 
 Then Morton, who had never been west of Pittsburg, 
 sang somewhat in this wise the epic of the hunting he had 
 never done: 
 
 Alone. Among the pines. Dead o winter. Only one 
 shell in his rifle. Cold of winter. Snow deep snow. 
 Snow-shoes. Hiking along reg lar mushing packing 
 grub to the lumber-camp. Way up near the Canadian 
 border. Cold, terrible cold. Stars looked like little bits 
 of steel. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn thought he remembered the story. He had 
 read it in a magazine. Morton was continuing: 
 
 Snow stretched out among the pines. He was wearing a 
 Mackinaw and shoe-packs. Saw a bear loping along. 
 He had Morton had a .44-40 Marlin, but only one 
 shell. Thrust the muzzle of his rifle right into the bear s 
 mouth. Scared for a minute. Almost fell off his snow- 
 shoes. Hardest thing he ever did, to pull that trigger. 
 
 65 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Fired. Bear sort of jumped at him, then rolled over, 
 clawing. Great place, those Minnesota Big 
 
 "What s a shoe-pack?" the Englishman stolidly inter 
 jected. 
 
 "Kind of a moccasin. . . . Great place, those woods. 
 Hope your brother gets the chance to get up there." 
 
 ff I say, I wonder did you ever meet him? Scrabble is 
 his name, Jock Scrabble." 
 
 "Jock Scrabble no, but say! By golly, there was a 
 fellow up in the Big Woods that came from St. Cl St. 
 Cloud? Yes, that was it. He was telling us about the 
 town. I remember he said your brother had great 
 chances there." 
 
 The Englishman meditatively accepted a bad cigar from 
 Mr. Wrenn. Suddenly: "You chaps can sleep in the 
 stable-loft if you d like. But you must blooming well 
 stop smoking." 
 
 So in the dark odorous hay-mow Mr. Wrenn stretched 
 out his legs with an affectionate "good night" to Morton. 
 He slept nine hours. When he awoke, at the sound of a 
 chain clanking in the stable below, Morton was gone. 
 This note was pinned to his sleeve: 
 
 DEAR OLD MAN, I still feel sure that you will not enjoy the 
 hiking. Bumming is not much fun for most people, I don t 
 think, even if they say it is. I do not want to live on you. I 
 always did hate to graft on people. So I am going to beat it 
 off alone. But I hope I will see you in N Y & we will enjoy 
 many a good laugh together over our trip. If you will phone 
 the P. R. R. you can find out when I get back & so on. As 
 I do not know what your address will be. Please look me up 
 & I hope you will have a good trip. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 HARRY P. MORTON. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn lay listening to the unfriendly rattling of the 
 chain harness below for a long time. When he crawled 
 languidly down from the hay-loft he glowered in a manner 
 which was decidedly surly even for Bill Wrenn at a middle- 
 
 66 
 
ENGLISH FLAVOR 
 
 aged English stranger who was stooping over a cow s hoof 
 in a stall facing the ladder. 
 
 "Wot you doing here?" asked the Englishman, raising 
 his head and regarding Mr. Wrenn as a housewife does a 
 cockroach in the salad-bowl. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn was bored. This seemed a very poor sort 
 of man; a bloated Cockney, with a dirty neck-cloth, vile 
 cuffs of grayish black, and a waistcoat cut foolishly high. 
 
 "The owner said I could sleep here," he snapped. 
 
 "Ow. E did, did e? J E ayn t been giving you any 
 of the perishin osses, too, as e?" 
 
 It was sturdy old Bill Wrenn who snarled, "Oh, shut* 
 up!" Bill didn t feel like standing much just then. 
 He d punch this fellow as he d punched Pete,* as soon as 
 not or even sooner. 
 
 "Ow. . . . It s shut up, is it? ... I ve arf a mind to set 
 the tecs on you, but I m lyte. I ll just it you on the 
 bloody nowse." 
 
 Bill Wrenn stepped off the ladder and squared at him. 
 He was sorry that the Cockney was smaller than Pete. 
 feThe Cockney came over, feinted in an absent-minded 
 manner, made swift and confusing circles with his left 
 hand, and hit Bill Wrenn on the aforesaid bloody nose, 
 which immediately became a bleeding nose. Bill Wrenn 
 felt dizzy and, sitting on a grain-sack, listened amazedly 
 to the Cockney s apologetic: 
 
 "I m sorry I ayn t got time to ave the law on you, but 
 I could spare time to it you again." 
 
 Bill shook the blood from his nose and staggered at the 
 Cockney, who seized his collar, set him down outside the 
 stable with a jarring bump, and walked away, whistling: 
 
 "Come, oh come to our Sunday-school, 
 Ev-v-v-v-v-v-ry Sunday morn-ing." 
 
 "Gee!" mourned Mr. William Wrenn, "and I thought 
 I was getting this hobo business down pat. . . . Gee! I 
 wonder if Pete was so hard to lick?" 
 
VI 
 
 HE IS AN ORPHAN 
 
 SADLY clinging to the plan of the walking - trip he 
 was to have made with Morton, Mr. Wrenn crossed 
 by ferry to Birkenhead, quite unhappily, for he wanted 
 to be discussing with Morton the quaintness of the 
 uniformed functionaries. He looked for the Merian half 
 the way over. As he walked through Birkenhead, bound 
 for Chester, he pricked himself on to note red-brick house- 
 rows, almost shocking in their lack of high front stoops. 
 Along the country road he reflected: "Wouldn t Morty 
 enjoy this! Farm-yard all paved. Haystack with a little 
 roof on it. Kitchen stove stuck in a kind of fireplace. 
 Foreign as the deuce." 
 
 But Morton was off some place, in a darkness where 
 there weren t things to enjoy. Mr. Wrenn had lost him 
 forever. Once he heard himself wishing that even Tim, 
 the hatter, or "good old McGarver" were along. A 
 scene so British that it seemed proper to enjoy it alone 
 he did find in a real garden-party, with what appeared to 
 be a real curate, out of a story in The Strand, passing tea 
 cups; but he passed out of that hot glow into a cold 
 plodding that led him to Chester and a dull hotel which 
 might as well have been in Bridgeport or Hoboken. 
 
 He somewhat timidly enjoyed Chester the early part 
 of the next day, docilely following a guide about the walls, 
 gaping at the mill on the Dee and asking the guide two 
 intelligent questions about Roman remains. He snooped 
 through the galleried streets, peering up dark stairways 
 
 68 
 
HE IS AN ORPHAN 
 
 set in heavy masonry that spoke of historic sieges, and 
 imagined that he was historically besieging. For a time 
 Mr. Wrenn s fancies contented him. 
 
 He smiled as he addressed glossy red and green post 
 cards to Lee Theresa and Goaty, Cousin John and Mr. 
 Guilfogle, writing on each a variation of "Having a 
 splendid trip. This is a very interesting old town. 
 Wish you were here." Pantingly, he found a panorama 
 showing the hotel where he was staying or at least two 
 of its chimneys and, marking it with a heavy cross and 
 the announcement "This is my hotel where I am stay 
 ing," he sent it to Charley Carpenter. 
 
 He was at his nearest to greatness at Chester Cathedral. 
 He chuckled aloud as he passed the remains of a refectory 
 of monastic days, in the close, where knights had tied their 
 romantically pawing chargers, "just like he d read about 
 in a story about the olden times." He was really there. 
 He glanced about and assured himself of it. He wasn t 
 in the office. He was in an English cathedral close! 
 
 But shortly thereafter he was in an English temperance 
 hotel, sitting still, almost weeping with the longing to see 
 Morton. He walked abroad, feeling like an intruder on 
 the lively night crowd; in a tap-room he drank a glass of 
 English porter and tried to make himself believe that he 
 was acquainted with the others in the room, to which 
 theory they gave but little support. All this while his 
 loneliness shadowed him. 
 
 Of that loneliness one could make many books; how it 
 sat down with him; how he crouched in his chair, be- 
 spelled by it, till he violently rose and fled, with loneliness 
 for companion in his flight. He was lonely. He sighed 
 that he was "lonely as fits." Lonely the word obsessed 
 him. Doubtless he was a bit mad, as are all the isolated 
 men who sit in distant lands longing for the voices of 
 friendship. 
 
 Next morning he hastened to take the train for Oxford 
 to get away from his loneliness, which lolled evilly beside 
 6 69 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 him in the compartment. He tried to convey to a stodgy 
 North Countryman his interest in the way the seats faced 
 each other. The man said "Oh aye?" insultingly and 
 returned to his Manchester newspaper. 
 
 Feeling that he was so offensive that it was a matter of 
 honor for him to keep his eyes away, Mr. Wrenn dutifully 
 stared out of the door till they reached Oxford. 
 
 There is a calm beauty to New College gardens. There 
 is, Mr. Wrenn observed, "something simply slick about 
 all these old quatrangleses," crossed by summering 
 students in short flappy gowns. But he always returned 
 to his exile s room, where he now began to hear the new 
 voice of shapeless nameless Fear fear of all this alien 
 world that didn t care whether he loved it or not. 
 
 He sat thinking of the cattle-boat as a home which he 
 had loved but which he would never see again. He had 
 to use force on himself to keep from hurrying back to 
 Liverpool while there still was time to return on the same 
 boat. 
 
 No! He was going to "stick it out somehow, and get 
 onto the hang of all this highbrow business." 
 
 Then he said: "Oh, darn it all. I feel rotten. I wish 
 I was dead!" 
 
 "Those, sir, are the windows of the apartment once 
 occupied by Walter Pater," said the cultured American 
 after whom he was trailing. Mr. Wrenn viewed them 
 attentively, and with shame remembered that he didn t 
 know who Walter Pater was. But oh yes, now he 
 remembered; Walter was the guy that d murdered his 
 whole family. So, aloud, "Well, I guess Oxford s sorry 
 Walt ever come here, all right." 
 
 "My dear sir, Mr. Pater was the most immaculate 
 genius of the nineteenth century," lectured Dr. Mittyford, 
 the cultured American, severely. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn had met Mittyford, Ph.D., near the barges; 
 had, upon polite request, still more politely lent him a 
 
 70 
 
HE IS AN ORPHAN 
 
 match, and seized the chance to confide in somebody. 
 Mittyford had a bald head, neat eye-glasses, a fair family 
 income, a chatty good-fellowship at the Faculty Club, 
 and a chilly contemptuousness in his rhetoric class-room 
 at Leland Stanford, Jr., University. He wrote poetry, 
 which he filed away under the letter "P" in his letter- 
 file. 
 
 Dr. Mittyford grudgingly took Mr. Wrenn about, to 
 teach him what not to enjoy. He pointed at Shelley s 
 rooms as at a certificated angel s feather, but Mr. Wrenn 
 writhingly admitted that he had never heard of Shelley, 
 whose name he confused with Max O Rell s, which Dr. 
 Mittyford deemed an error. Then, Pater s window. 
 The doctor shrugged. Oh well, what could you expect 
 of the proletariat! Swinging his stick aloofly, he stalked 
 to the Bodleian and vouchsafed, "That, sir, is the JEschylus t 
 Shelley had in his pocket when he was drowned." 
 
 Though he heard with sincere regret the news that his 
 new idol was drowned, Mr. Wrenn found that JEschylus 
 left him cold. It seemed to be printed in a foreign lan 
 guage. But perhaps it was merely a very old book. 
 
 Standing before a case in which was an exquisite 
 book in a queer wrigglesome language, bearing the legend 
 that from this volume Fitzgerald had translated the 
 Rubaiyat, Dr. Mittyford waved his hand and looked for 
 thanks. 
 
 "Pretty book," said Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 "And did you note who used it?" 
 
 "Uh yes." He hastily glanced at the placard. " Mr. 
 Fitzgerald. Say, I think I read some of that Rubaiyat. 
 It was something about a Persian kitten I don t remem 
 ber exactly." 
 
 Dr. Mittyford walked bitterly to the other end of the 
 room. 
 
 About eight in the evening Mr. Wrenn s landlady 
 knocked with, "There s a gentleman below to see you, sir." 
 
 71 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Me?" blurted Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 He galloped down-stairs, panting to himself that Morton 
 had at last found him. He peered out and was over 
 whelmed by a motor-car, with Dr. Mittyford waiting in 
 awesome fur coat, goggles, and gauntlets, centered in the 
 car-lamp light that loomed in the shivery evening fog. 
 
 "Gee! just like a hero in a novel!" reflected Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 "Get on your things," said the pedagogue. "Fm going 
 to give you the time of your life." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn obediently went up and put on his cap. He 
 was excited, yet frightened and resentful at being "dragged 
 into all this highbrow business" which he had resolutely 
 been putting away the past two hours. 
 
 As he stole into the car Dr. Mittyford seemed com 
 paratively human, remarking: "I feel bored this evening. 
 I thought I would give you a nuit blanche. How would 
 you like to go to the Red Unicorn at Brempton one of 
 the few untouched old inns?" 
 
 "That would be nice," said Mr. Wrenn, unenthusiastic 
 ally. 
 
 His chilliness impressed Dr. Mittyford, who promptly 
 told one of the best of his well-known whimsical yet 
 scholarly stories. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" remarked Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 He had been saying to himself: "By golly! I ain t going 
 to even try to be a society guy with him no more. Fm 
 just going to be me, and if he don t like it he can go to the 
 dickens." 
 
 So he was gentle and sympathetic and talked West 
 Sixteenth Street slang, to the rhetorician s lofty amuse 
 ment. 
 
 The tap-room of the Red Unicorn was lighted by candles 
 and a fireplace. That is a simple thing to say, but it 
 was not a simple thing for Mr. Wrenn to see. As he 
 observed the trembling shadows on the sanded floor he 
 wriggled and excitedly murmured, "Gee! . . . Gee 
 whittakers!" 
 
 72 
 
HE IS AN ORPHAN 
 
 The shadows slipped in arabesques over the dust-gray 
 floor and scampered as bravely among the rafters as 
 though they were in such a tale as men told in believing 
 days. Rustics in smocks drank ale from tankards; and 
 in a corner was snoring an ear-ringed peddler with his 
 beetle-black head propped on an oilcloth pack. 
 
 Stamping in, chilly from the ride, Mr. Wrenn laughed 
 aloud. With a comfortable feeling on the side toward the 
 fire he stuck his slight legs straight out before the old-time 
 settle, looked devil-may-care, made delightful ridges on 
 the sanded floor with his toe, and clapped a pewter pot 
 on his knee with a small emphatic "Wop!" After about 
 two and a quarter tankards he broke out, "Say, that 
 peddler guy there, don t he look like he was a gipsy you 
 know sneaking through the hedges around the manner- 
 house to steal the earl s daughter, huh?" 
 
 "Yes. . . . You re a romanticist, then, I take it?" 
 
 "Yes, I guess I am. Kind of. Like to read romances 
 and stuff." He stared at Mittyford beseechingly. "But, 
 say say, I wonder why Somehow, I haven t en 
 joyed Oxford and the rest of the places like I ought to. 
 See, I d always thought Fd be simply nutty about the 
 quatrangles and stuff, but I m afraid they re too highbrow 
 for me. I hate to own up, but sometimes I wonder if I 
 can get away with this traveling stunt." 
 
 Mittyford, the magnificent, had mixed ale and whisky 
 punch. He was mellowly instructive: 
 
 "Do you know, I ve been wondering just what you 
 would get out of all this. You really have a very fine 
 imagination of a sort, you know, but of course you re 
 lacking in certain factual bases. As I see it, your metier 
 would be to travel with a pleasant wife, the two of you 
 hand in hand, so to speak, looking at the more obvious 
 public buildings and plesaunces avenues and plesuances. 
 There must be a certain portion of the tripper class which 
 really has the ability "for to admire and for to see. " 
 
 Dr. Mittyford finished his second toddy and with a 
 
 73 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 wave of his hand presented to Mr. Wrenn the world and 
 all the plesaunces thereof, for to see, though not, of course, 
 to adm^e Mittyfordianly. 
 
 "But what are you to do now about Oxford? Well, 
 I m afraid you re taken into captivity a bit late to be 
 trained for that sort of thing. Do about Oxford? Why, 
 go back, master the world you understand. By the way, 
 have you seen my book on Saxon Derivatives? Not that 
 I m prejudiced in its favor, but it might give you a 
 glimmering of what this difficile thing culture real 
 ly is." 
 
 The rustics were droning a church anthem. The glow 
 of the ale was in Mr. Wrenn. He leaned back, entirely 
 happy, and it seemed confusedly to him that what little he 
 had heard of his learned and affectionate friend s advice 
 gratefully confirmed his own theory that what one wanted 
 was friends a "nice wife" folks. "Yes, sir, by golly! 
 It was awfully nice of the Doc." He pictured a tender 
 girl in golden brown back in the New York he so much 
 desired to see who would await him evenings with a smile 
 that was kept for him. Homey that was what he was 
 going to be! He happily and thoughtfully ran his finger 
 about the rim of his glass ten times. 
 
 "Time to go, I m afraid," Dr. Mittyford was saying. 
 
 Through the exquisite haze that now filled the room 
 Mr. Wrenn saw him dimly, as a triangle of shirt-front and 
 two gleaming ellipses for eyes. . . . His dear friend, the Doc! 
 ... As he walked through the room chairs got humorously 
 in his way, but he good-naturedly picked a path among 
 them, and fell asleep in the motor-car. All the ride back 
 he made soft mouse-like sounds of snoring. 
 
 When he awoke in the morning with a headache and 
 surveyed his unchangeably dingy room he realized slowly, 
 after smothering his head in the pillow to shut off the 
 light from his scorching eyeballs, that Dr. Mittyford had 
 called him a fool for trying to wander. He protested, but 
 not for long, for he hated to venture out there among the 
 
 74 
 
HE IS AN ORPHAN 
 
 dreadfully learned colleges and try to understand stuff 
 written in letters that look like crow-tracks. 
 
 He packed his suit-case slowly, feeling that he was very 
 wicked in leaving Oxford s opportunities. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn rode down on a Tottenham Court Road 
 bus, viewing the quaintness of London. Life was a 
 rosy ringing valiant pursuit, for he was about to ship 
 on a Mediterranean steamer laden chiefly with adven 
 turous friends. The bus passed a victoria containing a 
 man with a real monocle. A newsboy smiled up at him. 
 The Strand roared with lively traffic. 
 
 But the gray stonework and curtained windows of the 
 Anglo-Southern Steamship Company s office did not in 
 vite any Mr. Wrenns to come in and ship, nor did the 
 hall porter, a beefy person with a huge collar and sparse 
 painfully sleek hair, whose eyes were like cold boiled 
 mackerel as Mr. Wrenn yearned: 
 
 "Please uh please will you be so kind and tell me 
 where I can ship as a steward for the Med 
 
 "None needed." 
 
 "Or Spain ? I just want to get any kind of a job at first. 
 Peeling potatoes or - It don t make any difference 
 
 "None needed, I said, my man." The porter examined 
 the hall clock extensively. 
 
 Bill Wrenn suddenly popped into being and demanded: 
 "Look here, you; I want to see somebody in authority. 
 I want to know what I can ship as." 
 
 The porter turned round and started. All his faith in 
 mankind was destroyed by the shock of finding the fellow 
 still there. "Nothing, I told you. No one needed." 
 
 "Look here; can I see somebody in authority or not?" 
 
 The porter was privately esteemed a wit at his mother- 
 in-law s. Waddling away, he answered, "Or not." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn drooped out of the corridor. He had planned 
 to see the Tate Gallery, but now he hadn t the courage 
 to face the difficulties of enjoying pictures. He zig- 
 
 75 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 zagged home, mourning: "What s the use. And I ll be 
 hung if I ll try any other offices, either. The icy mitt, 
 that s what they hand you here. Some day I ll go down 
 to the docks and try to ship there. Prob ly. Gee! 
 I feel rotten!" 
 
 Out of all this fog of unfriendliness appeared the 
 waitress at the St. Brasten Cocoa House; first, as a human 
 being to whom he could talk, second, as a woman. She 
 was ignorant and vulgar; she misused English cruelly; 
 she wore greasy cotton garments, planted her large feet 
 on the floor with firm clumsiness, and always laughed at 
 the wrong cue in his diffident jests. But she did laugh; 
 she did listen while he stammered his ideas of meat-pies 
 and St. Paul s and aeroplanes and Shelley and fog and 
 tan shoes. In fact, she supposed him to be a gentleman 
 and scholar, not an American. 
 
 He went to the cocoa-house daily. 
 
 She let him know that he was a man and she a woman, 
 young and kindly, clear-skinned and joyous-eyed. She 
 touched him with warm elbow and plump hip, leaning 
 against his chair as he gave his order. To that he looked 
 forward from meal to meal, though he never ceased har 
 rowing over what he considered a shameful intrigue. 
 
 That opinion of his actions did not keep him from 
 tingling one lunch-time when he suddenly understood that 
 she was expecting to be tempted. He tempted her with 
 out the slightest delay, muttering, "Let s take a walk 
 this evening?" 
 
 She accepted. He was shivery and short of breath 
 while he was trying to smile at her during the rest of the 
 meal, and so he remained all afternoon at the Tower of 
 London, though he very well knew that all this history 
 " kings and gwillotines and stuff" demanded real Wrenn 
 thrills. 
 
 They were to meet on a street-corner at eight. At 
 seven-thirty he was waiting for her. At eight-thirty he 
 
 76 
 
HE IS AN ORPHAN 
 
 indignantly walked away, but he hastily returned, and 
 stood there another half-hour. She did not come. 
 
 When he finally fled home he was glad to have escaped 
 the great mystery of life, then distressingly angry at 
 the waitress, and desolate in the desert stillness of his 
 room. 
 
 He sat in his cold hygienic uncomfortable room on 
 Tavistock Place trying to keep his attention on the 
 "tick, tick, tick, tick" of his two-dollar watch, but 
 really cowering before the vast shadowy presences that 
 slunk in from the hostile city. 
 
 He didn t in the least know what he was afraid of. 
 The actual Englishman whom he passed on the streets 
 did not seem to threaten his life, yet his friendly watch 
 and familiar suit-case seemed the only things he could trust 
 in all the menacing world as he sat there, so vividly con 
 scious of his fear and loneliness that he dared not move 
 his cramped legs. 
 
 The tension could not last. For a time he was able to 
 laugh at himself, and he made pleasant pictures Charley 
 Carpenter telling him a story at DriibePs; Morton com- 
 panionably smoking on the top deck; Lee Theresa flatter 
 ing him during an evening walk. Most of all he pictured 
 the brown-eyed sweetheart he was going to meet some 
 where, sometime. He thought with sophomoric shame 
 of his futile affair with the waitress, then forgot her as he 
 seemed almost to touch the comforting hand of the 
 brown-eyed girl. 
 
 "Friends, that s what I want. You bet!" That was 
 the work he was going to do make acquaintances. A 
 girl who would understand him, with whom he could trot 
 about, seeing department-store windows and moving- 
 picture shows. 
 
 It was then, probably, hunched up in the dowdy chair 
 of faded upholstery, that he created the two phrases which 
 became his formulae for happiness. 
 
 77 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 body to go home to evenings"; still more, "some one to 
 work with and work for." 
 
 It seemed to him that he had mapped out his whole life. 
 He sat back, satisfied, and caught the sound of emptiness 
 in his room, emphasized by the stilly tick of his watch. 
 
 "Oh Morton- " he cried. 
 
 He leaped up and raised the window. It was raining, 
 but through the slow splash came the night rattle of hostile 
 London. Staring down, he studied the desolate circle of 
 light a street-lamp cast on the wet pavement. A cat gray 
 as dish-water, its fur worn off in spots, lean and horrible, 
 sneaked through the circle of light like the spirit of 
 unhappiness, like London s sneer at solitary Americans in 
 Russell Square rooms. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn gulped. Through the light skipped a man 
 and a girl, so little aware of him that they stopped, 
 laughingly, wrestling for an umbrella, then disappeared, 
 and the street was like a forgotten tomb. A hansom 
 swung by, the hoofbeats sharp and cheerless. The rain 
 dripped. Nothing else. Mr. Wrenn slammed down the 
 window. 
 
 He smoothed the sides of his suit-case and reckoned 
 the number of miles it had traveled with him. He spun 
 his watch about on the table, and listened to its rapid 
 mocking speech, "Friends, friends; friends, friends." 
 
 Sobbing, he began to undress, laying down each garment 
 as though he were going to the scaffold. When the room 
 was dark the great shadowy forms of fear thronged un 
 checked about his narrow dingy bed. 
 
 Once during the night he woke. Some sound was 
 threatening him. It was London, coming to get him and 
 torture him. The light in his room was dusty, mottled, 
 gray, lifeless. He saw his door, half ajar, and for some 
 moments lay motionless, watching stark and bodiless 
 heads thrust themselves through the opening and with 
 draw with sinister alertness till he sprang up and opened 
 the door wide. 
 
 78 
 
HE IS AN ORPHAN 
 
 But he did not even stop to glance down the hall for the 
 crowd of phantoms that had gathered there. Some hidden 
 manful scorn of weakness made him sneer aloud, "Don t 
 be a baby even if you are lonely." 
 
 His voice was deeper than usual, and he went to bed to 
 sleep, throwing himself down with a coarse wholesome 
 scorn of his nervousness. 
 
 He awoke after dawn, and for a moment curled in happy 
 wriggles of satisfaction over a good sleep. Then he re 
 membered that he was in the cold and friendless prison 
 of England, and lay there panting with desire to get away, 
 to get back to America, where he would be safe. 
 
 He wanted to leap out of bed, dash for the Liverpool 
 train, and take passage for America on the first boat. 
 But perhaps the officials in charge of the emigrants and 
 the steerage (and of course a fellow would go steerage 
 to save money) would want to know his religion and the 
 color of his hair as bad as trying to ship. They might 
 holdjiim up for a couple of days. There were quarantines 
 and customs and things, of which he had heard. Perhaps 
 for two or even three days more he would have to stay in 
 this nauseating prison-land. 
 
 This was the morning of August 3, 1910, two weeks 
 after his arrival in London, and twenty-two days after 
 victoriously reaching England, the land of romance. 
 
VII 
 
 HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT 
 
 MR. WRENN was sulkily breakfasting at Mrs. 
 Cattermole s Tea House, which Mrs. Cattermole 
 kept in a genteel fashion in a basement three doors from 
 his rooming-house on Tavistock Place. After his night 
 of fear and tragic portents he resented the general flow 
 ered-paper-napkin aspect of Mrs. Cattermole s establish 
 ment. "Hungh!" he grunted, as he jabbed at the fringed 
 doily under the silly pink-and-white tea-cup on the 
 green-and-white lacquered tray brought him by a fat 
 waitress in a frilly apron which must have been made for 
 a Christmas pantomime fairy who was not fat. "Hu- 
 rump!" he snorted at the pictures of lambs and radishes 
 and cathedrals and little duckies on Mrs. Cattermole s 
 pink-and-white wall. 
 
 He wished it were possible which, of course, it was not 
 to go back to the St. Brasten Cocoa House, where he 
 could talk to the honest flat-footed galumping waitress, 
 and cross his feet under his chair. For here he was 
 daintily, yes, daintily, studied by the tea-room habitues 
 two bouncing and talkative daughters of an American 
 tourist, a slender pale-haired English girl student of 
 Assyriology with large top-barred eye-glasses over her 
 protesting eyes, and a sprinkling of people living along 
 Tavistock Place, who looked as though they wanted to 
 know if your opinions on the National Gallery and 
 abstinence were sound. 
 
 His disapproval of the lambiness of Mrs. Cattermole s 
 
 80 
 
HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT 
 
 was turned to a feeling of comradeship with the other 
 patrons as he turned, with the rest, to stare hostilely at a 
 girl just entering. The talk in the room halted, startled. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn gasped. With his head solemnly revolving, 
 his eyes followed the young woman about his table to a 
 table opposite. "A freak! Gee, what red hair!" was his 
 private comment. 
 
 A slender girl of twenty-eight or twenty-nine, clad in a 
 one-piece gown of sage-green, its lines unbroken by either 
 belt or collar-brooch, fitting her as though it had been 
 pasted on, and showing the long beautiful sweep of her 
 fragile thighs and long-curving breast. Her collar, of 
 the material of the dress, was so high that it touched her 
 delicate jaw, and it was set off only by a fine silver chain, 
 with a La Valliere of silver and carved Burmese jade. 
 Her red hair, red as a poinsettia, parted and drawn 
 severely back, made a sweep about the fair dead-white 
 skin of her bored sensitive face. Bored blue-gray eyes, 
 with pathetic crescents of faintly violet-hued wrinkles 
 beneath them, and a scarce noticeable web of tinier 
 wrinkles at the side. Thin long cheeks, a delicate nose, 
 and a straight strong mouth of thin but startlingly red lips. 
 
 Such was the new patron of Mrs. Cattermole. 
 
 She stared about the tea-room like an officer inspecting 
 raw recruits, sniffed at the stare of the thin girl student, 
 ordered breakfast in a low voice, then languidly considered 
 her toast and marmalade. Once she glanced about the 
 room. Her heavy brows were drawn close for a second, 
 making a deep-cleft wrinkle of ennui over her nose, and 
 two little indentations, like the impressions of a box 
 corner, in her forehead over her brows. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn s gaze ran down the line of her bosom again, 
 and he wondered at her hands, which touched the heavy 
 bread-and-butter knife as though it were a fine-point pen. 
 Long hands, colored like ivory; the joint wrinkles etched 
 into her skin; orange cigarette stains on the second finger; 
 
 the nails 
 
 81 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 He stared at them. To himself he commented, "Gee! 
 I never did see such freak finger-nails in my life." Instead 
 of such smoothly rounded nails as Theresa Zapp displayed, 
 the new young lady had nails narrow and sharp-pointed, 
 the ends like little triangles of stiff white writing-paper. 
 
 As she breakfasted she scanned Mr. Wrenn for a 
 second. He was too obviously caught staring to be able 
 to drop his eyes. She studied him all out, with almost as 
 much interest as a policeman gives to a passing trolley-car, 
 yawned delicately, and forgot him. 
 
 Though you should penetrate Greenland or talk 
 anarchism to the daughter of a millionaire grocer, never 
 shall you feel a more devouring chill than enveloped Mr. 
 Wrenn as the new young lady glanced away from him, 
 paid her check, rose slithily from her table, and departed. 
 She rounded his table; not stalking out of its way, as 
 Theresa would have done, but bending from the hips. 
 Thus was it revealed to Mr. Wrenn that 
 
 He was almost too horrified to put it into words. . . . 
 He had noticed that there was something kind of funny 
 in regard to her waist; he had had an impression of re 
 markably smooth waist curves and an unjagged sweep of 
 back. Now he saw that It was unheard of; not at 
 all like Lee Theresa Zapp or ladies in the Subway. For 
 the freak girl wasn t wearing corsets! 
 
 When she had passed him he again studied her back, 
 swiftly and covertly. No, sir. No question about it. 
 It couldn t be denied by any one now that the girl was a 
 freak, for, charitable though Our Mr. Wrenn was, he had 
 to admit that there was no sign of the midback ridge and 
 little rounded knobbinesses of corseted respectability. 
 And he had a closer view of the texture of her sage-green 
 crash gown. 
 
 "Golly!" he said to himself; "of all the doggone cloth for 
 a dress! Reg lar gunny - sacking. She s skinny, too. 
 Bright-red hair. She sure is the prize freak. Kind of 
 good-looking, but get a brick!" 
 
 82 
 
HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT 
 
 He hated to rule so clever-seeming a woman quite out of 
 court. But he remembered her scissors glance at him, 
 and his soft little heart became very hard. 
 
 How brittle are our steel resolves ! When Mr. Wrenn 
 walked out of Mrs. Cattermole s excellent establishment 
 and heavily inspected the quiet Bloomsbury Street, with 
 a cat s-meat-man stolidly clopping along the pavement, as 
 loneliness rushed on him and he wondered what in the 
 world he could do, he mused, "Gee! I bet that red-headed 
 lady would be interestin to know." 
 
 A day of furtive darts out from his room to do London, 
 which glumly declined to be done. He went back to the 
 Zoological Gardens and made friends with a tiger which, 
 though it presumably came from an English colony, was 
 the friendliest thing he had seen for a week. It did yawn, 
 but it let him talk to it for a long while. He stood before 
 the bars, peering in, and whenever no one else was about 
 he murmured: "Poor fella, they won t let you go, heh? 
 You got a worse boss n Goglefogle, heh ? Poor old 
 fella." 
 
 He didn t at all mind the disorder and rancid smell of 
 the cage; he had no fear of the tiger s sleek murderous 
 power. But he was somewhat afraid of the sound of his 
 own tremorous voice. He had spoken aloud so little 
 lately. 
 
 A man came, an Englishman in a high offensively well- 
 fitting waistcoat, and stood before the cage. Mr. Wrenn 
 slunk away, robbed of his new friend, the tiger, the for- 
 lornest person in all London, kicking at pebbles in the 
 path. 
 
 As half-dusk made the quiet street even more detached, 
 he sat on the steps of his rooming-house on Tavistock 
 Place, keeping himself from the one definite thing he 
 wanted to do the thing he keenly imagined a happy 
 Mr. Wrenn doing dashing over to the Euston Station to 
 find out how soon and where he could get a train for 
 Liverpool and a boat for America. 
 
 83 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 A girl was approaching the house. He viewed her 
 carelessly, then intently. It was the freak lady of Mrs. 
 Cattermole s Tea House the corsetless young woman of 
 the tight-fitting crash gown and flame-colored hair. She 
 was coming up the steps of his house. 
 
 He made room for her with feverish courtesy. She 
 
 lived in the same house He instantly, without a bit 
 
 of encouragement from the uninterested way in which she 
 snipped the door to, made up a whole novel about her. 
 Gee! She was a French countess, who lived in a reg lar 
 chateau, and she was staying in Bloomsbury incognito, 
 seeing the sights. She was a noble. She was 
 
 Above him a window opened. He glanced up. The 
 countess incog, was leaning out, scanning the street un- 
 caringly. Why her windows were next to his! He was 
 living next room to an unusual person as unusual as 
 Dr. Mittyford. 
 
 He hurried up-stairs with a fervid but vague plan to 
 meet her. Maybe she really was a French countess or 
 somepun . All evening, sitting by the window, he was 
 comforted as he heard her move about her room. He had 
 a friend. He had started that great work of making 
 friends well, not started, but started starting then he 
 got confused, but the idea was a flame to warm the fog- 
 chilled spaces of the London street. 
 
 At his Cattermole breakfast he waited long. She did 
 not come. Another day but why paint another day 
 that was but a smear of flat dull slate? Yet another 
 breakfast, and the lady of mystery came. Before he 
 knew he was doing it he had bowed to her, a slight un 
 easy bend of his neck. She peered at him, unseeing, and 
 sat down with her back to him. 
 
 He got much good healthy human vindictive satisfac 
 tion in evicting her violently from the French chateau 
 he had given her, and remembering that, of course, she 
 was just a "fool freak Englishwoman prob ly a bloomin* 
 stoodent" he scorned, and so settled her! Also he told 
 
HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT 
 
 her, by telepathy, that her new gown was freakier than 
 ever a pale-green thing, with large white buttons. 
 
 As he was coming in that evening he passed her in the 
 hall. She was clad in what he called a bathrobe, and what 
 she called an Arabian burnoose, of black embroidered with 
 dull -gold crescents and stars, showing a V of exquisite 
 flesh at her throat. A shred of tenuous lace straggled 
 loose at the opening of the burnoose. Her radiant hair, 
 tangled over her forehead, shone with a thousand various 
 gleams from the gas-light over her head as she moved 
 back against the wall and stood waiting for him to pass. 
 She smiled very doubtfully, distantly the smile, he felt, 
 of a great lady from Mayfair. He bobbed his head, 
 lowered his eyes abashedly, and noticed that along the 
 shelf of her forearm, held against her waist, she bore many 
 silver toilet articles, and such a huge heavy fringed 
 Turkish bath-towel as he had never seen before. 
 
 He lay awake to picture her brilliant throat and shining 
 hair. He rebuked himself for the lack of dignity in 
 "thinking of that freak, when she wouldn t even return a 
 fellow s bow." But her shimmering hair was the star of 
 his dreams. 
 
 Napping in his room in the afternoon, Mr. Wrenn heard 
 slight active sounds from her, next room. He hurried 
 down to the stoop. 
 
 She stood behind him on the door-step, glaring up and 
 down the street, as bored and as ready to spring as the 
 Zoo tiger. Mr. Wrenn heard himself saying to the girl, 
 "Please, miss, do you mind telling me I m an American; 
 Fm a stranger in London I want to go to a good play or 
 something and what would I what would be good " 
 
 "I don t know, reahlly," she said, with much hauteur. 
 "Everything s rather rotten this season, I fancy." Her 
 voice ran fluting up and down the scale. Her a s were 
 very broad. 
 
 "Oh oh y-you are English, then?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Why uh " 
 
 "Yts/" 
 
 "Oh, I just had a fool idea maybe you might be French." 
 
 "Perhaps I am, y know. I m not reahlly English," she 
 said, blandly. 
 
 "Why uh " 
 
 "What made you think I was French? Tell me; I m 
 interested." 
 
 "Oh, I guess I was just well, it was almost make- 
 b lieve how you had a castle in France just a kind of 
 a fool game." 
 
 "Oh, dont be ashamed of imagination," she demanded, 
 stamping her foot, while her voice fluttered, low and 
 beautifully controlled, through half a dozen notes. "Tell 
 me the rest of your story about me." 
 
 She was sitting on the rail above him now. As he 
 spoke she cupped her chin with the palm of her delicate 
 hand and observed him curiously. 
 
 "Oh, nothing much more. You were a countess " 
 
 "Please! Not just were/ Please, sir, mayn t I be a 
 countess now?" 
 
 "Oh yes, of course you are!" he cried, delight submerg 
 ing timidity. "And your father was sick with somepun* 
 mysterious, and all the docs shook their heads and said 
 Gee! we dunno what it is/ and so you sneaked down to 
 the treasure-chamber you see, your dad your father, I 
 should say he was a cranky old Frenchman just in the 
 story, you know. He didn t think you could do anything 
 yourself about him being mysteriously sick. So one night 
 you " 
 
 "Oh, was it dark? Very very dark? And silent? And 
 my footsteps rang on the hollow flagstones ? And I swiped 
 the gold and went forth into the night?" 
 
 "Yes, yes! That s it." 
 
 "But why did I swipe it?" 
 
 "I m just coming to that," he said, sternly. 
 
 "Oh, please, sir, I m awful sorry I interrupted." 
 
 86 
 
HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT 
 
 "It was like this: You wanted to come over here and 
 study medicine so s you could cure your father." 
 
 "But please, sir," said the girl, with immense gravity, 
 "mayn t I let him die, and not find out what s ailing him, 
 so I can marry the maire ?" 
 
 "Nope," firmly, "you got to Say, gee! I didn t 
 
 expect to tell you all this make-b lieve. . . . I m afraid you ll 
 think it s awful fresh of me." 
 
 "Oh, I loved it really I did because you liked to 
 make it up about poor Istra. (My name is Istra Nash.) 
 I m sorry to say I m not reahlly" her two "reallys" were 
 quite different "a countess, you know. Tell me you 
 live in this same house, don t you? Please tell me that 
 you re not an Interesting Person. Please!" 
 
 "I gee! I guess I don t quite get you." 
 
 "Why, stupid, an Interesting Person is a writer or an 
 artist or an editor or a girl who s been in Holloway Jail 
 or Canongate for suffraging, or any one else who depends 
 on an accident to be tolerable." 
 
 "No, I m afraid not; I m just a kind of clerk." 
 
 "Good! Good! My dear sir whom I ve never seen 
 before have I? By the way, please don t think I 
 usually pick up stray gentlemen and talk to them about 
 my pure white soul. But you, you know, made stories 
 about me. ... I was saying: If you could only know how I 
 loathe and hate and despise Interesting People just now! 
 I ve seen so much of them. They talk and talk and talk 
 they re just like Kipling s bandar-log what is it? 
 
 "See us rise in a flung festoon 
 Half-y/ay up to the jealous moon. 
 Don t you wish you 
 
 could know all about art and economics as we do ? That s 
 what they say. Umph!" 
 
 Then she wriggled her fingers in the air like white 
 butterflies, shrugged her shoulders elaborately, rose from 
 
 87 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 the rail, and sat down beside him on the steps, quite 
 matter-of-factly. 
 
 He could feel his temple-pulses beat with excitement. 
 
 She turned her pale sensitive vivid face slowly toward 
 him. 
 
 "When did you see me to make up the story?" 
 
 "Breakfasts. At Mrs. Cattermole s." 
 
 "Oh yes. . . . How is it you aren t out sight-seeing? Or 
 is it blessedly possible that you aren t a tripper a 
 tourist?" 
 
 "Why, I dunno." He hunted uneasily for the right 
 answer. "Not exactly. I tried a stunt coming over on 
 a cattle-boat." 
 
 "That s good. Much better." 
 
 She sat silent while, with enormous and self-betraying 
 pains to avoid detection, he studied her firm thin bril 
 liantly red lips. At last he tried: 
 
 "Please tell me something about London. Some of 
 
 you English Oh, I dunno. I can t get acquainted 
 
 easily." 
 
 "My dear child, I m not English! I m quite as Amer 
 ican as yourself. I was born in California. I never 
 saw England till two years ago, on my way to Paris. 
 I m an art student. . . . That s why my accent is so perishin* 
 English I can t afford to be just ordinary British, 
 y know." 
 
 Her laugh had an October tang of bitterness in it. 
 
 "Well, I ll say, what do you know about that!" he 
 said, weakly. 
 
 "Tell me about yourself since apparently we re now 
 acquainted. . . . Unless you want to go to that music-hall?" 
 
 "Oh no, no, no! Gee, I was just crazy to have some 
 body to talk to somebody nice I was just about nutty, 
 I was so lonely," all in a burst. He finished, hesitatingly, 
 "I guess the English are kinda hard to get acquainted 
 with." 
 
 "Lonely, eh?" she mused, abrupt and bluffly kind as 
 
HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT 
 
 a man, for all her modulating woman s voice. "You 
 don t know any of the people here in the house?" 
 
 "No m. Say, I guess we got rooms next to each 
 other." 
 
 "How romantic!" she mocked. 
 
 "Wrenn s my name; William Wrenn. I work for 
 I used to work for the Souvenir and Art Novelty Com 
 pany. In New York." 
 
 "Oh. I see. Novelties? Nice little ash-trays with 
 Love from the Erie Station ? And woggly pin-cushions ?" 
 
 "Yes! And fat pug-dogs with black eyes." 
 
 "Oh no-o-o! Please not black! Pale sympathetic blue 
 eyes nice honest blue eyes!" 
 
 "Nope. Black. Awful black. . . . Say, gee, I ain t 
 talking too nutty, am I ?" 
 
 " Nutty ? You mean idiotically ? The slang s 
 
 changed since Oh yes, of course; you ve succeeded 
 
 in talking quite nice and * idiotic." 
 
 "Oh, say, gee, I didn t mean to When you been 
 
 so nice and all to me " 
 
 "Don t apologize!" Istra Nash demanded, savagely. 
 "Haven t they taught you that?" 
 
 "Yes m," he mumbled, apologetically. 
 
 She sat silent again, apparently not at all satisfied with 
 the architecture of the opposite side of Tavistock Place. 
 Diffidently he edged into speech: 
 
 "Honest, I did think you was English. You came from 
 California? Oh, say, I wonder if you ve ever heard of 
 Dr. Mittyford. He s some kind of school-teacher. I 
 think he teaches in I/eland Stamford College." 
 
 "Leland Stanford? You know him?" She dropped 
 into interested familiarity. 
 
 "I met him at Oxford." 
 
 "Really? . . . My brother was at Stanford. I think 
 
 I ve heard him speak of Oh yes. He said that 
 
 Mittyford was a cultural climber, if you know what I 
 mean; rather oh, how shall I express it? oh, shall we 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 put it, finicky about things people have just told him to be 
 finicky about." 
 
 "Yes!" glowed Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 To the luxury of feeling that he knew the unusual 
 Miss Istra Nash he sacrificed Dr. Mittyford, scholarship 
 and eye-glasses and Shelley and all, without mercy. 
 
 "Yes, he was awfully funny. Gee! I didn t care much 
 for him." 
 
 "Of course you know he s a great man, however?" 
 Istra was as bland as though she had meant that all 
 along, which left Mr. Wrenn nowhere at all when it came 
 to deciding what she meant. 
 
 Without warning she rose from the steps, flung at him 
 "G 9 night," and was off down the street. 
 
 Sitting alone, all excited happiness, Mr. Wrenn mut 
 tered: "Ain t she a wonder! Gee! she s striking-lookin ! 
 Gee whittakers!" 
 
 Some hours later he said aloud, tossing about in bed: 
 "I wonder if I was too fresh. I hope I wasn t. I ought 
 to be careful." 
 
 He was so worried about it that he got up and smoked 
 a cigarette, remembered that he was breaking still another 
 rule by smoking too much, then got angry and snapped 
 defiantly at his suit-case: "Well, what do I care if I am 
 smoking too much? And I ll be as fresh as I want to." 
 He threw a newspaper at the censorious suit-case and, 
 much relieved, went to bed to dream that he was a rabbit 
 making enormously amusing jests, at which he laughed 
 rollickingly in half-dream, till he realized that he was 
 being awakened by the sound of long sobs from the room 
 of Istra Nash. 
 
 Afternoon; Mr. Wrenn in his room. Miss Nash was 
 back from tea, but there was not a sound to be heard 
 from her room, though he listened with mouth open, bent 
 forward in his chair, his hands clutching the wooden seat, 
 his finger-tips rubbing nervously back and forth over the 
 
 90 
 
HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT 
 
 rough under-surface of the wood. He wanted to help 
 her the wonderful lady who had been sobbing in the 
 night. He had a plan, in which he really believed, to 
 say to her, "Please let me help you, princess, jus like I 
 was a knight." 
 
 At last he heard her moving about. He rushed down 
 stairs and waited on the stoop. 
 
 When she came out she glanced down and smiled 
 contentedly. He was flutteringly sure that she expected 
 to see him there. But all his plan of proffering assistance 
 vanished as he saw her impatient eyes and her splendors 
 of dress another tight - fitting gown, of smoky gray, 
 with faint silvery lights gliding along the fabric. 
 
 She sat on the rail above him, immediately, unhesitat 
 ingly, and answered his "Evenin" cheerfully. 
 
 He wanted so much to sit beside her, to be friends with 
 her. But, he felt, it took courage to sit beside her. She 
 was likely to stare haughtily at him. However, he did 
 go up to the rail and sit, shyly kicking his feet, beside her, 
 and she did not stare haughtily. Instead she moved 
 over an inch or two, glanced at him almost as though 
 they were sharing a secret, and said, quietly: 
 
 "I thought quite a bit about you last evening. I 
 believe you really have an imagination, even though you 
 are a salesman I mean so many don t; you know how 
 it is." 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 You see, Mr. Wrenn didn t know he was commonplace. 
 
 (i After I left here last night I went over to Olympia 
 Johns , and she dragged me off to a play. I thought of 
 you at it because there was an imaginative butler in it. 
 You don t mind my comparing you to a butler, do you? 
 He was really quite the nicest person in the play, y know. 
 Most of it was gorgeously rotten. It used to be a French 
 farce, but they sent it to Sunday-school and gave it a nice 
 fresh frock. It seemed that a gentleman-tabby had 
 been trying to make a match between his nephew and his 
 
 91 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 ward. The ward arted. Personally I think it was by 
 tonsorial art. But, anyway, the uncle knew that nothing 
 brings people together so well as hating the same person. 
 You know, like hating the cousin, when you re a kiddy, 
 hating the cousin that always keeps her nails clean?" 
 
 "Yes! That s so!" 
 
 "So he turned nasty, and of course the nephew and 
 ward clinched till death did them part which, Fm very 
 sorry to have to tell you, death wasn t decent enough to 
 do on the stage. If the play could only have ended with 
 everybody s funeral I should have called it a real happy 
 ending." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn laughed gratefully, though uncertainly. 
 He knew that she had made jokes for him, but he didn t 
 exactly know what they were. 
 
 "The imaginative butler, he was rather good. But the 
 rest Ugh!" 
 
 "That must have been a funny play," he said, politely. 
 
 She looked at him sidewise and confided, "Will you do 
 me a favor?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I " 
 
 "Ever been married?" 
 
 He was frightfully startled. His "No" sounded as 
 though he couldn t quite remember. 
 
 She seemed much amused. You wouldn t have be 
 lieved that this superior quizzical woman who tapped her 
 fingers carelessly on her slim exquisite knee had ever 
 sobbed in the night. 
 
 "Oh, that wasn t a personal question," she said. 
 "I just wanted to know what you re like. Don t you 
 ever collect people? I do chloroform em quite cruelly 
 and pin their poor little corpses out on nice clean corks. . . . 
 You live alone in New York, do you ?" 
 
 "Y-yes." 
 
 "Who do you play with know?" 
 
 "Not not much of anybody. Except maybe Charley 
 Carpenter. He s assistant bookkeeper for the Souvenir 
 
 92 
 
HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT 
 
 Company." He had wanted to, and immediately de 
 cided not to, invent grandes mondes whereof he was an 
 intimate. 
 
 "What do oh, you know people in New York who 
 don t go to parties or read much what do they do for 
 amusement? I m so interested in types." 
 
 "Well " said he. 
 
 That was all he could say till he had digested a pair of 
 thoughts: Just what did she mean by "types"? Had it 
 something to do with printing stories? And what could 
 he say about the people, anyway? He observed: 
 
 "Oh, I don t know just talk about oh, cards and jobs 
 and folks and things and oh, you know; go to moving 
 pictures and vaudeville and go to Coney Island and 
 oh, sleep." 
 
 "But you ?" 
 
 "Well, I read a good deal. Quite a little. Shakespeare 
 and geography and a lot of stuff. I like reading." 
 
 "And how do you place Nietzsche?" she gravely de 
 sired to know. 
 
 (t p 
 
 "Nietzsche. You know the German humorist." 
 
 "Oh yes uh let me see now; he s uh 
 
 "Why, you remember, don t you? Haeckel and he 
 wrote the great musical comedy of the century. And 
 Matisse did the music Matisse and Rodin." 
 
 "I haven t been to it," he said, vaguely. "... I don t 
 know much German. Course I know a few words, like 
 Spricken Sie Dutch and Bitty, sir, that Rabin at the 
 Souvenir Company he s a German Jew, I guess learnt 
 me. . . . But, say, isn t Kipling great! Gee! when I read 
 Kim I can imagine I m hiking along one of those roads in 
 India just like I was there you know, all those magicians 
 and so on. ... Readin s wonderful, ain t it!" 
 
 "Urn. Yes." 
 
 "I bet you read an awful lot." 
 
 "Very little. Oh D Annunzio and some Turgenev 
 
 93 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 and a little Tourgenieff. . . . That last was a joke, you 
 know." 
 
 "Oh yes," disconcertedly. 
 
 "What sorts of plays do you go to, Mr. Wrenn?" 
 
 "Moving pictures mostly," he said, easily, then bitterly 
 wished he hadn t confessed so low-life a habit. 
 
 "Well tell me, my dear Oh, I didn t mean that; 
 
 artists use it a good deal; it just means old chap/ You 
 don t mind my asking such beastly personal questions, do 
 you? I m interested in people. . . . And now I must go up 
 and write a letter. I was going over to Olympiads she s 
 one of the Interesting People I spoke of but you see you 
 have been much more amusing. Good night. You re 
 lonely in London, aren t you? We ll have to go sight 
 seeing some day." 
 
 "Yes, I am lonely!" he exploded. Then, meekly: "Oh, 
 thank you! I sh d be awful pleased to. ... Have you seen 
 the Tower, Miss Nash?" 
 
 "No. Never. Have you?" 
 
 "No. You see, I thought it d be kind of a gloomy 
 thing to see all alone. Is that why you haven t never 
 been there, too?" 
 
 "My dear man, I see I shall have to educate you. Shall 
 I ? I ve been taken in hand by so many people it would 
 be a pleasure to pass on the implied slur. Shall I?" 
 
 "Please do." 
 
 "One simply doesn t go and see the Tower, because 
 that s what trippers do. Don t you understand, my dear? 
 (Pardon the my dear again.) The Tower is the sort of 
 thing school superintendents see and then go back and 
 lecture on in school assembly-room and the G. A. R. hall. 
 I ll take you to the Tate Gallery." Then, very abruptly, 
 "G night," and she was gone. 
 
 He stared after her smooth back, thinking: "Gee! I 
 wonder if she got sore at something I said. I don t think 
 I was fresh this time. But she beat it so quick. . . .Them 
 lips of hers I never knew there was such red lips. And 
 
 94 
 
HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT 
 
 an artist paints pictures! . . . Read a lot Nitchy 
 German musical comedy. Wonder if that s that Merry- 
 Widow thing? . . . That gray dress of hers makes me 
 think of fog. Cur ous." 
 
 In her room Istra Nash inspected her nose in a mirror, 
 powdered, and sat down to write, on thick creamy paper: 
 
 Skilly dear, I m in a fierce Bloomsbury boarding-house bores 
 except for a Phe-nomenon little man of 35 or 40 with em 
 bryonic imagination & a virgin soul. I ll try to keep from 
 planting radical thoughts in the virgin soul, but I m tempted. 
 
 Oh Skilly dear I m lonely as the devil. Would it be too 
 bromid. to say I wish you were here? I put out my hand in the 
 darkness, & yours wasn t there. My dear, my dear, how 
 
 desolate Oh you understand it only too well with your 
 
 supercilious grin & your superior eye-glasses & your beatific 
 Oxonian ignorance of poor eager America. 
 
 I suppose I am just a barbarous Caiifornian kiddy. It s just 
 as Pere Dureon said at the atelier, "You haf a onderstanding 
 of the igher immorality, but I ope you can cook paint you 
 cannot." 
 
 He wins. I can t sell a single thing to the art editors here 
 or get one single order. One horrid eye-glassed earnest youth 
 who Sees People at a magazine, he vouchsafed that they "didn t 
 use any Outsiders." Outsiders! And his hair was nearly as 
 red as my wretched mop. So I came home & howled & burned 
 Milan tapers before your picture. I did. Though you don t 
 deserve it. 
 
 Oh damn it, am I getting sentimental? You ll read this at 
 Petit Monsard over your drip & grin at your poor unnietzschean 
 barbarian. 
 
 I. N. 
 
VIII 
 
 HE TIFFINS 
 
 MR. WRENN, chewing and chewing and chewing the 
 cud of thought in his room next evening, after an 
 hour had proved two things; thus: 
 
 (a) The only thing he wanted to do was to go back to 
 America at once, because England was a country where 
 every one native or American was so unfriendly and so 
 vastly wise that he could never understand them. 
 
 (b) The one thing in the world that he wanted to do 
 was to be right here, for the most miraculous event of 
 which he had ever heard was meeting Miss Nash. First 
 one, then the other, these thoughts swashed back and 
 forth like the swinging tides. He got away from them 
 only long enough to rejoice that somehow he didn t 
 know how he was going to be her most intimate 
 friend, because they were both Americans in a strange 
 land and because they both could make-believe. 
 
 Then he was proving that Istra would, and would not, 
 be the perfect comrade among women when some one 
 knocked at his door. 
 
 Electrified, his cramped body shot up from its crouch, 
 and he darted to the door. 
 
 Istra Nash stood there, tapping her foot on the sill with 
 apologetic haste in her manner. Abruptly she said: 
 
 "So sorry to bother you. I just wondered if you could 
 let me have a match? I m all out." 
 
 "Oh yes! Here s a whole box. Please take em. I 
 got plenty more." [Which was absolutely untrue.] 
 
HE TIFFINS 
 
 "Thank you. S good o you," she said, hurriedly. 
 "G night." 
 
 She turned away, but he followed her into the hall, 
 bashfully urging: "Have you been to another show? 
 Gee! I hope you draw a better one next time 5 n the one 
 about the guy with the nephew." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 She glanced back in the half dark hall from her door 
 some fifteen feet from his. He was scratching at 
 the wall-paper with a diffident finger, hopeful for a 
 talk. 
 
 "Won t you come in?" she said, hesitatingly. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, but I guess I hadn t better." 
 
 Suddenly she flashed out the humanest of smiles, her 
 blue-gray eyes crinkling with cheery friendship. "Come 
 in, come in, child." As he hesitatingly entered she 
 warbled: "Needn t both be so lonely all the time, after 
 all, need we? Even if you dont like poor Istra. You 
 don t do you ?" Seemingly she didn t expect an answer 
 to her question, for she was busy lighting a Russian 
 cigarette. It was the first time in his life that he had 
 seen a woman smoke. 
 
 With embarrassed politeness he glanced away from her 
 as she threw back her head and inhaled deeply. He 
 blushingly scrutinized the room. 
 
 In the farther corner two trunks stood open. One had 
 the tray removed, and out of the lower part hung a con 
 fusion of lacey things from which he turned away uncom 
 fortable eyes. He recognized the black-and-gold burnoose, 
 which was tumbled on the bed, with a nightgown of lace 
 insertions and soft wrinkles in the lawn, a green book with 
 a paper label bearing the title Three Plays for Puritans, 
 a red slipper, and an open box of chocolates. 
 
 On the plain kitchen-ware table was spread a cloth of 
 Reseda green, like a dull old leaf in color. On it lay a 
 gold-mounted fountain-pen, huge and stub-pointed; a 
 medley of papers and torn envelopes, a bottle of Creme 
 
 97 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Yvette, and a silver-framed portrait of a lean smiling man 
 with a single eye-glass. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn did not really see all these details, but he 
 had an impression of luxury and high artistic success. He 
 considered the Yvette flask the largest bottle of perfume 
 he d ever seen; and remarked that there was "some 
 guy s picture on the table." He had but a moment to 
 reconnoiter, for she was astonishingly saying: 
 
 "So you were lonely when I knocked?" 
 
 "Why, how " " 
 
 "Oh, I could see it. We all get lonely, don t we? I 
 do, of course. Just now I m getting sorer and sorer on 
 Interesting People. I think I ll go back to Paris. There 
 even the Interesting People are why, they re interesting. 
 Savvy you see I am an American savvy?" 
 
 "Why uh uh uh I d-don t exactly get what you 
 mean. How do you mean about Interesting People ?" 
 
 "My dear child, of course you don t get me." She 
 went to the mirror and patted her hair, then curled on the 
 bed, with an offhand "Won t you sit down?" and smoked 
 elaborately, blowing the blue tendrils toward the ceiling 
 as she continued: "Of course you don t get it. You re 
 a nice sensible clerk who ve had enough real work to do to 
 keep you from being afraid that other people will think 
 you re commonplace. You don t have to coddle yourself 
 into working enough to earn a living by talking about 
 temperament. 
 
 "Why, these Interesting People You find em in 
 London and New York and San Francisco just the same. 
 They re convinced they re the wisest people on earth. 
 There s a few artists and a bum novelist or two always, 
 and some social workers. The particular bunch that it 
 amuses me to hate just now and that I apparently can t 
 do without they gather around Olympia Johns, who 
 makes a kind of salon out of her rooms on Great James 
 Street, off Theobald s Road. . . . They might just as well 
 be in New York; but they re even stodgier. They don t 
 
 98 
 
HE TIFFINS 
 
 get sick of the game of being on intellectual heights as 
 soon as New-Yorkers do. 
 
 "I ll have to take you there. It s a cheery sensation, 
 you know, to find a man who has some imagination, but 
 who has been unspoiled by Interesting People, and take 
 him to hear them wamble. They sit around and growl 
 and rush the growler I hope you know growler-rushing 
 and rejoice that they re free spirits. Being Free, of 
 course, they re not allowed to go and play with nice 
 people, for when a person is Free, you know, he is never 
 free to be anything but Free. That may seem confusing, 
 but they understand it at Olympia s. 
 
 "Of course there s different sorts of intellectuals, and 
 each cult despises all the others. Mostly, each cult con 
 sists of one person, but sometimes there s two a talker 
 and an audience or even three. For instance, you may 
 be a militant and a vegetarian, but if some one is a militant 
 and has a good figure, why then oof! . . . That s what 
 I mean by Interesting People. I loathe them! So, of 
 course, being one of them, I go from one bunch to another, 
 and, upon my honor, every single time I think that the 
 new bunch is interesting!" 
 
 Then she smoked in gloomy silence, while Mr. Wrenn 
 remarked, after some mental labor, "I guess they re like 
 cattlemen the cattle-ier they are, the more romantic they 
 look, and then when you get to know them the chief trouble 
 with them is that they re cattlemen." 
 
 "Yes, that s it. They re why, they re Oh, poor 
 
 dear, there, there, there! It ska n t have so much intel- 
 lekchool discussion, shall it! ... I think you re a very nice 
 person, and I ll tell you what we ll do. We ll have a small 
 fire, shall we? In the fireplace." 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 She pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord, and the old- 
 fashioned North Country landlady came tall, thin, 
 parchment-faced, musty-looking as though she had been 
 dressed up in Victorian garments in 1880 and left to stand 
 
 99 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 in an tmaired parlor ever since. She glowered silent dis 
 approval at the presence of Mr. Wrenn in Istra s room, 
 but sent a slavey to make the fire "saxpence uxtry." 
 Mr. Wrenn felt guilty till the coming of the slavey, a per 
 fect Christmas-story-book slavey, a small and merry lump 
 of soot, who sang out, "Chilly t -night, ayn t it?" and 
 made a fire that was soon singing "Chilly t -night," like 
 the slavey. 
 
 Istra sat on the floor before the fire, Turk-wise, her 
 quick delicate fingers drumming excitedly on her knees. 
 
 "Come sit by me. You, with your sense of the ro 
 mantic, ought to appreciate sitting by the fire. You 
 know it s always done." 
 
 He slumped down by her, clasping his knees and trying 
 to appear the dignified American business man in his 
 country-house. 
 
 She smiled at him intimately, and quizzed: 
 
 "Tell me about the last time you sat with a girl by the 
 fire. Tell poor Istra the dark secret. Was she the perfect 
 among pink faces?" 
 
 " I ve never sat before any fireplace with 
 any one! Except when I was about nine one Hal 
 lowe en at a party in Parthenon little town up York 
 State." 
 
 "Really? Poor kiddy!" 
 
 She reached out her hand and took his. He was terrifi 
 cally conscious of the warm smoothness of her fingers play 
 ing a soft tattoo on the back of his hand, while she said: 
 
 "But you have been in love? Drefful in love?" 
 
 "I never have." 
 
 "Dear child, you ve missed so much of the tea and 
 cakes of life, haven t you? And you have an interest in 
 life. Do you know, when I think of the jaded Interesting 
 
 People I ve met Why do I leave you to be spoiled 
 
 by some shop-girl in a flowered hat? She d drag you to 
 moving-picture shows. . . . Oh! You didn t tell me that 
 you went to moving pictures, did you?" 
 
 100 
 
HE TIFFINS 
 
 "No!" he lied, fervently, then, feeling guilty, "I used 
 to, but no more." 
 
 "It shall go to the nice moving pictures if it wants to! 
 It shall take me, too. We ll forget there are any syndical 
 ists or broken-colorists for a while, won t we? We ll let 
 the robins cover us with leaves/ 
 
 "You mean like the babes in the woods? But, say, 
 I m afraid you ain t just a babe in the woods! You re the 
 first person with brains I ever met, cept, maybe, Dr. 
 Mittyford; and the Doc never would play games, I don t 
 believe. The very first one, really." 
 
 "Thank you!" Her warm pressure on his hand 
 tightened. His heart was making the maddest gladdest 
 leaps, and timidly, with a feeling of historic daring, he 
 ventured to explore with his thumb-tip the fine lines of the 
 side of her hand. ... It actually was he, sitting here with a 
 princess, and he actually did feel the softness of her hand, 
 he pantingly assured himself. 
 
 Suddenly she gave his hand a parting pressure and 
 sprang up. 
 
 "Come. We ll have tiffin, and then I ll send you away, 
 and to-morrow we ll go see the Tate Gallery." 
 
 While Istra was sending the slavey for cakes and a pint 
 of light wine Mr. Wrenn sat in a chair just sat in it; he 
 wanted to show that he could be dignified and not take 
 advantage of Miss Nash s kindness by slouchin round. 
 Having read much Kipling, he had an idea that tiffin was 
 some kind of lunch in the afternoon, but of course if Miss 
 Nash used the word for evening supper, then he had been 
 wrong. 
 
 Istra whisked the writing-table with the Reseda-green 
 cover over before the fire, chucked its papers on the bed, 
 and placed a bunch of roses on one end, moving the small 
 blue vase two inches to the right, then two inches forward. 
 The wine she poured into a decanter. 
 
 Wine was distinctly a problem to him. He was excited 
 over his sudden rise into a society where one took wine as 
 & 101 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 a matter of course. Mrs. Zapp wouldn t take it as a 
 matter of course. He rejoiced that he wasn t narrow- 
 minded, like Mrs. Zapp. He worked so hard at not 
 being narrow-minded like Mrs. Zapp that he started when 
 he was called out of his day-dream by a mocking voice: 
 " But you might look at the cakes. Just once, anyway. 
 They are very nice cakes." 
 
 "Uh " 
 
 "Yes, I know the wine is wine. Beastly of it." 
 "Say, Miss Nash, I did get you this time." 
 "Oh, don t tell me that my presiding goddessship is 
 over already." 
 
 "Uh sure! Now Fm going to be a cruel boss." 
 "Dee-lighted! Are you going to be a caveman?" 
 "I m sorry. I don t quite get you on that." 
 "That s too bad, isn t it. I think I d rather like to 
 meet a caveman." 
 
 "Oh say, I know about that caveman Jack London s 
 guys. I m afraid I ain t one. Still on the cattle- 
 boat Say, I wish you could of seen it when the gang 
 
 were tying up the bulls, before starting. Dark close place 
 tween-decks, with the steers bellowin and all packed tight 
 together, and the stiffs gettin seasick so seasick we just 
 kind of staggered around; and we d get hold of a head 
 rope and yank and then let go, and the bosses d yell, 
 Pull, or I ll brain you. And then the fo c sle men 
 packed in like herrings." 
 
 She was leaning over the table, making a labyrinth with 
 the currants from a cake and listening intently. He 
 stopped politely, feeling that he was talking too much. 
 But, "Go on, please do," she commanded, and he told 
 simply, seeing it more and more, of Satan and the Grena 
 dier, of the fairies who had beckoned to him from the 
 Irish coast hills, and the comradeship of Morton. 
 
 She interrupted only once, murmuring, "My dear, it s 
 
 a good thing you re articulate, anyway " which didn t 
 
 seem to have any bearing on hay-bales. 
 
 IO2 
 
HE TIFFINS 
 
 She sent him away with a light "It s been a good party, 
 hasn t it, caveman ? (If you are a caveman.) Call for me 
 to-morrow at three. We ll go to the Tate Gallery." 
 
 She touched his hand in the fleetingest of grasps. 
 
 "Yes. Good night, Miss Nash," he quavered. 
 
 A morning of planning his conduct so that in accom 
 panying Istra Nash to the Tate Gallery he might be the 
 faithful shadow and beautiful transcript of Mittyford, 
 Ph.D. As a result, when he stood before the large can 
 vases of Mr. Watts at the Tate he was so heavy and cor 
 rectly appreciative, so ready not to enjoy the stones in 
 the pictures of Millais, that Istra suddenly demanded: 
 
 "Oh, my dear child, I have taken a great deal on my 
 hands. You ve got to learn to play. You don t know 
 how to play. Come. I shall teach you. I don t know 
 why I should, either. But come." 
 
 She explained as they left the gallery: "First, the art of 
 riding on the buses. Oh, it is an art, you know. You 
 must appreciate the flower-girls and the gr-r-rand young 
 bobbies. You must learn to watch for the blossoms on 
 the restaurant terraces and roll on the grass in the parks. 
 You re much too respectable to roll on the grass, aren t 
 you? I ll try ever so hard to teach you not to be. And 
 we ll go to tea. How many kinds of tea are there?" 
 
 "Oh, Ceylon and English Breakfast and oh Chinese." 
 
 (( T> J 
 
 "And golf tees!" he added, excitedly, as they took a 
 seat in front atop the bus. 
 
 " Puns are a beginning at least," she reflected. 
 
 "But how many kinds of tea are there, Istra? . . . Oh 
 say, I hadn t ought to " 
 
 "Course; call me Istra or anything else. Only, you 
 mustn t call my bluff. What do I know about tea? All 
 of us who play are bluffers, more or less, and we are 
 ever so polite in pretending not to know the others are 
 bluffing. . . . There s lots of kinds of tea. In the New 
 
 103 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 York Chinatown I saw once Do you know China 
 town? Being a New-Yorker, I don t suppose you do." 
 
 "Oh yes. And Italiantown. I used to wander round 
 there/ 
 
 "Well, down at the Seven Flowery Kingdoms Chop 
 Suey and American Cooking there s tea at five dollars a 
 cup that they advertise is grown on cloud-covered moun 
 tain-tops. I suppose when the tops aren t cloud-covered 
 they only charge three dollars a cup. . . . But, serious- 
 like, there s really only two kinds of teas those you go 
 to to meet the man you love and ought to hate, and those 
 you give to spite the women you hate but ought to hate! 
 Isn t that lovely and complicated? That s playing. 
 With words. My aged parent calls it talking too much 
 and not saying anything. Note that last not saying 
 anything! It s one of the rules in playing that mustn t 
 be broken." 
 
 He understood that better than most of the things she 
 said. "Why," he exclaimed, "it s kind of talking side 
 ways." 
 
 "Why, yes. Of course. Talking sideways. Don t you 
 see now?" 
 
 Gallant gentleman as he was, he let her think she had 
 invented the phrase. 
 
 She said many other things; things implying such vast 
 learning that he made gigantic resolves to "read like 
 thunder." 
 
 Her great lesson was the art of taking tea. He found, 
 surprisedly, that they weren t really going to endanger 
 their clothes by rolling on park grass. Instead, she led 
 him to a tea-room behind a candy-shop on Tottenham 
 Court Road, a low room with white wicker chairs, colored 
 tiles set in the wall, and green Sedji-ware jugs with irregular 
 bunches of white roses. A waitress with wild-rose cheeks 
 and a busy step brought Orange Pekoe and lemon for her, 
 Ceylon and Russian Caravan tea and a jug of clotted 
 cream for him, with a pile of cinnamon buns. 
 
 104 
 
HE TIFFINS 
 
 " But " said Istra. "Isn t this like Alice in Wonder 
 land! But you must learn the buttering of English 
 muffins most of all. If you get to be very good at it the 
 flunkies will let you take tea at the Carleton. They are 
 such hypercritical flunkies, and the one that brings the 
 gold butter-measuring rod to test your skill, why, he 
 always wears knee-breeches of silver gray. So you can 
 see, Billy, how careful you have to be. And eat them 
 without buttering your nose. For if you butter your 
 nose they ll think you re a Greek professor. And you 
 wouldn t like that, would you, honey?" 
 
 He learned how to pat the butter into the comfortable 
 brown insides of the muffins that looked so cold and 
 floury without. But Istra seemed to have lost interest; 
 and he didn t in the least follow her when she observed: 
 
 "Doubtless it was the best butter. But where, where, 
 dear dormouse, are the hatter and hare? Especially the 
 sweet bunny rabbit that wriggled his ears and loved 
 Gralice, the princesse d outre-mer. 
 
 "Where, where are the hatter and hare, 
 And where is the best butter gone?" 
 
 Presently: "Come on. Let s beat it down to Soho for 
 dinner. Or no! Now you shall lead me. Show me 
 where you d go for dinner. And you shall take me to a 
 music-hall, and make me enjoy it. Now you teach me to 
 play." 
 
 "Gee! I m afraid I don t know a single thing to teach 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, but See here! We are two lonely Western 
 
 barbarians in a strange land. We ll play together for a 
 little while. We re not used to each other s sort of play, 
 but that will break up the monotony of life all the more. 
 I don t know how long we ll play or Shall we?" 
 
 "Oh yes!" 
 
 "Now show me how you play." 
 
 105 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "I don t believe I ever did much, really." 
 
 "Well, you shall take me to your kind of a restaurant." 
 
 "I don t believe you d care much for penny meat- 
 pies." 
 
 "Little meat-pies?" 
 
 "Um-huh." 
 
 "Little crispy ones? With flaky covers?" 
 
 "Um-huh." 
 
 "Why, course I would! And ha p ny tea? Lead me 
 to it, O brave knight! And to a vaudeville." 
 
 He found that this devoted attendant of theaters had 
 never seen the beautiful Italians who pounce upon pro 
 testing zylophones with small clubs, or the side-splitting 
 juggler s assistant who breaks up piles and piles of plates. 
 And as to the top hat that turns into an accordion and 
 produces much melody, she was ecstatic. 
 
 At after-theater supper he talked of Theresa and South 
 Beach, of Charley Carpenter and Morton Morton 
 Morton. 
 
 They sat, at midnight, on the steps of the house in 
 Tavistock Place. 
 
 "I do know you now," she mused. "It s curious how 
 any two babes in a strange-enough woods get acquainted. 
 You are a lonely child, aren t you?" Her voice was 
 mother-soft. "We will play just a little 
 
 "I wish I had some games to teach. But you know so 
 much." 
 
 "And I m a perfect beauty, too, aren t I?" she said, 
 gravely. 
 
 "Yes, you are!" stoutly. 
 
 "You would be loyal. . . . And I need some one s ad 
 miration. . . . Mostly, Paris and London hold their sides 
 laughing at poor Istra." 
 
 He caught her hand. "Oh, don t! They must pre 
 date you. I d like to kill anybody that didn t!" 
 
 "Thanks." She gave his hand a return pressure and 
 hastily withdrew her own. "You ll be good to some 
 
 106 
 
HE TIFFINS 
 
 sweet pink face. . . . And I ll go on being discontented. 
 Oh, isn t life the fiercest proposition! . . . We seem different, 
 you and I, but maybe it s mostly surface down deep 
 we re alike in being desperately unhappy because we never 
 know what we re unhappy about. Well " 
 
 He wanted to put his head down on her knees and rest 
 there. But he sat still, and presently their cold hands 
 snuggled together. 
 
 After a silence, in which they were talking of them 
 selves, he burst out: "But I don t see how Paris could 
 help predating you. I ll bet you re one of the best 
 artists they ever saw. . . . The way you made up a picture 
 in your mind about that juggler!" 
 
 "Nope. Sorry. Can t paint at all." 
 
 "Ah, stuff!" with a rudeness quite masterful. "I ll 
 bet your pictures are corkers." 
 
 "Urn." 
 
 "Please, would you let me see some of them some time. 
 I suppose it would bother " 
 
 "Come up-stairs. I feel inspired. You are about to 
 hear some great though nasty criticisms on the works of 
 the unfortunate Miss Nash." 
 
 She led the way, laughing to herself over something. 
 She gave him no time to blush and hesitate over the 
 impropriety of entering a lady s room at midnight, but 
 stalked ahead with a brief "Come in." 
 
 She opened a large portfolio covered with green-veined 
 black paper and yanked out a dozen unframed pastels and 
 wash-drawings which she scornfully tossed on the bed, 
 saying, as she pointed to a mass of Marseilles roofs: 
 
 " Do you see this sketch ? The only good thing about it 
 is the thing that last art editor, that red-headed youth, 
 probably didn t like. Don t you hate red hair? You see 
 these ridiculous glaring purple shadows under the docker?" 
 
 She stared down at the picture interestedly, forgetting 
 him, pinching her chin thoughtfully, while she murmured: 
 "They re rather nice. Rather good. Rather good." 
 
 107 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Then, quickly twisting her shoulders about, she poured 
 out: 
 
 "But look at this. Consider this arch. It s miserably 
 out of drawing. And see how Fve faked this figure? It 
 isn t a real person at all. Don t you notice how I ve 
 juggled with this stairway? Why, my dear man, every 
 bit of the drawing in this thing would disgrace a seventh- 
 grade drawing-class in Dos Puentes. And regard the 
 bunch of lombardies in this other picture. They look 
 like umbrellas upside down in a silly wash-basin. Uff! 
 It s terrible. Afreux! Don t act as though you liked 
 them. You really needn t, you know. Can t you see 
 now that they re hideously out of drawing?" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn s fancy was walking down a green lane of 
 old France toward a white cottage with orange-trees 
 gleaming against its walls. In her pictures he had 
 found the land of all his forsaken dreams. 
 
 "I I I " was all he could say, but admiration 
 
 pulsed in it. 
 
 "Thank you. . . . Yes, we will play. Good night. 
 To-morrow!" 
 
IX 
 
 HE ENCOUNTERS THE INTELLECTUALS 
 
 HE wanted to find a cable office, stalk in, and non 
 chalantly send to his bank for more money. He 
 could see himself doing it. Maybe the cable clerk would 
 think he was a rich American. What did he care if he 
 spent all he had? A guy, he admonished himself, just 
 had to have coin when he was goin with a girl like Miss 
 Istra. At least seven times he darted up from the door 
 step, where he was on watch for her, and briskly trotted as 
 far as the corner. Each time his courage melted, and he 
 slumped back to the door-step. Sending for money gee, 
 he groaned, that was pretty dangerous. 
 
 Besides, he didn t wish to go away. Istra might come 
 down and play with him. 
 
 For three hours he writhed on that door-step, till he 
 came to hate it; it was as much a prison as his room at 
 the Zapps had been. He hated the areaway grill, and a 
 big brown spot on the pavement, and, as a truck-driver 
 hates a motorman, so did he hate a pudgy woman across 
 the street who peeped out from a second-story window and 
 watched him with cynical interest. He finally could 
 endure no longer the world s criticism, as expressed by 
 the woman opposite. He started as though he were going 
 to go right now to some place he had been intending 
 to go to all the time, and stalked away, ignoring the 
 woman. 
 
 He caught a bus, then another, then walked a while. 
 Now that he was moving, he was agonizedly considering his 
 
 109 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 problem: What was Istra to him, really? What could he 
 be to her? He was just a clerk. She could never love 
 him. "And of course," he explained to himself, "you 
 hadn t oughta love a person without you expected to 
 marry them; you oughtn t never even touch her hand." 
 Yet he did want to touch hers. He suddenly threw his 
 chin back, high and firm, in defiance. He didn t care if 
 he was wicked, he declared. He wanted to shout to Istra 
 across all the city: Let us be great lovers ! Let us be mad! 
 Let us stride over the hilltops. Though that was not at 
 all the w T ay he phrased it. 
 
 Then he bumped into a knot of people standing on the 
 walk, and came down from the hilltops in one swoop. 
 
 A crowd was collecting before Rothsey Hall, which 
 bore the sign: 
 
 GLORY GLORY GLORY 
 SPECIAL SALVATION ARMY JUBILEE MEETING 
 
 EXPERIENCES OF ADJUTANT CRABBENTHWAITE IN AFRICA 
 
 He gaped at the sign. A Salvationist in the crowd, 
 trim and well set up, his red-ribboned Salvation Army 
 cap at a jaunty angle, said, "Won t you come in, brother?" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn meekly followed into the hall. Bill Wrenn 
 was nowhere in sight. 
 
 Now it chanced that Adjutant Crabbenthwaite told 
 much of Houssas and the N Gombi, of saraweks and 
 week-long treks, but Mr. Wrenn s imagination was not 
 for a second drawn to Africa, nor did he even glance at 
 the sun-bonneted Salvationist women packed in the hall. 
 He was going over and over the Adjutant s denunciations 
 of the Englishmen and Englishwomen who flirt on the 
 mail-boats. 
 
 Suppose it had been himself and his madness over Istra 
 at the moment he quite called it madness that the 
 Adjutant had denounced! 
 
 no 
 
THE INTELLECTUALS 
 
 A Salvationist near by was staring at him most accus 
 ingly. . . . 
 
 He walked away from the jubilee reflectively. He ate 
 his dinner with a grave courtesy toward the food and the 
 waiter. He was positively courtly to his fork. For he 
 was just reformed. He was going to "steer clear" of mad 
 artist women of all but nice good girls whom you could 
 marry. He remembered the Adjutant s thundered words: 
 
 * Flirting you call it flirting! Look into your hearts. 
 God Himself hath looked into them and found flirtation 
 the gateway to hell. And I tell you that these army 
 officers and the bedizened women, with their wine and 
 cigarettes, with their devil s calling-cards and their jewels, 
 with their hell-lighted talk of the sacrilegious follies of 
 socialism and art and horse-racing, O my brothers, it was 
 all but a cloak for looking upon one another to lust after 
 one another. Rotten is this empire, and shall fall when 
 our soldiers seek flirtation instead of kneeling in prayer 
 like the iron men of Cromwell." 
 
 Istra. . . . Card-playing. . . . Talk of socialism and art. 
 Mr. Wrenn felt very guilty. Istra. . . . Smoking and 
 drinking wine. . . . But his moral reflections brought the 
 picture of Istra the more clearly before him the per 
 suasive warmth of her perfect fingers; the curve of her 
 backward-bent throat as she talked in her melodious 
 voice of all the beautiful things made by the wise hands 
 of great men. 
 
 He dashed out of the restaurant. No matter what hap 
 pened, good or bad, he had to see her. While he was 
 climbing to the upper deck of a bus he was trying to 
 invent an excuse for seeing her. ... Of course one couldn t 
 "go and call on ladies in their rooms without havin some 
 special excuse; they would think that was awful fresh." 
 
 He left the bus midway, at the sign of a periodical shop, 
 and purchased a Blackwood s and a Nineteenth Century. 
 Morton had told him these were the chief English "high 
 brow magazines." 
 
 in 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 He carried them to his room, rubbed his thumb in the 
 lampblack on the gas-fixture, and smeared the magazine 
 covers, then cut the leaves and ruffled the margins to 
 make the magazines look dog-eared with much reading; 
 not because he wanted to appear to have read them, but 
 because he felt that Istra would not permit him to buy 
 things just for her. 
 
 All this business with details so calmed him that he 
 wondered if he really cared to see her at all. Besides, it 
 was so late after half-past eight. 
 
 "Rats! Hang it all! I wish I was dead. I don t 
 know what I do want to do," he groaned, and cast him 
 self upon his bed. He was sure of nothing but the fact 
 that he was unhappy. He considered suicide in a digni 
 fied manner, but not for long enough to get much fright 
 ened about it. 
 
 He did not know that he was the toy of forces which, 
 working on him through the strangeness of passionate 
 womanhood, could have made him a great cad or a petty 
 hero as easily as they did make him confusedly sorry for 
 himself. That he wasn t very much of a cad or anything 
 of a hero is a detail, an accident resulting from his thirty- 
 five or thirty-six years of stodgy environment. Cad or 
 hero, filling scandal columns or histories, he would have 
 been the same William Wrenn. 
 
 He was thinking of Istra as he lay on his bed. In a 
 few minutes he dashed to his bureau and brushed his 
 thinning hair so nervously that he had to try three times 
 for a straight parting. While brushing his eyebrows and 
 mustache he solemnly contemplated himself in the mirror. 
 
 "I look like a damn rabbit," he scorned, and marched 
 half-way to Istra s room. He went back to change his 
 tie to a navy-blue bow which made him appear younger. 
 He was feeling rather resentful at everything, including 
 Istra, as he finally knocked and heard her "Yes? Come 
 in." 
 
 There was in her room a wonderful being lolling in a 
 
 112 
 
THE INTELLECTUALS 
 
 wing-chair, one leg over the chair-arm; a young young 
 man, with broken brown teeth, always seen in his perpet 
 ual grin, but a godlike Grecian nose, a high forehead, and 
 bristly yellow hair. The being wore large round tortoise- 
 shell spectacles, a soft shirt with a gold-plated collar-pin, 
 and delicately gray garments. 
 
 Istra was curled on the bed in a leaf-green silk kimono 
 with a great gold-mounted medallion pinned at her 
 breast. Mr. Wrenn tried not to be shocked at the kimono. 
 
 She had been frowning as he came in and fingering a 
 long thin green book of verses, but she glowed at Mr. 
 Wrenn as though he were her most familiar friend, 
 murmuring, "Mouse dear, Fm so glad you could come 
 in." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn stood there awkwardly. He hadn t ex 
 pected to find another visitor. He seemed to have heard 
 her call him "Mouse." Yes, but what did Mouse mean? 
 It wasn t his name at all. This was all very confusing. 
 But how awful glad she was to see him! 
 
 "Mouse dear, this is one of our best little indecent 
 poets, Mr. Carson Haggerty. From America California 
 too. Mr. Hag ty, Mr. Wrenn." 
 
 " Pleased meet you," said both men in the same tone of 
 annoyance. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn implored: "I uh I thought you might 
 like to look at these magazines. Just dropped in to give 
 them to you." He was ready to go. 
 
 "Thank you so good of you. Please sit down. 
 Carson and I were only fighting he s going pretty soon. 
 We knew each other at art school in Berkeley. Now he 
 knows all the toffs in London." 
 
 "Mr. Wrenn," said the best little poet, "I hope you ll 
 back up my contention. Izzy says th " 
 
 "Carson, I have told you just about enough times that 
 I do not intend to stand for Izzy any more! I should 
 think that even you would be able to outgrow the standard 
 of wit that obtains in first-year art class at Berkeley." 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Mr. Haggerty showed quite all of his ragged teeth in a 
 noisy joyous grin and went on, unperturbed: "Miss Nash 
 says that the best European thought, personally gathered 
 in the best salons, shows that the Rodin vogue is getting 
 the pickle-eye from all the real yearners. What is your 
 opinion ?" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn turned to Istra for protection. She promptly 
 announced: "Mr. Wrenn absolutely agrees with me. By 
 the way, he s doing a big book on the recrudescence of 
 Kipling, after his slump, and " 
 
 "Oh, come off, now! Kipling! Blatant imperialist, 
 anti-Stirner!" cried Carson Haggerty, kicking out each 
 word with the assistance of his swinging left foot. 
 
 Much relieved that the storm-center had passed over 
 him, Mr. Wrenn sat on the front edge of a cane-seated 
 chair, with the magazines between his hands, and his 
 hands pressed between his forward-cocked knees. Al 
 ways, in the hundreds of times he went over the scene in 
 that room afterward, he remembered how cool and 
 smooth the magazine covers felt to the palms of his 
 flattened hands. For he associated the papery surfaces 
 with the apprehension he then had that Istra might give 
 him up to the jag-toothed grin of Carson Haggerty, who 
 would laugh him out of the room and out of Istra s world. 
 
 He hated the poetic youth, and would gladly have 
 broken all of Carson s teeth short off. Yet the dread 
 of having to try the feat himself made him admire the 
 manner in which Carson tossed about long creepy-sound 
 ing words, like a bush-ape playing with scarlet spiders. 
 He talked insultingly of Yeats and the commutation of 
 sex-energy and Isadora Duncan and the poetry of Carson 
 Haggerty. 
 
 Istra yawned openly on the bed, kicking a pillow, but 
 she was surprised into energetic discussion now and then, 
 till Haggerty intentionally called her Izzy again, when 
 she sat up and remarked to Mr. Wrenn: "Oh, don t go 
 yet. You can tell me about the article when Carson 
 
 114 
 
THE INTELLECTUALS 
 
 goes. Dear Carson said he was only going to stay till 
 ten." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn hadn t had any intention of going, so he 
 merely smiled and bobbed his head to the room in general, 
 and stammered "Y-yes," while he tried to remember 
 what he had told her about some article. Article. Per 
 haps it was a Souvenir Company novelty article. Great 
 idea! Perhaps she wanted to design a motto for them. 
 He decidedly hoped that he could fix it up for her he d 
 sure do his best. He d be glad to write over to Mr. 
 Guilfogle about it. Anyway, she seemed willing to have 
 him stick here. 
 
 Yet when dear Carson had jauntily departed, leaving 
 the room still loud with the smack of his grin, Istra seemed 
 to have forgotten that Mr. Wrenn was alive. She was 
 scowling at a book on the bed as though it had said things 
 to her. So he sat quiet and crushed the magazine covers 
 more closely till the silence choked him, and he dared, 
 "Mr. Carson is an awful well-educated man." 
 
 "He s a bounder," she snapped. She softened her 
 voice as she continued: "He was in the art school in 
 California when I was there, and he presumes on that. 
 ... It was good of you to stay and help me get rid of him. 
 
 . . . I m getting I m sorry I m so dull to-night. I 
 
 suppose I ll get sent off to bed right now, if I can t be 
 more entertaining. It was sweet of you to come in, 
 Mouse. . . . You don t mind my calling you * Mouse/ do 
 you ? I won t, if you do mind." 
 
 He awkwardly walked over and laid the magazines on 
 the bed. "Why, it s all right. . . . What was it about 
 some novelty some article? If there s anything I could 
 do anything " 
 
 "Article?" 
 
 "Why, yes. That you wanted to see me about." 
 
 "Oh! Oh, that was just to get rid of Carson. . . . His 
 insufferable familiarity! The penalty for my having been 
 a naive kiddy, hungry for friendship, once. And now, 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 good n . Oh, Mouse, he says my eyes even with 
 
 this green kimono on Come here, dear; tell me 
 
 what color my eyes are." 
 
 She moved with a quick swing to the side of her bed. 
 Thrusting out her two arms, she laid ivory hands clutch- 
 ingly on his shoulder. He stood quaking, forgetting 
 every one of the Wrennish rules by which he had edged 
 a shy polite way through life. He fearfully reached out 
 his hands toward her shoulders in turn, but his arms were 
 shorter than hers, and his hands rested on the sensitive 
 warmth of her upper arms. He peered at those dear 
 gray-blue eyes of hers, but he could not calm himself 
 enough to tell whether they were china-blue or basalt- 
 black. 
 
 "Tell me," she demanded; "aren t they green?" 
 
 "Yes," he quavered. 
 
 "You re sweet," she said. 
 
 Leaning out from the side of her bed, she kissed him. 
 She sprang up, and hastened to the window, laughing 
 nervously, and deploring: "I shouldn t have done that! 
 I shouldn t! Forgive me!" Plaintively, like a child: 
 "Istra was so bad, so bad. Now you must go." As she 
 turned back to him her eyes had the peace of an old 
 friend s. 
 
 Because he had wished to be kind to people, because he 
 had been pitiful toward Goaty Zapp, Mr. Wrenn was 
 able to understand that she was trying to be a kindly 
 big sister to him, and he said "Good night, Istra," and 
 smiled in a lively way and walked out. He got out the 
 smile by wrenching his nerves, for which he paid in 
 agony as he knelt by his bed, acknowledging that Istra 
 would never love him and that therefore he was not to 
 love, would be a fool to love, never would love her and 
 seeing again her white arms softly shadowed by her green 
 kimono sleeves. 
 
 No sight of Istra, no scent of her hair, no sound of her 
 always-changing voice for two days. Twice, seeing a 
 
 116 
 
THE INTELLECTUALS 
 
 sliver of light under her door as he came up the darkened 
 stairs, he knocked, but there was no answer, and he 
 marched into his room with the dignity of fury. 
 
 Numbers of times he quite gave her up, decided he 
 wanted never to see her again. But after one of the 
 savagest of these renunciations, while he was stamping 
 defiantly down Tottenham Court Road, he saw in a win 
 dow a walking-stick that he was sure she would like his 
 carrying. And it cost only two-and-six. Hastily, befoi ^ 
 he changed his mind, he rushed in and slammed down his 
 money. It was a very beautiful stick indeed, and of a 
 modesty to commend itself to Istra, just a plain straight 
 stick with a cap of metal curiously like silver. He was 
 conscious that the whole world was leering at him, de 
 manding "What re you carrying a cane for?" but he the 
 misunderstood was willing to wait for the reward of 
 this martyrdom in Istra s approval. 
 
 The third night, as he stood at the window watching 
 two children playing in the dusk, there was a knock. It 
 was Istra. She stood at his door, smart and inconspicuous 
 in a black suit with a small toque that hid the flare of her 
 red hair. 
 
 "Come," she said, abruptly. "I want you to take me 
 to Olympia s Olympia Johns flat. I ve been reading 
 all the Balzac there is. I want to talk. Can you come?" 
 
 "Oh, of course " 
 
 "Hurry, then!" 
 
 He seized his small foolishly round hat, and he tucked 
 his new walking-stick under his arm without displaying it 
 too proudly, waiting for her comment. 
 
 She led the way down-stairs and across the quiet streets 
 ard squares of Bloomsbury to Great James Street. She 
 did not even see the stick. 
 
 She said scarce a word beyond: 
 
 "I m sick of Olympia s bunch I never want to dine in 
 Soho with an inhibition and a varietistic sex instinct again 
 jamais de la vie. But one has to play with somebody." 
 9 117 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Then he was so cheered that he tapped the pavements 
 boldly with his stick and delicately touched her arm as 
 they crossed the street. For she added: 
 
 "We ll just run in and see them for a little while, and 
 then you can take me out and buy me a Rhine wine and 
 seltzer. . . . Poor Mouse, it shall have its play!" 
 
 Olympia Johns residence consisted of four small rooms. 
 When Istra opened the door, after tapping, the living- 
 room was occupied by seven people, all interrupting one 
 another and drinking fourpenny ale; seven people and a 
 fog of cigarette smoke and a tangle of papers and books 
 and hats. A swamp of unwashed dishes appeared on a 
 large table in the room just beyond, divided off from the 
 living-room by a burlap curtain to which were pinned 
 suffrage buttons and medallions. This last he remembered 
 afterward, thinking over the room, for the medals* 
 glittering points of light relieved his eyes from the in 
 tolerable glances of the people as he was hastily intro 
 duced to them. He was afraid that he would be dragged 
 into a discussion, and sat looking away from them to the 
 medals, and to the walls, on which were posters, showing 
 mighty fists with hammers and flaming torches, or hog- 
 like men lolling on the chests of workmen, which they 
 seemed to enjoy more than the workmen. By and by he 
 ventured to scan the group. 
 
 Carson Haggerty, the American poet, was there. But 
 the center of them all was Olympia Johns herself spinster, 
 thirty-four, as small and active and excitedly energetic 
 as an ant trying to get around a match. She had much of 
 the ant s brownness and slimness, too. Her pale hair was 
 always falling from under her fillet of worn black velvet 
 (with the dingy under side of the velvet showing curled 
 up at the edges). A lock would tangle in front of her eyes, 
 and she would impatiently shove it back with a jab of 
 her thin rough hands, never stopping in her machine-gun 
 volley of words. 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes, yes," she would pour out. "Don t you 
 
 118 
 
THE INTELLECTUALS 
 
 see? We must do something. I tell you the conditions 
 are intolerable^ simply intolerable. We must do some 
 thing." 
 
 The conditions were, it seemed, intolerable in the 
 several branches of education of female infants, water 
 rates in Bloomsbury, the cutlery industry, and ballad- 
 singing. 
 
 And mostly she was right. Only her Tightness was so 
 demanding, so restless, that it left Mr. Wrenn gasping. 
 
 Olympia depended on Carson Haggerty for most of the 
 "Yes, that s so s," though he seemed to be trying to steal 
 glances at another woman, a young woman, a lazy smiling 
 pretty girl of twenty, who, Istra told Mr. Wrenn, studied 
 Greek archaeology at the Museum. No one knew why 
 she studied it. She seemed peacefully ignorant of every 
 thing but her kissable lips, and she adorably poked at 
 things with lazy graceful fingers, and talked the Little 
 Language to Carson Haggerty, at which Olympia shrugged 
 her shoulders and turned to the others. 
 
 There were a Mr. and Mrs. Stettinius she a poet; 
 he a bleached man, with goatish whiskers and a sancti 
 monious white neck-cloth, who was Puritanically, ethically, 
 gloomily, religiously atheistic. Items in the room were 
 a young man who taught in Mr. Jeney s Select School 
 and an Established Church mission worker from White- 
 chapel, who loved to be shocked. 
 
 It was Mr. Wrenn who was really shocked, however, 
 not by the noise and odor; not by the smoking of the 
 women; not by the demand that "we" tear down the 
 state; no, not by these was Our Mr. Wrenn of the Souvenir 
 Company shocked, but by his own fascinated interest in 
 the frank talk of sex. He had always had a quite unde 
 fined supposition that it was wicked to talk of sex unless 
 one made a joke of it. 
 
 Then came the superradicals, to confuse the radicals 
 who confused Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 For always there is a greater rebellion; and though you 
 
 119 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 sell your prayer-book to buy Bakunine, and esteem your 
 self revolutionary to a point of madness, you shall find 
 one who calls you reactionary. The scorners came in 
 together Moe Tchatzsky, the syndicalist and direct ac- 
 tionist, and Jane Schott, the writer of impressionistic 
 prose and they sat silently sneering on a couch. 
 
 Istra rose, nodded at Mr. Wrenn, and departed, despite 
 Olympia s hospitable shrieks after them of "Oh stay ! It s 
 only a little after ten. Do stay and have something to 
 eat." 
 
 Istra shut the door resolutely. The hall was dark. 
 It was gratefully quiet. She snatched up Mr. Wrenn s 
 hand and held it to her breast. 
 
 "Oh, Mouse dear, Fm so bored! I want some real 
 things. They talk and talk in there, and every night they 
 settle all the fate of all the nations, always the same 
 way. I don t suppose there s ever been a bunch that 
 knew more things incorrectly. You hated them, didn t 
 you?" 
 
 "Why, I don t think you ought to talk about them so 
 severe," he implored, as they started down-stairs. "I 
 don t mean they re like you. They don t savvy like you 
 do. I mean it! But I was awful int rested in what that 
 Miss Johns said about kids in school getting crushed into 
 a mold. Gee! that s so; ain t it? Never thought of it 
 before. And that Mrs. Stettinius talked about Yeats so 
 beautiful." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, you make my task so much harder. I 
 want you to be different. Can t you see your cattle-boat 
 experience is realer than any of the things those half- 
 baked thinkers have done? I know. I m half-baked 
 myself." 
 
 "Oh, I ve never done nothing." 
 
 "But you re ready to. Oh, I don t know. I want 
 
 I wish Jock Seton the filibuster I met in San Francisco 
 I wish he were here. Mouse, maybe I can make a fili 
 buster of you. I ve got to create something. Oh, those 
 
 120 
 
THE INTELLECTUALS 
 
 people! If you just knew them! That fool Mary Stet- 
 tinius is mad about that Tchatzsky person, and her hus 
 band invites him to teas. Stettinius is mad about Olym- 
 pia, who ll probably take Carson out and marry him, and 
 he ll keep on hanging about the Greek girl. Ungh!" 
 
 "I don t know I don t know 
 
 But as he didn t know what he didn t know she merely 
 patted his arm and said, soothingly: "I won t criticize 
 your first specimens of radicals any more. They are 
 trying to do something, anyway." Then she added, in an 
 irrelevant tone, "You re exactly as tall as I am. Mouse 
 dear, you ought to be taller." 
 
 They were entering the drab stretch of Tavistock Place, 
 after a silence as drab, when she exclaimed: "Mouse,! am 
 so sick of everything. I want to get out, away, anywhere, 
 and do something, anything, just so s it s different. Even 
 the country. I d like Why couldn t we?" 
 
 "Let s go out on a picnic to-morrow, Istra." 
 
 "A picnic picnic? With pickles and a pillow cushion 
 and several kinds of cake ? . . . I m afraid the Bois Boulogne 
 has spoiled me for that. . . . Let me think." 
 
 She drooped down on the steps of their house. Her 
 head back, her supple strong throat arched with the 
 passion of hating boredom, she devoured the starlight 
 dim over the stale old roofs across the way. 
 
 "Stars," she said. "Out on the moors they would 
 come down by you. . . . What is your adventure your 
 formula for it? ... Let s see; you take common roadside 
 things seriously; you d be dear and excited over a Red 
 Lion Inn." 
 
 "Are there more than one Red Li " 
 
 "My dear Mouse, England is a menagerie of Red Lions 
 and White Lions and fuzzy Green Unicorns. . . . Why not, 
 why not, why not! Let s walk to Aengusmere. It s a fool 
 colony of artists and so on, up in Suffolk; but they have 
 got some beautiful cottages, and they re more Celt than 
 Dublin. . . . Start right now; take a train to Chelmsford, 
 
 121 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 say, and tramp all night. Take a couple of days or so to 
 get there. Think of it! Tramping through dawn, past 
 English fields. Think of it, Yankee. And not caring 
 what anybody in the world thinks. Gipsies. Shall we?" 
 
 "Wh-h-h-h-y " He was sure she was mad. Tramp 
 ing all night! He couldn t let her do this. 
 
 She sprang up. She stared down at him in revulsion, 
 her hands clenched. Her voice was hostile as she de 
 manded: 
 
 "What? Don t you want to? With me?" 
 
 He was up beside her, angry, dignified; a man. 
 
 "Look here. You know I want to. You re the 
 
 elegantest I mean you re Oh, you ought to know! 
 
 Can t you see how I feel about you ? Why, I d rather do 
 this than anything I ever heard of in my life. I just don t 
 want to do anything that would get people to talking 
 about you." 
 
 "Who would know? Besides, my dear man, I don t 
 regard it as exactly wicked to walk decently along a 
 country road." 
 
 "Oh, it isn t that. Oh, please, Istra, don t look at me 
 like that like you hated me." 
 
 She calmed at once, drummed on his arm, sat down on 
 the railing, and drew him to a seat beside her. 
 
 "Of course, Mouse. It s silly to be angry. Yes, I do 
 believe you want to take care of me. But don t worry. 
 ...Come! Shall we go?" 
 
 "But wouldn t you rather wait till to-morrow?" 
 
 "No. The whole thing s so mad that if I wait till then 
 I ll never want to do it. And you ve got to come, so that 
 I ll have some one to quarrel with. ... I hate the smugness 
 of London, especially the smugness of the anti-smug 
 anti-bourgeois radicals, so that I have the finest mad 
 mood! Come. We ll go." 
 
 Even this logical exposition had not convinced him, 
 but he did not gainsay as they entered the hall and Istra 
 rang for the landlady. His knees grew sick and old and 
 
 122 
 
THE INTELLECTUALS 
 
 quavery as he heard the landlady s voice loud below- 
 stairs: "Now wot do they want? It s eleven o clock. 
 Aren t they ever done a-ringing and a-ringing?" 
 
 The landlady, the tired thin parchment-faced North 
 Countrywoman, whose god was Respectability of Lodg 
 ings, listened in a frightened way to Istra s blandly su 
 perior statement: "Mr. Wrenn and I have been invited 
 to join an excursion out of town that leaves to-night. 
 We ll pay our rent and leave our things here." 
 
 "Going off together " 
 
 "My good woman, we are going to Aengusmere. 
 Here s two pound. Don t allow any one in my room. 
 And I may send for my things from out of town. Be 
 ready to pack them in my trunks and send them to me. 
 Do you understand?" 
 
 "Yes, miss, but " 
 
 "My good woman, do you realize that your buts are 
 insulting ?" 
 
 "Oh, I didn t go to be insulting 
 
 "Then that s all Hurry now, Mouse!" 
 
 On the stairs, ascending, she whispered, with the excite 
 ment not of a tired woman, but of a tennis-and-dancing- 
 mad girl: "We re off! Just take a tooth-brush. Put on 
 an outing suit any old thing and an old cap." 
 
 She darted into her room. 
 
 Now Mr. Wrenn had, for any old thing, as well as for 
 afternoon and evening dress, only the sturdy undistin 
 guished clothes he was wearing, so he put on a cap, and 
 hoped she wouldn t notice. She didn t. She came 
 knocking in fifteen minutes, trim in a khaki suit, with low 
 thick boots and a jolly tousled blue tam-o -shanter. 
 
 "Come on. There s a train for Chelmsford in half an 
 hour^my time-table confided to me. I feel like singing." 
 
X 
 
 HE GOES A-GIPSYING 
 
 rode out of London in a third-class compart- 
 I ment, opposite a curate and two stodgy people who 
 were just people and defied you (Istra cheerfully explained 
 to Mr. Wrenn) to make anything of them but just people. 
 
 " Wouldn t they stare if they knew what idiocy we re up 
 to!" she suggested. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn bobbed his head in entire agreement. He 
 was trying, without any slightest success, to make himself 
 believe that Mr. William Wrenn, Our Mr. Wrenn, late 
 of the Souvenir Company, was starting out for a country 
 tramp at midnight with an artist girl. 
 
 The night foreman of the station, a person of bedizen- 
 ment and pride, stared at them as they alighted at Chelms- 
 ford and glanced around like strangers. Mr. Wrenn stared 
 back defiantly and marched with Istra from the station, 
 through the sleeping town, past its ragged edges, into the 
 country. 
 
 They tramped on, a bit wearily. Mr. Wrenn was 
 beginning to wonder if they d better go back to Chelms- 
 ford. Mist was dripping and blind and silent about them, 
 weaving its heavy gray with the night. Suddenly Istra 
 caught his arm at the gate to a farm-yard, and cried, 
 "Look!" 
 
 "Gee! ... Gee! we re in England. We re abroad!" 
 
 "Yes abroad." 
 
 A paved courtyard with farm outbuildings thatched and 
 ancient was lit faintly by a lantern hung from a post that 
 was thumbed to a soft smoothness by centuries. 
 
 "4 
 
HE GOES A-GIPSYING 
 
 "That couldn t be America," he exulted. "Gee! I m 
 just gettin it! I m so darn glad we came. . . . Here s real 
 England. No tourists. It s what I ve always wanted 
 a country that s old. And different. . . . Thatched 
 houses! . . . And pretty soon it 11 be dawn, summer dawn; 
 with you, with Istra! Gee! It s the darndest adventure." 
 
 "Yes. . . . Come on. Let s walk fast or we ll get sleepy, 
 and then your romantic heroine will be a grouchy Interest 
 ing People! . . . Listen! There s a sleepy dog barking, a 
 million miles away. ... I feel like telling you about myself. 
 You don t know me. Or do you?" 
 
 "I dunno just how you mean." 
 
 "Oh, it shall have its romance! But some time I ll tell 
 you perhaps I will how I m not really a clever person 
 at all, but just a savage from outer darkness, who pre 
 tends to understand London and Paris and Munich, and 
 gets frightfully scared of them. . . . Wait! Listen! Hear 
 the mist drip from that tree. Are you nice and drowned ?" 
 
 "Uh kind of. But I been worrying about you being 
 soaked." 
 
 "Let me see. Why, your sleeve is wet clear through. 
 This khaki of mine keeps out the water better. . . . But 
 I don t mind getting wet. All I mind is being bored. I d 
 like to run up this hill without a thing on just feeling the 
 good healthy real mist on my skin. But I m afraid it 
 isn t done." 
 
 Mile after mile. Mostly she talked of the boulevards 
 and Pere Dureon, of Debussy and artichokes, in little 
 laughing sentences that sprang like fire out of the dimness 
 of the mist. 
 
 Dawn came. From a hilltop they made out the roofs 
 of a town and stopped to wonder at its silence, as though 
 through long ages past no happy footstep had echoed 
 there. The fog lifted. The morning was new-born and 
 clean, and they fairly sang as they clattered up to an old 
 coaching inn and demanded breakfast of an amazed rustic 
 pottering about the inn yard in a smock. He did not 
 
 125 I 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 know that to a "thrilling" Mr. Wrenn he or perhaps it 
 was his smock was the hero in an English melodrama. 
 Nor, doubtless, did the English crisp bacon and eggs 
 which a sleepy housemaid prepared know that they were 
 theater properties. Why, they were English eggs, served 
 at dawn in an English inn a stone-floored raftered room 
 with a starling hanging in a little cage of withes outside 
 the latticed window. And there were no trippers to 
 bother them! (Mr. Wrenn really used the word "trip 
 pers" in his cogitations; he had it from Istra.) 
 
 When he informed her of this occult fact she laughed, 
 "You know mighty well, Mouse, that you have a sneaking 
 wish there were one Yankee stranger here to see our 
 glory." 
 
 "I guess that s right." 
 
 "But maybe Fm just as bad." 
 
 For once their tones had not been those of teacher and 
 pupil, but of comrades. They set out from the inn 
 through the brightening morning like lively boys on a 
 vacation tramp. 
 
 The sun crept out, with the warmth and the dust, and 
 Istra s steps lagged. As they passed the outlying corner 
 of a farm where a strawstack was secluded in a clump of 
 willows Istra smiled and sighed: "I m pretty tired, dear. 
 I m going to sleep in that straw-stack. I ve always wanted 
 to sleep in a straw-stack. It s comme ilfaut for vagabonds 
 in the best set, you know. And one can burrow. Excit 
 ing, eh?" 
 
 She made a pillow of her khaki jacket, while he dug 
 down to a dry place for her. He found another den on the 
 other side of the stack. 
 
 It was afternoon when he awoke. He sprang up and 
 rushed around the stack. Istra was still asleep, curled in 
 a pathetically small childish heap, her tired face in repose 
 against the brown-yellow of her khaki jacket. Her red 
 hair had come down and shone about her shoulders. 
 
 She looked so frail that he was frightened. Surely, too, 
 
 126 
 t 
 
HE GOES A-GIPSYING 
 
 she d be very angry with him for letting her come on this 
 jaunt. 
 
 He scribbled on a leaf from his address-book religiously 
 carried for six years, but containing only four addresses 
 this note: 
 
 Gone to get stuff for bxfst be right back. W. W. 
 
 and, softly crawling up the straw, left the note by her head. 
 He hastened to a farm-house. The farm-wife was inclined 
 to be curious. O curious farm-wife, you of the cream- 
 thick Essex speech and the shuffling feet, you were brave 
 indeed to face Bill Wrenn the Great, with his curt self- 
 possession, for he was on a mission for Istra, and he 
 cared not for the goggling eyes of all England. What 
 though he was a bunny-faced man with an innocuous 
 mustache? Istra would be awakening hungry. That 
 was why he bullied you into selling him a stew-pan and a 
 bundle of faggots along with the tea and eggs and a bread 
 loaf and a jar of the marmalade your husband s farm had 
 been making these two hundred years. And you should 
 have had coffee for him, not tea, woman of Essex. 
 
 When he returned to their outdoor inn the late after 
 noon glow lay along the rich fields that sloped down from 
 their well-concealed nook. Istra was still asleep, but 
 her cheek now lay wistfully on the crook of her thin arm. 
 He looked at the auburn-framed paleness of her face, its 
 lines of thought and ambition, unmasked, unprotected 
 by the swift changes of expression which defended her 
 while she was awake. He sobbed. If he could only make 
 her happy! But he was afraid of her moods. 
 
 He built a fire by a brooklet beyond the willows, 
 boiled the eggs and toasted the bread and made the tea, 
 with cream ready in a jar. He remembered boyhood 
 camping days in Parthenon and old camp lore. He re 
 turned to the stack and called, "Istra oh, Is-tra!" 
 
 She shook her head, nestled closer into the straw, then 
 
 127 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 sat up, her hair about her shoulders. She smiled and 
 called down: "Good morning. Why, it s afternoon! 
 Did you sleep well, dear?" 
 
 "Yes. Did you? Gee, I hope you did!" 
 
 Never better in my life. I m so sleepy yet. But 
 comfy. I needed a quiet sleep outdoors, and it s so peace 
 ful here. Breakfast! I roar for breakfast! Where s the 
 nearest house?" 
 
 "Got breakfast all ready." 
 
 "You re a dear!" 
 
 She went to wash in the brook, and came back with 
 eyes dancing and hair trim, and they laughed over break 
 fast, glancing down the slope of golden hazy fields. Only 
 once did Istra pass out of the land of their intimacy into 
 some hinterland of analysis when she looked at him as he 
 drank his tea aloud out of the stew-pan, and wondered: 
 "Is this really you here with me? But you arent a 
 boulevardier. I must say I don t understand what you re 
 doing here at all. . . . Nor a caveman, either. I don t un 
 derstand it. ... But you shan t be worried by bad Istra. 
 Let s see; we went to grammar-school together." 
 
 "Yes, and we were in college. Don t you remember 
 when I was baseball captain? You don t? Gee, you 
 got a bad memory!" 
 
 At which she smiled properly, and they were away for 
 Suffolk again. 
 
 " I suppose now it 11 go and rain," said Istra, viciously, 
 at dusk. It was the first time she had spoken for a mile. 
 Then, after another quarter-mile: "Please don t mind my 
 being silent. I m sort of stiff, and my feet hurt most 
 unromantically. You won t mind, will you?" 
 
 Of course he did mind, and of course he said he didn t. 
 He artfully skirted the field of conversation by very 
 West Sixteenth Street observations on a town through 
 which they passed, while she merely smiled wearily, and 
 at best remarked "Yes, that s so," whether it was so or not.- 
 
 128 
 
HE GOES A-GIPSYING 
 
 He was reflecting: "Istra s terrible tired. I ought to 
 take care of her." He stopped at the wood-pillared 
 entrance of a temperance inn and commanded: "Come! 
 We ll have something to eat here." To the astonishment 
 of both of them, she meekly obeyed with "If you wish." 
 
 It cannot be truthfully said that Mr. Wrenn proved 
 himself a person of savoir faire in choosing a temperance 
 hotel for their dinner. Istra didn t seem so much to mind 
 the fact that the table-cloth was coarse and the water- 
 glasses thick, and that everywhere the elbow ran into a 
 superfluity of greasy pepper and salt castors. But when she 
 raised her head wearily to peer around the room she 
 started, glared at Mr. Wrenn, and accused: "Are you by 
 any chance aware of the fact that this place is crowded 
 with tourists ? There are two family parties from Daven 
 port or Omaha; I know they are!" 
 
 "Oh, they ain t such bad-looking people," protested 
 Mr. Wrenn. . . . Just because he had induced her to stop 
 for dinner the poor man thought his masculine superiority 
 had been recognized. 
 
 "Oh, they re terrible! Can t you see it? Oh, you re 
 hopeless." 
 
 "Why, that big guy that big man with the rimless 
 spectacles looks like he might be a good civil engineer, and 
 I think that lady opposite him 
 
 "They re Americans." 
 
 "So re we!" 
 
 "I m not." 
 
 "I thought why " 
 
 "Of course I was born there, but " 
 
 "Well, just the same, I think they re nice people." 
 
 "Now see here. Must I argue with you? Can I have 
 no peace, tired as I am? Those trippers are speaking of 
 quaint English flavor. Can you want anything more 
 than that to damn them? And they ve been touring by 
 motor seeing every inn on the road." 
 
 "Maybe it s fun for " 
 
 129 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Now don t argue with me. I know what I m talking 
 about. Why do I have to explain everything? They re 
 hopeless!" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn felt a good wholesome desire to spank her, 
 but he said, most politely: "You re awful tired. Don t 
 you want to stay here to-night? Or maybe some other 
 hotel; and I ll stay here." 
 
 "No. Don t want to stay any place. Want to get 
 away from myself," she said, exactly like a naughty 
 child. 
 
 So they tramped on again. 
 
 Darkness was near. They had plunged into a country 
 which in the night seemed to be a stretch of desolate 
 moorlands. As they were silently plodding up a hill the 
 rain came. It came with a roar, a pitiless drenching 
 against which they fought uselessly, soaking them, slap 
 ping their faces, blinding their eyes. He caught her 
 arm and dragged her ahead. She w T ould be furious with 
 him because it rained, of course, but this was no time to 
 think of that; he had to get her to a dry place. 
 
 Istra laughed: "Oh, isn t this great! We re real 
 vagabonds now." 
 
 "Why! Doesn t that khaki soak through? Aren t you 
 wet?" 
 
 "To the skin!" she shouted, gleefully. "And I don t 
 care! We re doing something. Poor dear, is it worried? 
 I ll race you to the top of the hill." 
 
 The dark bulk of a building struck their sight at the 
 top, and they ran to it. Just now Mr. Wrenn was ready 
 to devour alive any irate householder who might try to 
 turn them out. He found the building to be a ruined 
 stable the door off the hinges, the desolate thatch falling 
 in. He struck a match and, holding it up, standing 
 straight, the master, all unconscious for once in his 
 deprecating life of the Wrennishness of Mr. Wrenn, he 
 discovered that the thatch above the horse-manger was 
 fairly waterproof. 
 
 130 
 
HE GOES A-GIPSYING 
 
 "Come on! Up on the edge of the manger, Istra," he 
 ordered. 
 
 "This is a perfectly good place for a murder," she 
 grinned, as they sat swinging their legs. 
 
 He could fancy her grinning. He was sure about it, 
 and well content. 
 
 "Have I been so very grouchy, Mouse? Don t you 
 want to murder me ? I ll try to find you a long pin." 
 
 "Nope; I don t think so, much. I guess we can get 
 along without it this time." 
 
 "Oh dear, dear! This is very dreadful. You re so used 
 to me now that you aren t even scared of me any more." 
 
 "Gee! I guess I ll be scared of you all right as soon 
 as I get you into a dry place, but I ain t got time now. 
 Sitting on a manger! Ain t this the funniest place! . . . 
 Now I must beat it out and find a house. There ought to 
 be one somewheres near here." 
 
 "And leave me here in the darknesses and wetnesses? 
 Not a chance. The rain 11 soon be over, anyway. Really, 
 I don t mind a bit. I think it s rather fun." 
 
 Her voice was natural again, natural and companion 
 able and brave. She laughed as she stroked her wet 
 shoulder and held his hand, sitting quietly and bidding 
 him listen to the soft forlorn sound of the rain on the 
 thatch. 
 
 But the rain was not soon over, and their dangling 
 position was very much like riding a rail. 
 
 "I m so uncomfortable!" fretted Istra. 
 
 "See here, Istra, please, I think I d better go see if I 
 can t find a house for you to get dry in." 
 
 "I feel too wretched to go any place. Too wretched to 
 move." 
 
 "Well, then, I ll make a fire here. There ain t much 
 danger." 
 
 "The place will catch fire," she began, querulously. 
 
 But he interrupted her. "Oh, let the darn place catch 
 fire! I m going to make a fire, I tell you!" 
 
 131 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "I don t want to move. It ll just be another kind of 
 discomfort, that s all. Why couldn t you try and take a 
 little bit of care of me, anyway?" 
 
 "Oh, hon-ey!" he wailed, in youthful bewilderment. 
 "I did try to get you to stay at that hotel in town and get 
 some rest." 
 
 "Well, you ought to have made me. Don t you realize 
 that I took you along to take care of me ?" 
 
 "Uh " 
 
 "Now don t argue about it. I can t stand argument 
 all the time." 
 
 He thought instantly of Lee Theresa Zapp quarreling 
 with her mother, but he said nothing. He gathered the 
 driest bits of thatch and wood he could find in the litter 
 on the stable floor and kindled a fire, while she sat sullenly 
 glaring at him, her face wrinkled and tired in the wan 
 firelight. When the blaze was going steadily, a compact 
 and safe little fire, he spread his coat as a seat for her, 
 and called, cheerily, "Come on now, honey; here s a 
 regular home and hearthstone for you." 
 
 She slipped down from the manger edge and stood in 
 front of him, looking into his eyes which were level with 
 her own. 
 
 " You are good to me," she half whispered, and smoothed 
 his cheek, then slipped down on the outspread coat, and 
 murmured, "Come; sit here by me, and we ll both get 
 warm." 
 
 All night the rain dribbled, but no one came to drive 
 them away from the fire, and they dozed side by side, their 
 hands close and their garments steaming. Istra fell 
 asleep, and her head drooped on his shoulder. He straight 
 ened to bear its weight, though his back twinged with 
 stiffness, and there he sat unmoving, through an hour of 
 pain and happiness and confused meditation, studying the 
 curious background the dark roof of broken thatch, the 
 age-corroded walls, the littered earthen floor. His hand 
 pressed lightly the clammy smoothness of the wet khaki 
 
 132 
 
HE GOES A-GIPSYING 
 
 of her shoulder; his wet sleeve stuck to his arm, and he 
 wanted to pull it free. His eyes stung. But he sat tight, 
 while his mind ran round in circles, considering that he 
 loved Istra, and that he would not be entirely sorry when 
 he was no longer the slave to her moods; that this ad 
 venture was the strangest and most romantic, also the most 
 idiotic and useless, in history. 
 
 Toward dawn she stirred, and, slipping stiffly from his 
 position, he moved her so that her back, which was still 
 wet, faced the fire. He built up the fire again, and sat 
 brooding beside her, dozing and starting awake, till 
 morning. Then his head bobbed, and he was dimly awake 
 again, to find her sitting up straight, looking at him in 
 amazement. 
 
 "It simply can t be, that s all. . . . Did you curl me up? 
 I m nice and dry all over now. It was very good of you. 
 You ve been a most commendable person. . . . But I think 
 we ll take a train for the rest of our pilgrimage. It 
 hasn t been entirely successful, I m afraid." 
 
 "Perhaps we d better." 
 
 For a moment he hated her, with her smooth politeness, 
 after a night when she had been unbearable and human 
 by turns. He hated her bedraggled hair and tired face. 
 Then he could have wept, so deeply did he desire to pull her 
 head down on his shoulder and smooth the wrinkles of 
 weariness out of her dear face, the dearer because they had 
 endured the weariness together. But he said, "Well, 
 let s try to get some breakfast first, Istra." 
 
 With their garments wrinkled from rain, half asleep and 
 rather cross, they arrived at the esthetic but respectable 
 colony of Aengusmere by the noon train. 
 10 
 
XI 
 
 HE BUYS AN ORANGE TIE 
 
 r I " HE Aengusmere Caravanserai is so unyieldingly cheer- 
 JL ful and artistic that it makes the ordinary person 
 long for a dingy old-fashioned room in which he can play 
 solitaire and chew gum without being rebuked with 
 exasperating patience by the wall stencils and clever 
 etchings and polished brasses. It is adjectiferous. The 
 common room (which is uncommon for hotel parlor) is 
 all in superlatives and chintzes. 
 
 Istra had gone up to her room to sleep, bidding Mr. 
 Wrenn do likewise and avoid the wrong bunch at the 
 Caravanserai; for besides the wrong bunch of Interesting 
 People there were, she explained, a right bunch, of working 
 artists. But he wanted to get some new clothes, to re 
 place his rain-wrinkled ready-mades. He was tottering 
 through the common room, wondering whether he could 
 find a clothing-shop in Aengusmere, when a shrill gurgle 
 from a wing-chair by the rough-brick fireplace halted him. 
 
 "Oh-h-h-h, Mister Wrenn; Mr. Wrenn!" 
 
 There sat Mrs. Stettinius, the poet-lady of Olympiads 
 rooms on Great James Street. 
 
 "Oh-h-h-h, Mr. Wrenn, you "bad man, do come sit down 
 and tell me all about your wonderful trek with Istra Nash. 
 I just met dear Istra in the upper hall. Poor dear, she was 
 so crumpled, but her hair was like a sunset over mountain 
 peaks you know, as Yeats says: 
 
 "A stormy sunset were her lips, 
 A stormy sunset on doomed ships, 
 134 
 
HE BUYS AN ORANGE TIE 
 
 only of course this was her hair and not her lips and she 
 told me that you had tramped all the way from London. 
 I ve never heard of anything so romantic or no, I won t 
 say romantic I do agree with dear Olympia isn t she a 
 magnificent woman so fearless and progressive didn t 
 you adore meeting her ? she is our modern Joan of Arc 
 such a noble figure I do agree with her that romantic 
 love is passe, that we have entered the era of glorious 
 companionship that regards varietism as exactly as ro 
 mantic as monogamy. But but where was I ? I think 
 your gipsying down from London was most exciting. Now 
 do tell us all about it, Mr. Wrenn. First, I want you to 
 meet Miss Saxonby and Mr. Gutch and dear Yilyena 
 Dourschetsky and Mr. Howard Bancock Binch of course 
 you know his poetry." 
 
 And then she drew a breath and flopped back into the 
 wing-chair s muffling depths. 
 
 During all this Mr. Wrenn had stood, frightened and 
 unprotected and rain-wrinkled, before the gathering by 
 the fireless fireplace, wondering how Mrs. Stettinius could 
 get her nose so blue and yet so powdery. Despite her en 
 couragement he gave no fuller account of the "gipsying" 
 than, "Why uh we just tramped down," till Russian- 
 Jewish Yilyena rolled her ebony eyes at him and insisted, 
 " Yez, you mus tale us about it." 
 
 Now, Yilyena had a pretty neck, colored like a cigar of 
 mild flavor, and a trick of smiling. She was accustomed 
 to having men obey her. Mr. Wrenn stammered: 
 
 "Why uh we just walked, and we got caught in the 
 rain. Say, Miss Nash was a wonder. She never peeped 
 when she got soaked through she just laughed and beat 
 it like everything. And we saw a lot of quaint English 
 places along the road got away from all them tourists 
 trippers you know." 
 
 A perfectly strange person, a heavy old man with horn 
 spectacles and a soft shirt, who had joined the group un 
 bidden, cleared his throat and interrupted: 
 
 135 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Is it not a strange paradox that in traveling, the most 
 observant of all pursuits, one should have to encounter 
 the eternal bourgeoisie I" 
 
 From the Cockney Greek chorus about the unlighted 
 fire: 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "Everywhere." 
 
 "Uh " began Mr. Gutch. He apparently had some 
 thing to say. But the chorus went on: 
 
 "And just as swelteringly monogamic in Port Said as in 
 Brum." 
 
 "Yes, that s so." 
 
 "Mr. Wr-r-renn," thrilled Mrs. Stettinius, the lady poet, 
 "didn t you notice that they were perfectly oblivious of all 
 economic movements; that their observations never post 
 dated ruins?" 
 
 "I guess they wanted to make sure they were admirm* 
 the right things," ventured Mr. Wrenn, with secret 
 terror. 
 
 "Yes, that s so," came so approvingly from the Greek 
 chorus that the personal pupil of Mittyford, Ph.D., made 
 his first epigram: 
 
 "It isn t so much what you like as what you don t like 
 that shows if you re wise." 
 
 "Yes," they gurgled; and Mr. Wrenn, much pleased 
 with himself, smiled au prince upon his new friends. 
 
 Mrs. Stettinius was getting into her stride for a few re 
 marks upon the poetry of industrialism when Mr. Gutch, 
 who had been "Uh "ing for some moments, trying to 
 get in his remark, winked with sly rudeness at Miss 
 Saxonby and observed : 
 
 "I fancy romance isn t quite dead yet, y know. Our 
 friends here seem to have had quite a ro-mantic little 
 journey." Then he winked again. 
 
 "Say, what do you mean?" demanded Bill Wrenn, hot- 
 eyed, fists clenched, but very quiet. 
 
 "Oh, I m not blaming you and Miss Nash quite the 
 
 136 
 
HE BUYS AN ORANGE TIE 
 
 reverse!" tittered the Gutch person, wagging his head 
 sagely. 
 
 Then Bill Wrenn, with his fist at Mr. Gutch s nose, 
 spoke his mind: 
 
 "Say, you white-faced unhealthy dirty-minded lump, 
 I ain t much of a fighter, but I m going to muss you up so s 
 you can t find your ears if you don t apologize for those 
 insinuations." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Wrenn " 
 
 "He didn t mean- 
 "I didn t mean 
 
 "He was just spoofing " 
 
 "I was just spoofing " 
 
 Bill Wrenn, watching the dramatization of himself as 
 hero, was enjoying the drama. "You apologize, then?" 
 
 "Why certainly, Mr. Wrenn. Let me explain " 
 
 "Oh, don t explain," snortled Miss Saxonby. 
 
 "Yes!" from Mr. Bancock Binch, "explanations are so 
 conventional, old chap." 
 
 Do you see them ? Mr. Wrenn, self-conscious and ready 
 to turn into a blind belligerent Bill Wrenn at the first 
 disrespect; the talkers sitting about and assassinating all 
 the princes and proprieties and, poor things, taking Mr. 
 Wrenn quite seriously because he had uncovered the great 
 truth that the important thing in sight-seeing is not to see 
 sights. He was most unhappy, Mr. Wrenn was, and 
 wanted to be away from there. He darted as from a 
 spring when he heard Istra s voice, from the edge of the 
 group, calling, "Come here a sec , Billy." 
 
 She was standing with a chair-back for support, tired 
 but smiling. 
 
 "I can t get to sleep yet. Don t you want me to show 
 you some of the buildings here?" 
 
 "Chyesf 
 
 "If Mrs. Stettinius can spare you!" 
 
 This by way of remarking on the fact that the female 
 poet was staring volubly. 
 
 137 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "G-g-g-g-g-g " said Mrs. Stettinius, which seemed 
 
 to imply perfect consent. 
 
 Istra took him to the belvedere on a little slope over 
 looking the lawns of Aengusmere, scattered with low 
 bungalows and rose-gardens. 
 
 "It is beautiful, isn t it? Perhaps one could be happy 
 here if one could kill all the people except the architect," 
 she mused. 
 
 "Oh, it is," he glowed. 
 
 Standing there beside her, happiness enveloping them, 
 looking across the marvelous sward, Bill Wrenn was at the 
 climax of his comedy of triumph. Admitted to a world of 
 lawns and bungalows and big studio windows, standing in 
 a belvedere beside Istra Nash as her friend 
 
 "Mouse dear," she said, hesitatingly, "the reason why 
 I wanted to have you come out here, why I couldn t sleep, 
 I wanted to tell you how ashamed I am for having been 
 peevish, being petulant, last night. Fm so sorry, because 
 you were very patient with me, you were very good to me. 
 I don t want you to think of me just as a crochety woman 
 who didn t appreciate you. You are very kind, and when 
 I hear that you re married to some nice girl I ll be as 
 happy as can be." 
 
 "Oh, Istra," he cried, grasping her arm, "I don t want 
 any girl in the world I mean oh, I just want to be let 
 go round with you when you ll let me " 
 
 "No, no, dear. You must have seen last night; that s 
 impossible. Please don t argue about it now; I m too 
 
 tired. I just wanted to tell you I appreciated And 
 
 when you get back to America you won t be any the 
 worse for playing around with poor Istra because she 
 told you about different things from what you ve played 
 with, about rearing children as individuals and painting 
 in tempera and all those things? And and I don t want 
 you to get too fond of me, because we re different. . . . 
 But we have had an adventure, even if it was a little 
 moist." She paused; then, cheerily: "Well, I m going 
 
 138 
 
HE BUYS AN ORANGE TIE 
 
 to beat it back and try to sleep again. Good-by, Mouse 
 dear. No, don t come back to the Cara-advanced-serai. 
 Play around and see the animiles. G -by." 
 
 He watched her straight swaying figure swing across 
 the lawn and up the steps of the half-timbered inn. 
 He watched her enter the door before he hastened 
 to the shops which clustered about the railway -sta 
 tion, outside of the poetic preserves of the colony 
 proper. 
 
 He noticed, as he went, that the men crossing the green 
 were mostly clad in Norfolk jackets and knickers, so he 
 purchased the first pair of unrespectable un-ankle-con- 
 cealing trousers he had owned since small boyhood, and a 
 jacket of rough serge, with a gaudy buckle on the belt. 
 Also, he actually dared an orange tie! 
 
 He wanted something for Istra at dinner "a s prise," 
 he whispered under his breath, with fond babying. For 
 the first time in his life he entered a florist s shop. . . . 
 Normally, you know, the poor of the city cannot afford 
 flowers till they are dead, and then for but one day. . . . 
 He came out with a bunch of orchids, and remembered 
 the days when he had envied the people he had seen in 
 florists shops actually buying flowers. When he was 
 almost at the Caravanserai he wanted to go back and 
 change the orchids for simpler flowers, roses or carnations, 
 but he got himself not to. 
 
 The linen and glassware and silver of the Caravanserai 
 were almost as coarse as those of a temperance hotel, for 
 all the raftered ceiling and the etchings in the dining- 
 room. Hunting up the stewardess of the inn, a bustling 
 young woman who was reading Keats energetically at an 
 office-like desk, Mr. Wrenn begged: "I wonder could I 
 get some special cups and plates and stuff for high tea to 
 night. I got a kind of party " 
 
 "How many?" The stewardess issued the words as 
 though he had put a penny in the slot. 
 
 139 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Just two. Kind of a birthday party." Mendacious 
 Mr. Wrenn! 
 
 "Certainly. Of course there s a small extra charge. 
 I have a Royal Satsuma tea-service practically Royal 
 Satsuma, at least and some special Limoges. " 
 
 "I think Royal Sats ma would be nice. And some 
 silverware ?" 
 
 "Surely." 
 
 "And could we get some special stuff to eat?" 
 
 "What would you like?" 
 
 "Why " 
 
 Mendacious Mr. Wrenn! as we have commented. He 
 put his head on one side, rubbed his chin with nice 
 consideration, and condescended, "What would you 
 suggest?" 
 
 "For a party high tea? Why, perhaps consomme and 
 omelet Bergerac and a salad and a sweet and cafe diable. 
 We have a chef who does French eggs rather remarkably. 
 That would be simple, but " 
 
 "Yes, that would be very good," gravely granted the 
 patron of cuisine. "At six; for two." 
 
 As he walked away he grinned within. "Gee! I talked 
 to that omelet Berg rac like I d known it all my life!" 
 
 Other s prises for Istra s party he sought. Let s see; 
 suppose it really were her birthday, wouldn t she like to 
 have a letter from some important guy? he queried of him 
 self. He d write her a make-b lieve letter from a duke. 
 Which he did. Purchasing a stamp, he humped over a 
 desk in the common room and with infinite pains he inked 
 the stamp in imitation of a postmark and addressed the 
 letter to "Lady Istra Nash, Mouse Castle, Suffolk." 
 
 Some one sat down at the desk opposite him, and he 
 jealously carried the task up-stairs to his room. He 
 rang for pen and ink as regally as though he had never sat 
 at the wrong end of a buzzer. After half an hour of 
 trying to visualize a duke writing a letter he produced 
 this: 
 
 140 
 
HE BUYS AN ORANGE TIE 
 
 LADY ISTRA NASH, 
 
 Mouse Castle. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, We hear from our friend Sir William Wrenn 
 that some folks are saying that to-day is not your birthday & 
 want to stop your celebration, so if you should need somebody 
 to make them believe to-day is your birthday we have sent 
 our secretary, Sir Percival Montague. Sir William Wrenn will 
 hide him behind his chair, and if they bother you just call for 
 Sir Percival and he will tell them. Permit us, dear Lady Nash, 
 to wish you all the greetings of the season, and in close we beg 
 to remain, as ever, Yours sincerely, 
 
 DUKE VERE DE VERE. 
 
 He was very tired. When he lay down for a minute, 
 with a pillow tucked over his head, he was almost asleep in 
 ten seconds. But he sprang up, washed his prickly eyes 
 with cold water, and began to dress. He was shy of the 
 knickers and golf-stockings, but it was the orange tie that 
 gave him real alarm. He dared it, though, and went down 
 stairs to make sure they were setting the table with glory 
 befitting the party. 
 
 As he went through the common room he watched the 
 three or four groups scattered through it. They seemed 
 to take his clothes as a matter of course. He was glad. 
 He wanted so much to be a credit to Istra. 
 
 Returning from the dining-room to the common room, 
 he passed a group standing in a window recess and looking 
 away from him. He overheard: 
 
 "Who is the remarkable new person with the orange tie 
 and the rococo buckle on his jacket belt the one that 
 just went through? Did you ever see anything so funny! 
 His collar didn t come within an inch and a half of fitting 
 his neck. He must be a poet. I wonder if his verses are 
 as jerry-built as his garments!" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn stopped. 
 
 Another voice: 
 
 "And the beautiful lack of development of his legs! 
 It s like the good old cycling days, when every draper s 
 
 141 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 assistant went bank-holidaying. ... I don t know him, but 
 I suppose he s some tuppeny-ha p ny illustrator." 
 
 "Or perhaps he has convictions about fried bananas, 
 and dines on a bean saute. O Aengusmere! Shades of 
 Aengus!" 
 
 "Not at all. When they look as gentle as he they 
 always hate the capitalists as a militant hates a cabinet 
 minister. He probably dines on the left ear of a South- 
 African millionaire every evening before exercise at the 
 barricades. ... I say, look over there; there s a real 
 artist going across the green. You can tell he s a real 
 artist because he s dressed like a navvy and " 
 
 Mr. Wrenn was walking away, across the common room, 
 quite sure that every one was eying him with amusement. 
 And it was too late to change his clothes. It was six 
 already. 
 
 He stuck out his jaw, and remembered that he had 
 planned to hide the "letter from the duke" in Istra s 
 napkin that it might be the greater surprise. He sat 
 down at their table. He tucked the letter into the napkin 
 folds. He moved the vase of orchids nearer the center of 
 the table, and the table nearer the open window giving 
 on the green. He rebuked himself for not being able to 
 think of something else to change. He forgot his clothes, 
 and was happy. 
 
 At six-fifteen he summoned a boy and sent him up with 
 a message that Mr. Wrenn was waiting and high tea 
 ready. 
 
 The boy came back muttering, "Miss Nash left this 
 note for you, sir, the stewardess says." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn opened the green-and-white Caravanserai 
 letter excitedly. Perhaps Istra, too, was dressing for the 
 party! He loved all s prises just then. He read: 
 
 Mouse dear, I m sorrier than I can tell you, but you know I 
 warned you that bad Istra was a creature of moods, and just 
 now my mood orders me to beat it for Paris, which I m doing, 
 
 142 
 
HE BUYS AN ORANGE TIE 
 
 on the 5.17 train. I won t say good-by I hate good-bys* 
 they re so stupid, don t you think? Write me some time, 
 better make it care Amer. Express Co., Paris, because I don t 
 know yet just where I ll be. And please don t look me up in 
 Paris, because it s always better to end up an affair without 
 explanations, don t you think? You have been wonderfully 
 kind to me, and I ll send you some good thought-forms, shall I ? 
 
 1. N. 
 
 He walked to the office of the Caravanserai, blindly, 
 quietly. He paid his bill, and found that he had only 
 fifty dollars left. He could not get himself to eat the 
 waiting high tea. There was a seven-fourteen train for 
 London. He took it. Meantime he wrote out a cable 
 to his New York bank for a hundred and fifty dollars. 
 To keep from thinking in the train he talked gravely and 
 gently to an old man about the brave days of England, 
 when men threw quoits. He kept thinking over and over, 
 to the tune set by the rattling of the train trucks : " Friends 
 ... I got to make friends, now I know what they are. . . . 
 Funny some guys don t make friends. Mustn t forget. 
 Got to make lots of em in New York. Learn how to 
 make em." 
 
 He arrived at his room on Tavistock Place about eleven, 
 and tried to think for the rest of the night of how deeply 
 he was missing Morton of the cattle-boat now that now 
 that he had no friend in all the hostile world. 
 
 In a London A. B. C. restaurant Mr. Wrenn was talking 
 to an American who had a clipped mustache, brisk man 
 ners, a Knight-of-Pythias pin, and a mind for duck- 
 shooting, hardware-selling, and cigars. 
 
 "No more England for mine," the American snapped, 
 good-humoredly. "I m going to get out of this foggy 
 hole and get back to God s country just as soon as I can. 
 I want to find out what s doing at the store, and I want 
 to sit down to a plate of flapjacks. I m good and plenty 
 sick of tea and marmalade. Why, I wouldn t take this 
 
 143 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 fool country for a gift. No, sir! Me for God s country 
 Sleepy Eye, Brown County, Minnesota. You bet!" 
 
 "You don t like England much, then?" Mr. Wrenn 
 carefully reasoned. 
 
 "Like it? Like this damp crowded hole, where they 
 
 can t talk English, and have a fool coinage Say, 
 
 that s a great system, that metric system they ve got over 
 in France, but here why, they don t know whether 
 Kansas City is in Kansas or Missouri or both. . . . * Right 
 as rain that s what a fellow said to me for all right ! 
 Ever hear such nonsense? . . . And tea for breakfast! Not 
 for me! No, sir! I m going to take the first steamer!" 
 
 With a gigantic smoke-puff of disgust the man from 
 Sleepy Eye stalked out, jingling the keys in his trousers 
 pocket, cocking up his cigar, and looking as though he 
 owned the restaurant. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn, picturing him greeting the Singer Tower 
 from an incoming steamer, longed to see the tower. 
 
 "Gee! I ll do it!" 
 
 He rose and, from that table in the basement of an 
 A. B. C. restaurant, he fled to America. 
 
 He dashed up-stairs, fidgeted while the cashier made his 
 change, rang for a bus, whisked into his room, slammed his 
 things into his suit-case, announced to it wildly that they 
 were going home, and scampered to the Northwestern 
 Station. He walked nervously up and down till the 
 Liverpool train departed. "Suppose Istra wanted to 
 make up, and came back to London?" was a terrifying 
 thought that hounded him. He dashed into the waiting- 
 room and wrote to her, on a souvenir post-card showing 
 the Abbey: "Called back to America will write. Ad 
 dress care of Souvenir Company, Twenty-eighth Street." 
 But he didn t mail the card. 
 
 Once settled in a second-class compartment, with the 
 train in motion, he seemed already much nearer America, 
 and, humming, to the great annoyance of a lady with 
 bangs, he planned his new great work the making of 
 
 144 
 
HE BUYS AN ORANGE TIE 
 
 friends; the discovery, some day, if Istra should not 
 relent, of "somebody to go home to." There was no end 
 to the "societies and lodges and stuff" he was going to 
 join directly he landed. 
 
 At Liverpool he suddenly stopped at a post-box and 
 mailed his card to Istra. That ended his debate. Of 
 course after that he had to go back to America. 
 
 He sailed exultantly, one. month and seventeen days 
 after leaving Portland. 
 
XII 
 
 HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 
 
 IN his white-painted steerage berth Mr. Wrenn lay, 
 with a scratch - pad on his raised knees and a small 
 mean pillow doubled under his head, writing sample 
 follow-up letters to present to the Souvenir and Art 
 Novelty Company, interrupting his work at intervals 
 to add to a list of the books which, beginning about five 
 minutes after he landed in New York, he was going to 
 master. He puzzled over Marie Corelii. Morton liked 
 Miss Corelii so much; but would her works appeal to 
 Istra Nash? 
 
 He had worked for many hours on a letter to Istra in 
 which he avoided mention of such indecent matters as 
 steerages and immigrants. He was grateful, he told her, 
 for "all you learned me," and he had thought that 
 Aengusmere was a beautiful place, though he now saw 
 "what you meant about them interesting people," and 
 his New York address would be the Souvenir Company. 
 
 He tore up the several pages that repeated that oldest 
 most melancholy cry of the lover, which rang among the 
 deodars, from viking ships, from the moonlit courtyards of 
 Provence, the cry which always sounded about Mr. Wrenn 
 as he walked the deck: "I want you so much; I miss you 
 so unendingly; I am so lonely for you, dear." For no 
 more clearly, no more nobly did the golden Aucassin or 
 lean Dante word that cry in their thoughts than did 
 Mr. William Wrenn, Our Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 A third-class steward with a mangy mustache and 
 
 146 
 
HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 
 
 setter -like tan eyes came teetering down -stairs, each 
 step like a nervous pencil tap on a table, and peered over 
 the side of Mr. Wrenn s berth. He loved Mr. Wrenn, 
 who was proven a scholar by the reading of real bound 
 books an English history and a second-hand copy of 
 Haunts of Historic English Writers, purchased in Liver 
 pool and who was willing to listen to the steward s 
 serial story of how his woman, Mrs. Wargle, faithlessly 
 consorted with Foddle, the cat s-meat man, when the 
 steward was away, and, when he was home, cooked for 
 him lights and liver that unquestionably were purchased 
 from the same cat s-meat man. He now leered with a 
 fond and watery gaze upon Mr. Wrenn s scholarly pur 
 suits, and announced in a whisper: 
 
 "They ve sighted land." 
 
 "Land?" 
 
 "Oh aye." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn sat up so vigorously that he bumped his 
 head. He chucked his papers beneath the pillow with 
 his right hand, while the left was feeling for the side of the 
 berth. "Land!" he bellowed to drowsing cabin-mates as 
 he vaulted out. 
 
 The steerage promenade-deck, iron-sided, black-floored, 
 ending in the iron approaches to the galley at one end and 
 the iron superstructures about a hatch at the other, was 
 like a grim swart oilily clean machine-shop aisle, so in 
 closed, so over-roofed, that the side toward the sea seemed 
 merely a long factory window. But he loved it and, 
 except when he had guiltily remembered the books he had 
 to read, he had stayed on deck, worshiping the nai ve 
 bright attire of immigrants and the dark roll and glory 
 of the sea. 
 
 Now, out there was a blue shading, made by a magic 
 pencil; land, his land, where he was going to become the 
 beloved comrade of all the friends whose likenesses he saw 
 in the white-caps flashing before him. 
 
 Humming, he paraded down to the buffet, where small 
 
 147 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 beer and smaller tobacco were sold, to buy another pound 
 of striped candy for the offspring of the Russian Jews. 
 
 The children knew he was coming. "Fat rascals," he 
 chuckled, touching their dark cheeks, pretending to be 
 frightened as they pounded soft fists against the iron side 
 of the ship or rolled unregarded in the scuppers. Their 
 shawled mothers knew him, too, and as he shyly handed 
 about the candy the chattering stately line of Jewish 
 elders nodded their beards like the forest primeval in a 
 breeze, saying words of blessing in a strange tongue. 
 
 He smiled back and made gestures, and shouted "Land! 
 Land!" with several variations in key, to make it sound 
 foreign. 
 
 But he withdrew for the sacred moment of seeing the 
 Land of Promise he was newly discovering the Long 
 Island shore; the grass-clad redouts at Fort Wadsworth; 
 the vast pile of New York sky-scrapers, standing in a mist 
 like an enormous burned forest. 
 
 "Singer Tower. . . . Butterick Building," he murmured, 
 as they proceeded toward their dock. "That s something 
 like. . . . Let s see; yes, sir, by golly, right up there between 
 the Met. Tower and the Times good old Souvenir Com 
 pany office. Jiminy! One Dollar to Albany some 
 thing like a sign, that is good old dollar! To thunder 
 with their darn shillings. Home! . . . Gee! there s where I 
 used to moon on a wharf! . . . Gosh! the old town looks 
 good." 
 
 And all this was his to conquer, for friendship s 
 sake. 
 
 He went to a hotel. While he had to go back to the 
 Zapps , of course, he did not wish, by meeting those old 
 friends, to spoil his first day. No, it was cheerfuler to 
 stand at a window of his cheap hotel on Seventh Avenue, 
 watching the "good old American crowd" Germans, 
 Irishmen, Italians, and Jews. He went to the Nickelorion 
 and grasped the hand of the ticket - taker, the Brass- 
 button Man, ejaculating: "How are you? Well, how s 
 
 148 
 
HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 
 
 things going with the old show? ... I been away couple of 
 months." 
 
 "Fine and dandy! Been away, uh? Well, it s good 
 to get back to the old town, heh? Summer hotel?" 
 
 "Unk?" 
 
 "Why, you re the waiter at Pat Maloney s, ain t you?" 
 
 Next morning Mr. Wrenn made himself go to the 
 Souvenir and Art Novelty Company. He wanted to get 
 the teasing, due him for staying away so short a time, over 
 as soon as possible. The office girl, addressing circulars, 
 seemed surprised when he stepped from the elevator, and 
 blushed her usual shy gratitude to the men of the office 
 for allowing her to exist and take away six dollars weekly. 
 
 Then into the entry-room ran Rabin, one of the travel 
 ing salesmen. 
 
 "Why, hul-lo, Wrenn! Wondered if that could be you. 
 Back so soon? Thought you were going to Europe." 
 
 "Just got back. Couldn t stand it away from you, old 
 scout!" 
 
 "You must have been learning to sass back real smart, 
 in the Old Country, heh? Going to be with us again? 
 Well, see you again soon. Glad see you back." 
 
 He was not madly excited at seeing Rabin; still, the 
 drummer was part of the good old Souvenir Company, the 
 one place in the world on which he could absolutely de 
 pend, the one place where they always wanted him. 
 
 He had been absently staring at the sample-tables, not 
 ing new novelties. The office girl, speaking sweetly, but 
 as to an outsider, inquired, "Who did you wish to see, 
 Mr. Wrenn?" 
 
 "Why! Mr. Guilfogle." 
 
 "He s busy, but if you ll sit down I think you can see 
 him in a few minutes." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn felt like the prodigal son, with no calf in 
 
 sight, at having to wait on the callers bench, but he 
 
 shook with faint excited gurgles of mirth at the thought of 
 
 the delightful surprise Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the 
 
 11 H9 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 office manager, was going to have. He kept an eye out for 
 Charley Carpenter. If Charley didn t come through the 
 entry-room he d go into the bookkeeping-room, and 
 "talk about your surprises " 
 
 "Mr. Guilfogle will see you now," said the office girl. 
 
 As he entered the manager s office Mr. Guilfogle made 
 much of glancing up with busy amazement. 
 
 "Well, well, Wrenn! Back so soon? Thought you 
 were going to be gone quite a while." 
 
 "Couldn t keep away from the office, Mr. Guilfogle," 
 with an uneasy smile. 
 
 "Have a good trip?" 
 
 "Yes, a dandy." 
 
 "How d you happen to get back so soon?" 
 
 "Oh, I wanted to Say, Mr. Guilfogle, I really 
 
 wanted to get back to the office again. I m awfully glad 
 to see it again." 
 
 "Glad see you. Well, where did you go? I got the 
 card you sent me from Chesterton with the picture of the 
 old church on it." 
 
 "Why, I went to Liverpool and Oxford and London and 
 
 well Kew and Ealing and places and And I 
 
 tramped through Essex and Suffolk all through on foot. 
 Aengusmere and them places." 
 
 "Just a moment. (Well, Rabin, what is it? Why cer 
 tainly. I ve told you that already about five times. Yes, 
 I said that s what I had the samples made up for. I 
 wish you d be a little more careful, d ye hear?) You 
 went to London, did you, Wrenn? Say, did you notice 
 any novelties we could copy?" 
 
 " No, I m afraid I didn t, Mr. Guilfogle. I m awfully 
 sorry. I hunted around, but I couldn t find a thing we 
 could use. I mean I couldn t find^anything that began 
 to come up to our line. Them English are pretty 
 slow." 
 
 "Didn t, eh? Well, what s your plans now?" 
 
 "Why uh I kind of thought Honestly, Mr. 
 
 150 
 
HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 
 
 Guilfogle, I d like to get back on my old job. You 
 remember it was to be fixed so 
 
 "Afraid there s nothing doing just now, Wrenn. Not 
 a thing. Course I can t tell what may happen, and you 
 want to keep in touch with us, but we re pretty well 
 filled up just now. Jake is getting along better than we 
 thought. He s learning " 
 
 Not one word regarding Jake s excellence did Mr. Wrenn 
 hear. 
 
 Not get the job back? He sat down and stammered: 
 
 "Gee! I hadn t thought of that. I d kind of banked 
 on the Souvenir Company, Mr. Guilfogle." 
 
 "Well, you know I told you I thought you were an idiot 
 to go. I warned you." 
 
 He timidly agreed, mourning: "Yes, that so; I know 
 you did. But uh well 
 
 "Sorry, Wrenn. That s the way it goes in business, 
 
 though. If you will go beating it around A rolling 
 
 stone don t gather any moss. Well, cheer up! Possibly 
 there may be something doing in 
 
 "Tr-r-r-r-r-r-r," said the telephone. 
 
 Mr. Guilfogle remarked into it: "Hello. Yes, it s me. 
 Well, who did you think it was? The cat? Yuh. Sure. 
 No. Well, to-morrow, probably. All right. Good-by." 
 
 Then he glanced at his watch and up at Mr. Wrenn 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Say, Mr. Guilfogle, you say there ll be when will 
 there be likely to be an opening ?" 
 
 "Now, how can I tell, my boy? We ll work you in if 
 we can you ain t a bad clerk; or at least you wouldn t be 
 if you d be a little more careful. By the way, of course 
 you understand that if we try to work you in it 11 take 
 lots of trouble, and wVll expect you to not go flirting 
 round with other firms, looking for a job. Understand 
 that?" 
 
 "Oh yes, sir." 
 
 "All right. We appreciate your work all right, but of 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 course you can t expect us to fire any of our present force 
 just because you take the notion to come back whenever 
 you want to. ... Hiking off to Europe, leaving a good job! 
 You didn t get on the Continent, did you?" 
 
 "No, I " 
 
 "Well. . . ; Oh, say, how s the grub in London? Cheaper 
 than it is here? The wife was saying this morning we d 
 have to stop eating if the high cost of living goes on going 
 up." 
 
 "Yes, it s quite a little cheaper. You can get fine tea 
 for two and three cents a cup. Clothes is cheaper, too. 
 But I don t care much for the English, though there is all 
 sorts of quaint places with a real flavor. . . . Say, Mr. 
 Guilfogle, you know I inherited a little money, and I can 
 wait awhile, and you ll kind of keep me in mind for a 
 place if one 
 
 "Didn t I say I would?" 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 "You come around and see me a week from now. And 
 leave your address with Rosey. I don t know, though, as 
 we can afford to pay you quite the same salary at first, 
 even if we can work you in the season s been very slack. 
 But I ll do what I can for you. Come in and see me in 
 about a week. Goo day." 
 
 Rabin, the salesman, waylaid Mr. Wrenn in the 
 corridor. 
 
 "You look kind of peeked, Wrenn. Old Goglefogle been 
 lighting into you? Say, I ought to have told you first. 
 I forgot it. The old rat, he s been planning to stick the 
 knife into you all the while. Bout two weeks ago me and 
 him had a couple of cocktails at Mouquin s. You know 
 how chummy he always gets after a couple of smiles. 
 Well, he was talking about I was saying you re a good 
 man and hoping you were having a good time and he 
 said, Yes, he says, he s a good man, but he sure did lay 
 himself wide open by taking this trip. I ve got him dead 
 to rights/ he says to me. I ve got a hunch he ll be back 
 
 152 
 
HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 
 
 here in three or four months, he says to me. And do you 
 think he ll walk in and get what he wants? Not him. 
 I ll keep him waiting a month before I give him back 
 his job, and then you watch, Rabin/ he says to me, 
 you ll see he ll be tickled to death to go back to work at 
 less salary than he was getting, and he ll have sense enough 
 to not try this stunt of getting off the job again after that. 
 And the trip 11 be good for him, anyway he ll do better 
 work vacation at his own expense save us money all 
 round. I tell you, Rabin, he says to me, if any of you 
 boys think you can get the best of the company or me you 
 just want to try it, that s all. Yessir, that s what the old 
 rat told me. You want to watch out for him." 
 
 "Oh, I will; indeed I will " 
 
 "Did he spring any of this fairy tale just now?" 
 
 "Well, kind of. Say, thanks, I m awful obliged to 
 
 "Say, for the love of Mike, don t let him know I told 
 you." 
 
 "No, no, I sure won t." 
 
 They parted. Eager though he was for the great mo 
 ment of again seeing his comrade, Charley Carpenter, 
 Mr. Wrenn dribbled toward the bookkeeping-room mourn 
 fully, planning to tell Charley of Guilfogle s wickedness. 
 
 The head bookkeeper shook his head at Mr. Wrenn s 
 inquiry: 
 
 "Charley ain t here any longer." 
 
 "Ain t here?" 
 
 "No. He got through. He got to boozing pretty bad, 
 and one morning about three weeks ago, when he had a 
 pretty bad hang-over, he told Guilfogle what he thought of 
 him, so of course Guilfogle fired him." 
 
 "Oh, that s too bad. Say, you don t know his address, 
 do you ?" 
 
 " East a Hundred and Eighteenth. . . . Well, 
 
 I m glad to see you back, Wrenn. Didn t expect to see 
 you back so soon, but always glad to see you. Going 
 to be with us ?" 
 
 153 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "I ain t sure," said Mr. Wrenn, crabbedly, then shook 
 hands warmly with the bookkeeper, to show there was 
 nothing personal in his snippishness. 
 
 For nearly a hundred blocks Mr. Wrenn scowled at an 
 advertisement of Corn Flakes in the Third Avenue 
 Elevated without really seeing it. ... Should he go back to 
 the Souvenir Company at all? 
 
 Yes. He would. That was the best way to start mak 
 ing friends. But he would "get our friend Guilfogle at 
 recess," he assured himself, with an out-thrust of the 
 jaw like that of the great Bill Wrenn. He knew Guilfogle s 
 lead now, and he would show that gentleman that he 
 could play the game. He d take that lower salary and 
 pretend to be frightened, but when he got the chance 
 
 He did not proclaim even to himself what dreadful thing 
 he was going to do, but as he left the Elevated he said 
 over and over, shaking his closed fist inside his coat pocket: 
 
 "When I get the chance when I get it " 
 
 The flat-building where Charley Carpenter lived was 
 one of hundreds of pressed-brick structures, apparently 
 all turned out of the same mold. It was filled with the 
 smells of steamy washing and fried fish. Languid with 
 the heat, Mr. Wrenn crawled up an infinity of iron steps 
 and knocked three times at Charley s door. No answer. 
 He crawled down again and sought out the janitress, who 
 stopped watching an ice-wagon in the street to say: 
 
 "I guess you ll be finding him asleep up there, sir. 
 He do be lying there drunk most of the day. His wife s 
 left him. The landlord s give him notice to quit, end of 
 August. Warm day, sir. Be you a bill -collector? 
 Mostly, it s bill-collectors that " 
 
 "Yes, it is hot." 
 
 Superior in manner, but deeply dejected, Mr. Wrenn 
 rang the down-stairs bell long enough to wake Charley, 
 pantingly got himself up the interminable stairs, and 
 kicked the door till Charley s voice quavered inside: 
 
 154 
 
HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 
 
 "Whozhat?" 
 
 "It s me, Charley. Wrenn." 
 
 "You* re in Yurp. Can t fool me. G way from there." 
 
 Three other doors on the same landing were now partly 
 open and blocked with the heads of frowsy inquisitive 
 women. The steamy smell was thicker in the darkness. 
 Mr. Wrenn felt prickly, then angry at this curiosity, and 
 again demanded: 
 
 "Lemme in, I say." 
 
 "Tell you it ain t you. I know you!" 
 
 Charley Carpenter s pale face leered out. His tousled 
 hair was stuck to his forehead by perspiration; his eyes 
 were red and vaguely staring. His clothes were badly 
 wrinkled. He wore a collarless shirt with a frilled bosom 
 of virulent pink, its cuffs grimy and limp. 
 
 "It s oP Wrenn. C m in. C m in quick. Collectors 
 always hanging around. They can t catch me. You 
 bet." 
 
 He closed the door and wabbled swiftly down the long 
 drab hall of the "railroad flat," evidently trying to walk 
 straight. The reeking stifling main room at the end of the 
 hall was terrible as Charley s eyes. Flies boomed every 
 where. The oak table, which Charley and his bride had 
 once spent four happy hours in selecting, was littered with 
 half a dozen empty whisky-flasks, collars, torn sensational 
 newspapers, dirty plates and coffee-cups. The cheap bro 
 cade cover, which a bride had once joyed to embroider 
 with red and green roses, was half pulled off and dragged 
 on the floor amid the cigarette butts, Durham tobacco, 
 and bacon rinds which covered the green-and-yellow 
 carpet-rug. 
 
 This much Mr. Wrenn saw. Then he set himself to the 
 hard task of listening to Charley, who was muttering: 
 
 "Back quick, ain t you, ol Wrenn? You come up to 
 see me, didn t you? You re m friend, ain t you, eh? I 
 got an awful hang-over, ain t I ? You don t care, do you, 
 oP Wrenn?" 
 
 155 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Mr. Wrenn stared at him weakly, but only for a minute. 
 Perhaps it was his cattle-boat experience which now made 
 him deal directly with such drunkenness as would have 
 nauseated him three months before; perhaps his attend 
 ance on a weary Istra. 
 
 "Come now, Charley, you got to buck up," he crooned. 
 
 "All riV 
 
 "What s the trouble? How did you get going like 
 this?" 
 
 "Wife left me. I was drinking. You think I m drunk, 
 don t you? But I ain t. She went off with her sister 
 always hated me. She took my money out of savings- 
 bank three hundred; all money I had cept fifty dollars. 
 I ll fix her. I ll kill her. Took to hitting the booze. 
 Goglefogle fired me. Don t care. Drink all I want. 
 Keep young fellows from getting it! Say, go down and 
 get me pint. Just finished up pint. Got to have one 
 die of thirst. Bourbon. Get 
 
 "I ll go and get you a drink, Charley just one drink, 
 savvy? if you ll promise to get cleaned up, like I tell 
 you, afterward." 
 
 "All ri ." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn hastened out with a whisky-flask, mutter 
 ing, feverishly, "Gee! I got to save him." Returning, he 
 poured out one drink, as though it were medicine for a 
 refractory patient, and said, soothingly: 
 
 "Now we ll take a cold bath, heh? and get cleaned up 
 and sobered up. Then we ll talk about a job, heh?" 
 
 "Aw, don t want a bath. Say, I feel better now. 
 Let s go out and have a drink. Gimme that flask. 
 Where j yuh put it?" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn went to the bathroom, turned on the cold- 
 water tap, returned, and undressed Charley, who struggled 
 and laughed and let his whole inert weight rest against 
 Mr. Wrenn s shoulder. Though normally Charley could 
 have beaten three Mr. Wrenns, he was run into the bath 
 room and poked into the tub. 
 
 156 
 
HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 
 
 Instantly he began to splash, throwing up water in 
 handfuls, singing. The water poured over the side of the 
 tub. Mr. Wrenn tried to hold him still, but the wet sleek 
 shoulders slipped through his hand like a wet platter. 
 Wholesomely vexed, he turned off the water and slammed 
 the bathroom door. 
 
 In the bedroom he found an unwrinkled winter-weight 
 suit and one clean shirt. In the living-room he hung 
 up his coat, covering it with a newspaper, pulled the 
 broom from under the table, and prepared to sweep. 
 
 The disorder was so great that he made one of the inevi 
 table discoveries of every housekeeper, and admitted to 
 himself that he "didn t know where to begin." He 
 stumblingly lugged a heavy pile of dishes from the center- 
 table to the kitchen, shook and beat and folded the table- 
 cover, stuck the chairs atop the table, and began to 
 sweep. 
 
 At the door a shining wet naked figure stood, bellowing: 
 "Hey! What d yuh think you re doing? Cut it out." 
 "Just sweeping, Charley," from Mr. Wrenn, and an 
 uninterrupted "Tuff, tuff, tuff" from the broom. 
 "Cut it out, I said. Whose house is this?" 
 "Gwan back in the bath-tub, Charley." 
 "Say, d j yuh think you can run me? Get out of this, 
 or I ll throw you out. Got house way I want it." 
 
 Bill Wrenn, the cattleman, rushed at him, smacked him 
 with the broom, drove him back into the tub, and waited. 
 He laughed. It was all a good joke; his friend Charley 
 and he were playing a little game. Charley also laughed 
 and splashed some more. Then he wept and said that the 
 water was cold, and that he was now deserted by his only 
 friend. 
 
 "Oh, shut up," remarked Bill Wrenn, and swept the 
 bathroom floor. 
 
 Charley stopped swashing about to sneer: 
 "Li l ministering angel, ain t you? You think you re 
 awful good, don t you? Come up here and bother me. 
 
 157 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 When I ain t well. Salvation Army. You . 
 
 Aw, lemme lone, will you?" Bill Wrenn kept on sweep 
 ing. "Get out, you ." 
 
 There was enough energy in Charley s voice to indicate 
 that he was getting sober. Bill Wrenn soused him under 
 once more, so thoroughly that his own cuffs w T ere reduced 
 to a state of flabbiness. He dragged Charley out, helped 
 him dry himself, and drove him to bed. 
 
 He went out and bought dish-towels, soap, washing- 
 powder, and collars of Charley s size, which was an inch 
 larger than his own. He finished sweeping and dusting 
 and washing the dishes all of them. He who had 
 learned to comfort Istra he really enjoyed it. His sense 
 of order made it a pleasure to see a plate yellow with 
 dried egg glisten iridescently and flash into shining white 
 ness; or a room corner filled with dust and tobacco 
 flakes become again a "nice square clean corner with the 
 baseboard shining, gee! just like it was new." 
 
 An irate grocer called with a bill for fifteen dollars. Mr. 
 Wrenn blandly heard his threats all through, pretending 
 to himself that this was his home, whose honor was his 
 honor. He paid the man eight dollars on account and 
 loftily dismissed him. He sat down to wait for Charley, 
 reading a newspaper most of the time, but rising to pursue 
 stray flies furiously, stumbling over chairs, and making 
 murderous flappings with a folded newspaper. 
 
 When Charley awoke, after three hours, clear of mind 
 but not at all clear as regards the roof of his mouth, Mr. 
 Wrenn gave him a very little whisky, with considerable 
 coffee, toast, and bacon. The toast was not bad. 
 
 "Now, Charley," he said, cheerfully, "your bat s over, 
 ain t it, old man?" 
 
 "Say, you been darn decent to me, old man. Lord! 
 how you ve been sweeping up ! How was I was I pretty 
 soused?" 
 
 "Honest, you were fierce. You will sober up, now, 
 won t you?" 
 
HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 
 
 "Well, it s no wonder I had a classy hang-over, Wrenn. 
 I was at the Amusieren Rathskeller till four this morning, 
 and then I had a couple of nips before breakfast, and then 
 I didn t have any breakfast. But sa-a-a-ay, man, I sure 
 did have some fiesta last night. There was a little 
 peroxide blonde that " 
 
 "Now you look here, Carpenter; you listen to me. 
 You re sober now. Have you tried to find another job ?" 
 
 "Yes, I did. But I got down in the mouth. Didn t 
 feel like I had a friend left." 
 
 "Well, you h " 
 
 "But I guess I have now, old Wrennski." 
 
 "Look here, Charley, you know I don t want to pull off 
 no Charity Society stunt or talk like I was a preacher. 
 But I like you so darn much I want to see you sober up 
 and get another job. Honestly I do, Charley. Are 
 you broke ?" 
 
 " Prett nearly. Only got about ten dollars to my name. 
 ... I will take a brace, old man. I know you ain t no 
 preacher. Course if you came around with any holier- 
 than-thou stunt I d have to go right out and get soused 
 on general principles. . . . Yuh I ll try to get a job." 
 
 "Here s ten dollars. Please take it aw please, 
 Charley." 
 
 "All right; anything to oblige." 
 
 "What ve you got in sight in the job line?" 
 
 "Well, there s a chance at night clerking in a little 
 hotel where I was a bell-hop long time ago. The night 
 clerk s going to get through, but I don t know just when 
 prob ly in a week or two." 
 
 "Well, keep after it. And please come down to see me 
 the old place West Sixteenth Street." 
 
 "What about the old girl with the ingrowing grouch? 
 What s her name? She ain t stuck on me." 
 
 "Mrs. Zapp? Oh hope she chokes. She can just 
 kick all she wants to. I m just going to have all the 
 visitors I want to." 
 
 159 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "All right. Say, tell us something about your trip." 
 
 "Oh, I had a great time. Lots of nice fellows on the 
 cattle-boat. I went over on one, you know. Fellow 
 named Morton awfully nice fellow. Say, Charley, you 
 ought to seen me being butler to the steers. Handing em 
 hay. But say, the sea was fine; all kinds of colors. 
 Awful dirty on the cattle-boat, though." 
 
 "Hard work?" 
 
 "Yuh kind of hard. Oh, not so very." 
 
 "What did you see in England?" 
 
 "Oh, a lot of different places. Say, I seen some great 
 vaudeville in Liverpool, Charley, with Morton he s a 
 slick fellow; works for the Pennsylvania, here in town. 
 I got to look him up. Say, I wish we had an agency for 
 college sofa-pillows and banners and souvenir stuff in 
 Oxford. There s a whole bunch of colleges there, all 
 right in the same town. I met a prof, there from some 
 American college he hired an automobubble and took me 
 down to a reg lar old inn 
 
 "Well, well!" 
 * like you read about; sanded floor!" 
 
 "Get to London?" 
 
 "Yuh. Gee! it s a big place. Say, that Westminster 
 Abbey s a great place. I was in there a couple of times. 
 More darn tombs of kings and stuff. And I see a bishop, 
 with leggins on! But I got kind of lonely. I thought of 
 you a lot of times. Wished we could go out and get an ale 
 together. Maybe pick up a couple of pretty girls." 
 
 "Oh, you sport! . . . Say, didn t get over to gay Paree, 
 did you?" 
 
 "Nope. . . . Well, I guess I d better beat it now. Got 
 to move in I m at a hotel. You will come down and see 
 me to-night, won t you?" 
 
 "So you thought of me, eh? ... Yuh sure, old socks. 
 I ll be down to-night. And I ll get right after that job." 
 
 It is doubtful whether Mr. Wrenn would ever have re 
 turned to the Zapps had he not promised to see Charley 
 
 160 
 
HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 
 
 there. Even while he was carrying his suit-case down 
 West Sixteenth, broiling by degrees in the sunshine, he 
 felt like rushing up to Charley s and telling him to come 
 to the hotel instead. 
 
 Lee Theresa, taking the day off with a headache, an 
 swered the bell, and ejaculated: 
 
 "Well! So it s you, is it ?" 
 
 "I guess it is." 
 
 "What, are you back so soon? Why, you ain t been 
 gone more than a month and a half, have you?" 
 
 Beware, daughter of Southern pride! The little Yan 
 kee is regarding your full-blown curves and empty eyes 
 with rebellion, though he says, ever so meekly: 
 
 "Yes, I guess it is about that, Miss Theresa." 
 
 "Well, I just knew you couldn t stand it away from us. 
 I suppose you ll want your room back. Ma, here s Mr. 
 Wrenn back again Mr. Wrenn! Ma!" 
 
 "Oh-h-h-h!" sounded Goaty Zapp s voice, in impish 
 disdain, below. "Mr. Wrenn s back. Hee, hee! Couldn t 
 stand it. Ain t that like a Yankee!" 
 
 A slap, a wail, then Mrs. Zapp s elephantine slowness 
 on the stairs from the basement. She appeared, button 
 ing her collar, smiling almost pleasantly, for she disliked 
 Mr. Wrenn less than she did any other of her lodgers. 
 
 "Back already, Mist Wrenn? Ah declare, Ah was 
 saying to Lee Theresa just yest day, Ah just knew you d 
 be wishing you was back with us. Won t you come in ?" 
 
 He edged into the parlor with, "How is the sciatica, 
 Mrs. Zapp?" 
 
 "Ah ain t feeling right smart." 
 
 "My room occupied yet?" 
 
 He was surveying the airless parlor rather heavily, and 
 his curt manner was not pleasing to the head of the house 
 of Zapp, who remarked, funereally: 
 
 "It ain t taken just now, Mist Wrenn, but Ah dunno. 
 There was a gennulman a-looking at it just yesterday, and 
 he said he d be permanent if he came. Ah declare, Mist* 
 
 161 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Wrenn, Ah dunno s Ah like to have my gennulmen just 
 get up and go without giving me notice." 
 
 Lee Theresa scowled at her. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn retorted, "I did give you notice." 
 
 "Ah know, but well, Ah reckon Ah can let you 
 have it, but Ah ll have to have four and a half a week 
 instead of four. Prices is all going up so, Ah declare, Ah 
 was just saying to Lee T resa Ah dunno what we re all 
 going to do if the dear Lord don t look out for us. And, 
 Mist Wrenn, Ah dunno s Ah like to have you coming in so 
 late nights. But Ah reckon Ah can accommodate you." 
 
 "It s a good deal of a favor, isn t it, Mrs. Zapp?" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn was dangerously polite. Let gentility look 
 out for the sharp practices of the Yankee. 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 It was our hero, our madman of the seven and seventy 
 seas, our revolutionist friend of Istra, who leaped straight 
 from the salt-incrusted decks of his laboring steamer to 
 the musty parlor and declared, quietly but unmovably 
 practically unmovably "Well, then, I guess I d better 
 not take it at all." 
 
 "So that s the way you re going to treat usl" bellowed 
 Mrs. Zapp. "You go off and leave us with an unoccupied 
 room and Oh! You poor white trash you " 
 
 "Ma! You shut up and go down-stairs-s-s-s-s !" 
 Theresa hissed. "Go on." 
 
 Mrs. Zapp wabbled regally out. Lee Theresa spoke to 
 Mr. Wrenn: 
 
 "Ma ain t feeling a bit well this afternoon. I m sorry 
 she talked like that. You will come back, won t you?" 
 She showed all her teeth in a genuine smile, and in her 
 anxiety reached his heart. "Remember, you promised 
 you would." 
 
 "Well, I will, but 
 
 Bill Wrenn was fading, an affrighted specter. The 
 "but" was the last glimpse of him, and that Theresa over 
 looked, as she bustlingly chirruped: "I knew you would 
 
 162 
 
HE DISCOVERS AMERICA 
 
 understand. I ll skip right up and look at the room and 
 put on fresh sheets." 
 
 One month, one hot New York month, passed before the 
 imperial Mr. Guilfogle gave him back The Job, and then 
 at seventeen dollars and fifty cents a week instead of 
 his former nineteen dollars. Mr. Wrenn refused, upon 
 pretexts, to go out with the manager for a drink, and 
 presented him with twenty suggestions for new novelties 
 and circular letters. He rearranged the unsystematic 
 methods of Jake, the cub, and two days later he was at 
 work as though he had never in his life been farther from 
 the Souvenir Company than Newark. 
 
XIII 
 
 DEAR ISTRA, I am back in New York feeling very well 
 & hope this finds you the same. I have been wanting to 
 write to you for quite a while now but there has not been much 
 news of any kind & so I have not written to you. But now I 
 am back working for the Souvenir Company. I hope you are 
 having a good time in Paris it must be a very pretty city & I 
 have often wished to be there perhaps some day I shall go. I 
 [several erasures herej have been reading quite a few books 
 since I got back & think now I shall get on better with my 
 reading. You told me so many things about books & so on & I 
 do appreciate it. In closing, I am yours very sincerely, 
 
 WILLIAM WRENN. 
 
 There was nothing else he could say. But there were 
 a terrifying number of things he could think as he 
 crouched by the window overlooking West Sixteenth 
 Street, whose dull hue had not changed during the cen 
 turies while he had been tramping England. Her smile 
 he remembered and he cried, "Oh, I want to see her so 
 much." Her gallant dash through the rain and again 
 the cry. 
 
 At last he cursed himself, "Why don t you do something 
 that *d count for her, and not sit around yammering for 
 her like a fool ?" 
 
 He worked on his plan to "bring the South into line" 
 the Souvenir Company s line. Again and again he sprang 
 up from the writing-table in his hot room when the 
 presence of Istra came and stood compellingly by his 
 chair. But he worked. 
 
 164 
 
HE IS "OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 The Souvenir Company salesmen had not been able to 
 get from the South the business which the company 
 deserved if right and justice were to prevail. On the 
 steamer from England Mr. Wrenn had conceived the idea 
 that a Dixieland Ink-well, with the Confederate and 
 Union flags draped in graceful cast iron, would make an 
 admirable present with which to draw the attention of the 
 Southern trade. The ink-well was to be followed by a 
 series of letters, sent on the slightest provocation, on order 
 or re-order, tactfully hoping the various healths of the 
 Southland were good and the baseball season important; all 
 to insure a welcome to the salesmen on the Southern route. 
 
 He drew up his letters; he sketched his ink-w T ell; he 
 got up the courage to talk with the office manager. . . . 
 To forget love and the beloved, men have ascended in 
 aeroplanes and conquered African tribes. To forget love, 
 a new, busy, much absorbed Mr. Wrenn, very much Ours, 
 bustled into Mr. Guilfogle s office, slapped down his papers 
 on the desk, and demanded: "Here s that plan about get- 
 tin* the South interested that I was telling you about. 
 Say, honest, I d like awful much to try it on. Fd just 
 have to have part time of one stenographer." 
 
 "Well, you know our stenographers are pretty well 
 crowded. But you can leave the outline with me. I ll 
 look it over," said Mr. Guilfogle. 
 
 That same afternoon the manager enthusiastically 
 O. K. d the plan. To enthusiastically-O. K. is an office 
 technology for saying, gloomily, "Well, I don t suppose 
 it d hurt to try it, anyway, but for the love of Mike be 
 careful, and let me see any letters you send out." 
 
 So Mr. Wrenn dictated a letter to each of their Southern 
 merchants, sending him a Dixieland Ink-well and inquir 
 ing about the crops. He had a stenographer, an efficient 
 intolerant young woman who wrote down his halting 
 words as though they were examples of bad English she 
 wanted to show her friends, and waited for the next word 
 with cynical amusement. 
 
 12 165 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "By gosh!" growled Bill Wrenn, the cattleman, "I ll 
 show her I m running this. I ll show her she s got an 
 other think coming." But he dictated so busily and was 
 so hot to get results that he forgot the girl s air of high- 
 class martyrdom. 
 
 He watched the Southern baseball results in the papers. 
 He seized on every salesman on the Southern route as he 
 came in, and inquired about the religion and politics of 
 the merchants in his district. He even forgot to worry 
 about his next rise in salary, and found it much more 
 exciting to rush back for an important letter after a 
 quick lunch than to watch the time and make sure that 
 he secured every minute of his lunch-hour. 
 
 When October came October of the vagabond, with the 
 leaves brilliant out on the Palisades, and Sixth Avenue 
 moving-picture palaces cool again and gay Mr. Wrenn 
 stayed late, under the mercury-vapor lights, making 
 card cross-files of the Southern merchants, their hobbies 
 and prejudices, and whistling as he worked, stopping now 
 and then to slap the desk and mutter, "By gosh! I m 
 gettin em gettin em." 
 
 He rarely thought of Istra till he was out on the street 
 again, proud of having worked so late that his eyes ached. 
 In fact, his chief troubles these days came when Mr. 
 Guilfogle wouldn t "let him put through an idea." 
 
 Their first battle was over Mr. Wrenn s signing the 
 letters personally; for the letters, the office manager felt, 
 were as much Ours as was Mr. Wrenn, and should be 
 signed by the firm. After some difficulty Mr. Wrenn 
 persuaded him that one of the best ways to handle a 
 personal letter was to make it personal. They nearly 
 cursed each other before Mr. Wrenn was allowed to use 
 his own judgment. 
 
 It s not at all certain that Mr. Guilfogle should have 
 yielded. What s the use of a manager if his underlings 
 use judgment? 
 
 The next battle Mr. Wrenn lost. He had demanded a 
 
 1 66 
 
HE IS "OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 monthly holiday for his stenographer. Mr. Guilfogle 
 pointed out that she d merely be the worse off for a 
 holiday, that it d make her discontented, that it was a 
 kindness to her to keep her mind occupied. Mr. Wrenn 
 was, however, granted a new typewriter, in a manner 
 which revealed the fact that the Souvenir Company was 
 filled with almost too much mercy in permitting an em 
 ployee to follow his own selfish and stubborn desires. 
 
 You cannot trust these employees. Mr. Wrenn was 
 getting so absorbed in his work that he didn t even act 
 as though it was a favor when Mr. Guilfogle allowed him 
 to have his letters to the trade copied by carbon paper 
 instead of having them blurred by the wet tissue-paper 
 of a copy-book. The manager did grant the request, but 
 he was justly indignant at the curt manner of the rascal, 
 whereupon our bumptious revolutionist, our friend to 
 anarchists and red-headed artists, demanded a "raise" 
 and said that he didn t care a hang if the [qualified] letters 
 never went out. The kindness of chiefs! For Mr. 
 Guilfogle apologized and raised the madman s wage from 
 seventeen dollars and fifty cents a week to his former 
 nineteen dollars. [He had expected eighteen dollars; he 
 had demanded twenty-two dollars and fifty cents; he 
 was worth on the labor market from twenty -five to 
 thirty dollars; while the profit to the Souvenir Company 
 from his work was about sixty dollars minus whatever 
 salary he got.] 
 
 Not only that. Mr. Guilfogle slapped him on the back 
 and said: "You re doing good work, old man. It s fine. 
 I just don t want you to be too reckless." 
 
 That night Wrenn worked till eight. 
 
 After his raise he could afford to go to the theater, since 
 he was not saving money for travel. He wrote small 
 letters to Istra and read the books he believed she would 
 approve a Paris Baedeker and the second volume of 
 Tolstoi s War and Peace, which he bought at a second 
 hand book-stall for five cents. He became interested in 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 popular and inaccurate French and English histories, and 
 secreted any amount of footnote anecdotes about Guy 
 Fawkes and rush-lights and the divine right of kings. 
 He thought almost every night about making friends, 
 which he intended just as much as ever to do as soon 
 as Sometime arrived. 
 
 On the day on which one of the Southern merchants 
 wrote him about his son "fine young fellow, sir has 
 every chance of rising to a lieutenancy on the Atlanta 
 police force" Mr. Wrenn s eyes were moist. Here was 
 a friend already. Sure. He would make friends. Then 
 there was the cripple with the Capitol Corner News and 
 Souvenir Stand in Austin, Texas. Mr. Wrenn secreted 
 two extra Dixieland Ink-wells and a Yale football banner 
 and sent them to the cripple for his brothers, who were in 
 the Agricultural College. 
 
 The orders yes, they were growing larger. The 
 Southern salesmen took him out to dinner sometimes. 
 But he was shy of them. They were so knowing and had 
 so many smoking-room stories. He still had not found 
 the friends he desired. 
 
 Miggleton s restaurant, on Forty-second Street, was a 
 romantic discovery. Though it had "popular prices" 
 plain omelet, fifteen cents it had red and green bracket 
 lights, mission-style tables, and music played by a sparrow- 
 like pianist and a violinist. Mr. Wrenn never really 
 heard the music, but while it was quavering he had a 
 happier appreciation of the Silk-Hat-Harry humorous 
 pictures in the Journal, which he always propped up 
 against an oil -cruet. [That never caused him incon 
 venience; he had no convictions in regard to salads.] 
 He would drop the paper to look out of the window at the 
 Lazydays Improvement Company s electric sign, showing 
 gardens of paradise on the instalment plan, and dream of 
 well, he hadn t the slightest idea what something dis 
 tant and deliciously likely to become intimate. Once or 
 
 1 68 
 
HE IS "OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 twice he knew that he was visioning the girl in soft brown 
 whom he would "go home to," and who, in a Lazydays 
 suburban residence, would play just such music for him 
 and the friends who lived near by. She would be as clever 
 as Istra, but "oh, more so s you can go regular places with 
 her." . . . Often he got good ideas about letters South, to 
 be jotted down on envelope backs, from that music. 
 
 At last comes the historic match-box incident. 
 
 On that October evening in 1910 he dined early at 
 Miggleton s. The thirty-cent table d hote was perfect. 
 The cream-of-corn soup was, he went so far as to remark 
 to the waitress, "simply slick"; the Waldorf salad had 
 two whole walnuts in his portion alone. 
 
 The fat man with the white waistcoat, whom he had 
 often noted as dining in this same corner of the restaurant, 
 smiled at him and said "Pleasant evening" as he sat 
 down opposite Mr. Wrenn and smoothed the two sleek 
 bangs which decorated the front of his nearly bald head. 
 
 The music included a "potpourri of airs from The 
 Merry Widow, " which set his foot tapping. All the 
 while he was conscious that he d made the Seattle Novelty 
 and Stationery Corner Store come through with a rive- 
 hundred-dollar order on one of his letters. 
 
 The Journal contained an editorial essay on "Friend 
 ship" which would have been, and was, a credit to 
 Cicero. 
 
 He laid down the paper, stirred his large cup of coffee, 
 and stared at the mother-of-pearl buttons on the waist 
 coat of the fat man, who was now gulping down soup, 
 opposite him. "My land!" he was thinking, "friendship! 
 I ain t even begun to make all those friends I was going to. 
 Haven t done a thing. Oh, I will; I must!" 
 
 "Nice night," said the fat man. 
 
 "Yuh it sure is," brightly agreed Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 "Reg lar Indian-Summer weather." 
 
 "Yes, isn t it! I feel like taking a walk on Riverside 
 Drive b lieve I will." 
 
 169 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Wish I had time. But I gotta get down to the store 
 cigar-store. I m on nights, three times a week." 
 
 " Yuh. I ve seen you here most every time I eat early," 
 Mr. Wrenn purred. 
 
 "Yuh. The rest of the time I eat at the boarding- 
 house." 
 
 Silence. But Mr. Wrenn was fighting for things to say, 
 means of approach, for the chance to become acquainted 
 with a new person, for all the friendly human ways he had 
 desired in nights of loneliness. 
 
 "Wonder when they ll get the Grand Central done?" 
 asked the fat man. 
 
 "I s pose it 11 take quite a few years," said Mr. Wrenn, 
 conversationally. 
 
 "Yuh. I s pose it will." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn sat trying to think of something else to say. 
 Lonely people in city restaurants simply do not get 
 acquainted. Yet he did manage to observe, "Great 
 building that 11 be," in the friendliest manner. 
 
 Silence. 
 
 Then the fat man went on: 
 
 "Wonder what Wolgast will do in his mill? Don t 
 believe he can stand up." 
 
 Wolgast was, Mr. Wrenn seemed to remember, a 
 pugilist. He agreed vaguely: 
 
 "Pretty hard, all right." 
 
 "Go out to the areoplane meet?" asked the fat man. 
 
 "No. But I d like to see it. Gee! there must be kind 
 of kind of adventure in them things, heh?" 
 
 "Yuh sure is. First machine I saw, though I was 
 just getting off the train at Belmont Park, and there was 
 an areoplane up in the air, and it looked like one of them 
 big mechanical beetles these fellows sell on the street 
 buzzing around up there. I was kind of disappointed. 
 But what do you think? It was that J. A. D. McCurdy, 
 in a Curtiss biplane I think it was and by golly! he got 
 
 170 
 
HE IS "OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 to circling around and racing and tipping so s I thought 
 I d loose my hat off, I was so excited. And, say, what do 
 you think? I see McCurdy himself, afterward, standing 
 near one of the the handgars handsome young chap, 
 not over twenty-eight or thirty, built like a half-miler. 
 And then I see Ralph Johnstone and Arch Hoxey " 
 
 "Gee!" Mr. Wrenn was breathing. 
 
 " dipping and doing the what do you call it? 
 
 Dutch sausage-roll or something like that. Yelled my 
 head off." 
 
 "Oh, it must have been great to see em, and so close, * 
 too." 
 
 "Yuh it sure was." 
 
 There seemed to be no other questions to settle. Mr. 
 Wrenn slowly folded up his paper, pursued his check under 
 three plates and the menu-card to its hiding-place beyond 
 the catsup-bottle, and left the table with a regretful 
 "Good night." 
 
 At the desk of the cashier, a decorative blonde, he put 
 a cent in the machine which good-naturedly drops out 
 boxes of matches. No box dropped this time, though he 
 worked the lever noisily. 
 
 "Out of order?" asked the cashier lady. "Here s two 
 boxes of matches. Guess you ve earned them." 
 
 "Well, well, well, well!" sounded the voice of his friend, 
 the fat man, who stood at the desk paying his bill. 
 "Pretty easy, heh? Two boxes for one cent! Sting the 
 restaurant." Cocking his head, he carefully inserted a 
 cent in the slot and clattered the lever, turning to grin 
 at Mr. Wrenn, who grinned back as the machine failed to 
 work. 
 
 "Let me try it," caroled Mr. Wrenn, and pounded the 
 lever with the enthusiasm of comradeship. 
 
 "Nothing doing, lady," crowed the fat man to the 
 cashier. "I guess 7 draw two boxes, too, eh ? And I m in 
 a cigar-store. How s that for stinging your competitors, 
 heh? Ho, ho, ho!" 
 
 171 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 The cashier handed him two boxes, with an embarrassed 
 simper, and the fat man clapped Mr. Wrenn s shoulder 
 joyously. 
 
 "My turn!" shouted a young man in a fuzzy green hat 
 and a bright-brown suit, who had been watching with the 
 sudden friendship which unites a crowd brought together 
 by an accident. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn was glowing. "No, it ain t it s mine," he 
 achieved. "I invented this game." Never had he so 
 stood forth in a crowd. He was a Bill Wrenn with the 
 cosmopolitan polish of a floor-walker. He stood beside the 
 fat man as a friend of sorts, a person to be taken per 
 fectly seriously. 
 
 It is true that he didn t add to this spiritual triumph 
 the triumph of getting two more boxes of matches, for the 
 cashier-girl exclaimed, "No indeedy; it s my turn!" and 
 lifted the match machine to a high shelf behind her. But 
 Mr. Wrenn went out of the restaurant with his old 
 friend, the fat man, saying to him quite as would a wit, 
 "I guess we get stung, eh?" 
 
 "Yuh!" gurgled the fat man. 
 
 " Walking down to your store?" 
 
 "Yuh sure won t you walk down a piece?" 
 
 "Yes, I would like to. Which way is it?" 
 
 "Fourth Avenue and Twenty-eighth." 
 
 "Walk down with you." 
 
 "Fine!" 
 
 And the fat man seemed to mean it. He confided to 
 Mr. Wrenn that the fishing was something elegant at 
 Trulen, New Jersey; that he w T as some punkins at the 
 casting of flies in fishing; that he wished exceedingly 
 to be at Trulen fishing with flies, but was prevented by 
 the manager of the cigar-store; that the manager was an 
 old devil; that his (the fat man s own) name was Tom 
 Poppins; that the store had a slick new brand of Manila 
 cigars, kept in a swell new humidor bought upon the 
 advice of himself (Mr. Poppins); that one of the young 
 
 172 
 
HE IS "OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 clerks in the store had done fine in the Modified Marathon; 
 that the Cubs had had a great team this year; that he d 
 be glad to give Mr. Mr. Wrenn, eh? one of those 
 Manila cigars great cigars they were, too; and that he 
 hadn t "laughed so much for a month of Sundays as he had 
 over the way they stung Miggleton s on them matches." 
 
 All this in the easy, affectionate, slightly wistful manner 
 of fat men. Mr. Poppins s large round friendly childish 
 eyes were never sarcastic. He was the man who makes of 
 a crowd in the Pullman smoking-room old friends in half 
 an hour. In turn, Mr. Wrenn did not shy off; he hinted 
 at most of his lifelong ambitions and a fair number of his 
 sorrows and, when they reached the store, not only calmly 
 accepted, but even sneezingly ignited one of the " slick 
 new Manila cigars." 
 
 As he left the store he knew that the golden age had 
 begun. He had a friend! 
 
 He was to see Tom Poppins the coming Thursday at 
 Miggleton s. And now he was going to find Morton! 
 He laughed so loudly that the policeman at Thirty-fourth 
 Street looked self-conscious and felt secretively to find out 
 what was the matter with his uniform. Now, this evening, 
 he d try to get on the track of Morton. Well, perhaps 
 not this evening the Pennsylvania offices wouldn t be 
 open, but some time this week, anyway. 
 
 Two nights later, as he waited for Tom Poppins at 
 Miggleton s, he lashed himself with the thought that he 
 had not started to find Morton; good old Morton of the 
 cattle-boat. But that was forgotten in the wonder of 
 Tom Poppins s account of Mrs. Arty s, a boarding-house 
 "where all the folks likes each other." 
 
 "You ve never fed at a boarding-house, eh?" said Tom. 
 "Well, I guess most of em are pretty poor feed. And 
 pretty sad bunch. But Mrs. Arty s is about as near like 
 home as most of us poor bachelors ever gets. Nice crowd 
 there. If Mrs. Arty Mrs. R. T. Ferrard is her name, 
 but we always call her Mrs. Arty if she don t take to you 
 
 173 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 she don t mind letting you know she won t take you in 
 at all; but if she does she ll worry over the holes in your 
 socks as if they was her husband s. All the bunch there 
 drop into the parlor when they come in, pretty near any 
 time clear up till twelve-thirty, and talk and laugh and 
 rush the growler and play Five Hundred. Just like 
 home! 
 
 "Mrs. Arty s nearly as fat as I am, but she can be 
 pretty spry if there s something she can do for you. 
 Nice crowd there, too except that Teddem he s one of 
 these here Willy-boy actors, always out of work; I guess 
 Mrs. Arty is kind of sorry for him. Say, Wrenn you 
 seem to me like a good fellow why don t you get ac 
 quainted with the bunch? Maybe you d like to move up 
 there some time. You was telling me about what a 
 cranky old party your landlady is. Anyway, come on 
 up there to dinner. On me. Got anything on for next 
 Monday evening?" 
 
 "N-no." 
 
 "Come on up then East Thirtieth." 
 
 "Gee, I d like to!" 
 
 "Well, why don t you, then? Get there about six. 
 Ask for me. Monday. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday 
 I don t have to get to the store evenings. Come on; you ll 
 find out if you like the place." 
 
 "By jiminy, I will!" Mr. Wrenn slapped the table, 
 socially. 
 
 At last he was "through, just through with loafing 
 around and not getting acquainted," he told himself. He 
 was tired of Zapps. There was nothing to Zapps. He 
 would go up to Mrs. Arty s and now he was going to find 
 Morton. Next morning, marveling at himself for not 
 having done this easy task before, he telephoned to the 
 Pennsylvania Railroad offices, asked for Morton, and in 
 one-half minute heard: 
 
 "Yes? This is Harry Morton." 
 
 174 
 
HE IS "OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Hullo, Mr. Morton! I ll just bet you can t guess who 
 this is." 
 
 "I guess you ve got me." 
 
 "Well, who do you think it " 
 
 "Jack?" 
 
 "Hunka." 
 
 "Uncle Henry?" 
 
 "Nope." Mr. Wrenn felt lonely at finding himself so 
 completely outside Morton s own world that he was not 
 thought of. He hastened to claim a part in that world: 
 
 "Say, Mr. Morton, I wonder if you ve ever heard of a 
 cattle-boat called the Mtrian?" 
 
 "I- Say! Is this Bill Wrenn?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, well, well! Whereareyou? When dyou get back?" 
 
 "Oh, I been back quite a little while, Morty. Tried to 
 get hold of you almost called up couple of times. I m in 
 my office Souvenir Company now. Back on the old 
 job. Say, I d like to see you." 
 
 "Well, I d like to see you, old Bill!" 
 
 "Got a date for dinner this evening, Morty?" 
 
 "N-no. No, I don t think I ve got anything on." 
 
 Morton s voice seemed to sound a doubt. Mr. Wrenn 
 reflected that Morton must be a society person; and he 
 made his invitation highly polite: 
 
 "Well, say, old man, I d be awful happy if you could 
 come over and feed on me. Can t you come over and meet 
 me, Morty?" 
 
 "Y-yes, I guess I can. Yes, I ll do it. Where 11 I 
 meet you?" 
 
 "How about Twenty-eighth and Sixth Avenue?" 
 
 "That ll be all right, Bill. Bout six o clock?" 
 
 "Fine! Be awful nice to see you again, old Morty." 
 
 "Same here. Goo -by." 
 
 Gazing across the table at Miggleton s, Mr. Wrenn saw, 
 in the squat familiar body and sturdy face of Morton of 
 
 175 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 the cattle - boat, a stranger, slightly uneasy and very 
 quiet, wearing garments that had nothing whatever to do 
 with the cattle-boats a crimson scarf with a horseshoe- 
 pin of "Brazilian diamonds," and sleek brown ready-made 
 clothes with ornately curved cuffs and pocket flaps. 
 
 Morton would say nothing of his wanderings after their 
 parting in Liverpool beyond : "Oh, I just bummed around. 
 Places. . . . Warm to-night. For this time of year." 
 Thrice he explained, "I was kind of afraid you d be sore at 
 me for the way I left you; that s why I ve never looked 
 you up." Thrice Mr. Wrenn declared that he had not 
 been "sore," then ceased trying to make himself under 
 stood. 
 
 Their talk wilted. Both of them played with their 
 knives a good deal. Morton built a set of triangles out of 
 toothpicks while pretending to give hushed attention to 
 the pianist s rendition of "Mammy s Little Cootsie Bootsie 
 Coon," while Mr. Wrenn stared out of the window as 
 though he expected to see the building across get afire 
 immediately. When either of them invented something 
 to say they started chattering with guilty haste, and each 
 agreed hectically with any opinion the other advanced. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn surprised himself in the thought that 
 Morton hadn t anything very new to say, which made 
 him feel so disloyal that he burst out, effusively: 
 
 "Say, come on now, old man; I just got to hear about 
 what you did after you left Liverpool." 
 
 (( T 
 
 "Well " 
 
 "I never got out of Liverpool! Worked in a restaurant. 
 
 . . . But next time ! I ll go clean to Constantinople!" 
 
 Morton exploded. "And I did see a lot of English life in 
 Liverpool." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn talked long and rapidly of the world s base 
 ball series, and Regal vs. Walkover shoes. 
 
 He tried to think of something they could do. Sud 
 denly: 
 
HE IS "OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Say, Morty, I know an awful nice guy down here in a 
 cigar-store. Let s go down and see him." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Tom Poppins was very cordial to them. He dragged 
 brown canvas stools out of the tobacco-scented room 
 where cigars were made, and the three of them squatted 
 in the back of the store, while Tom gossiped of the Juarez 
 races, Taft, cigar-wrappers, and Jews. Mortonwas aroused 
 to tell the time-mellowed story of the judge and the darky. 
 He was cheerful and laughed much and frequently said 
 "Ah there, cull!" in general commendation. But he kept 
 looking at the clock on the jog in the wall over the water- 
 cooler. Just at ten he rose abashedly, hesitated, and 
 murmured, "Well, I guess I ll have to be beating it home." 
 
 From Mr. Wrenn: "Oh, Morty! So early?" 
 
 Tom: "What s the big hurry?" 
 
 "I ve got to run clear over to Jersey City." Morton 
 was cordial, but not convincing. 
 
 "Say uh Morton," said Tom, kindly of face, his 
 bald head shining behind his twin bangs, as he rose, 
 "I m going to have Wrenn up to dinner at my boarding- 
 house next Monday. Like to have you come along. It s 
 a fine place Mrs. Arty she s the landlady she s a 
 wonder. There s going to be a vacant room there maybe 
 you two fellows could frame it up to take it, heh? Un 
 derstand, I don t get no rake-off on this, but we all like to 
 do what we can for M " 
 
 "No, no!" said Morton. "Sorry. Couldn t do it. 
 Staying with my brother-in-law costs me only bout half 
 
 as much as it would I don t do much chasing around 
 
 when I m in town. . . . I m going to save up enough money 
 for a good long hike. I m going clean to St. Petersburg! 
 . . . But I ve had a good time to-night." 
 
 "Glad. Great stuff about you fellows on the cattle- 
 ship," said Tom. 
 
 Morton hastened on, protectively, a bit critically: 
 "You fellows sport around a good deal, don t you? . . . 
 
 177 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 I can t afford to. ... Well, good night. Glad to met you, 
 Mr. Poppins. G night, old Wr 
 
 "Going to the ferry? For Jersey? I ll walk over with 
 you/ said Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 Their walk was quiet and, for Mr. Wrenn, tragically sad. 
 He saw Morton (presumably) doing the wandering he had 
 once planned. He felt that, while making his vast new 
 circle of friends, he was losing all the wild adventurousness 
 of Bill Wrenn. And he was parting with his first friend. 
 
 At the ferry-house Morton pronounced his "Well, so 
 long, old fellow" with an affection that meant finality. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn fled back to Tom Poppins s store. On the 
 way he was shocked to find himself relieved at having 
 parted with Morton. The cigar-store was closed. 
 
 At home Mrs. Zapp waylaid him for his rent (a day 
 overdue), and he was very curt. That was to keep back the 
 "O God, how rotten I feel!" with which, in his room, he 
 voiced the desolation of loneliness. 
 
 The ghost of Morton, dead and forgotten, was with 
 him all next day, till he got home and unbelievably found 
 on the staid black-walnut Zapp hat-rack a letter from 
 Paris, in a gray foreign-appearing envelope w T ith Istra s 
 intensely black scrawl on it. 
 
 He put off the luxury of opening the letter till after the 
 rites of brushing his teeth, putting on his slippers, pound 
 ing his rocking-chair cushion into softness. Panting with 
 the joy to come, he stared out of the window at a giant 
 and glorious figure of Istra the laughing Istra of break 
 fast camp-fire which towered from the street below. 
 He sighed joyously and read : 
 
 Mouse dear, just a word to let you know I haven t forgotten 
 you and am very glad indeed to get your letters. Not much to 
 write about. Frightfully busy with work and fool parties. 
 You are a dear good soul and I hope you ll keep on writing me. 
 In haste, I. N. 
 
 Longer letter next time. 
 
 He came to the end so soon. Istra was gone again. 
 
XIV 
 
 HE ENTERS SOCIETY 
 
 ENGLAND, in all its Istra-ness, scarce gave Mr. 
 Wrenn a better thrill for his collection than the thrill he 
 received on the November evening when he saw the white 
 doorway of Mrs. R. T. Ferrard, in a decorous row of 
 houses on Thirtieth Street near Lexington Avenue. 
 
 It is a block where the citizens have civic pride. A 
 newspaper has not the least chance of lying about on the 
 asphalt some householder with a frequently barbered 
 mustache will indignantly pounce upo n it inside of an hour. 
 No awe is caused by the sight of vestibules floored with 
 marble in alternate black and white tiles, scrubbed not 
 by landladies, but by maids. There are dotted Swiss 
 curtains at the basement windows and Irish point curtains 
 on the first floors. There are two polished brass door- 
 plates in a stretch of less than eight houses. Distinctly, 
 it is not a quarter where children fill the street with 
 shouting and little sticks. 
 
 Occasionally a taxicab drives up to some door without 
 a crowd of small boys gathering; and young men in even 
 ing clothes are not infrequently seen to take out young 
 ladies wearing tight-fitting gowns of black, and light 
 scarfs over their heads. A Middle Western college 
 fraternity has a club-house in the block, and four of the 
 houses are private one of them belonging to a police 
 inspector and one to a school principal who wears spats. 
 
 It is a block that is satisfied with itself; as different 
 from the Zapp district, where landladies in gingham run 
 
 179 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 out to squabble with berry-venders, as the Zapp district 
 is from the Ghetto. 
 
 Mrs. Arty Ferrard s house is a poor relation to most 
 of the residences there. The black areaway rail is broken, 
 and the basement-door grill is rusty. But at the windows 
 are red-and-white-figured chintz curtains, with a $2.98 
 bisque figurine of an unclothed lady between them; the 
 door is of spotless white, with a bell-pull of polished brass. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn yanked this bell-pull with an urbane 
 briskness which, he hoped, would conceal his nervousness 
 and delight in dining out. For he was one of the lonely 
 men in New York. He had dined out four times in 
 eight years. 
 
 The woman of thirty-five or thirty-eight who opened 
 the door to him was very fat, two-thirds as fat as Mrs. 
 Zapp, but she had young eyes. Her mouth was small, 
 arched, and quivering in a grin. 
 
 "This is Mr. Wrenn, isn t it?" she gurgled, and leaned 
 against the doorpost, merry, apparently indolent. I m 
 Mrs. Ferrard. Mr. Poppins told me you were coming, 
 and he said you were a terribly nice man, and I was to be 
 sure and welcome you. Come right in." 
 
 Her indolence turned to energy as she charged down 
 the hall to the large double door on the right and threw it 
 open, revealing to him a scene of splendor and revelry by 
 night. 
 
 Several persons [they seemed dozens, in their liveliness] 
 were singing and shouting to piano music, in the midst of 
 a general redness and brightness of furnishings red paper 
 and worn red carpet and a high ceiling with circular mold 
 ings tinted in pink. Hand-painted pictures of old mills 
 and ladies brooding over salmon sunsets, and an especially 
 hand-painted Christmas scene with snow of inlaid mother- 
 of-pearl, animated the walls. On a golden-oak center- 
 table was a large lamp with a mosaic shade, and through 
 its mingled bits of green and red and pearl glass stormed 
 the brilliance of a mantle-light. 
 
 1 80 
 
HE ENTERS SOCIETY 
 
 The room was crowded with tufted plush and imitation- 
 leather chairs, side-tables and corner brackets, a couch 
 and a " lady s desk." Green and red and yellow vases 
 adorned with figures of youthful lovers crammed the top 
 of the piano at the farther end of the room and the 
 polished black-marble mantel of the fireplace. The 
 glaring gas raced the hearth-fire for snap and glare and 
 excitement. The profusion of furniture was like a tu 
 mult; the redness and oakness and polishedness of 
 furniture was a dizzying activity; and it was all over 
 whelmingly magnified by the laughter and singing about 
 the piano. 
 
 Tom Poppins lumbered up from a couch of terrifically 
 new and red leather, and Mr. Wrenn was introduced to the 
 five new people in the room with dismaying swiftness. 
 There seemed to be fifty times five unapproachable and 
 magnificent strangers from whom he wanted to flee. 
 Of them all he was sure of only two a Miss Nelly 
 somebody and what sounded like Horatio Hood Tem 
 (Teddem it was). 
 
 He wished that he had caught Miss Nelly s last name 
 (which, at dinner, proved to be Croubel), for he was 
 instantly taken by her sweetness as she smiled, held out 
 a well-shaped hand, and said, "So pleased meet you, 
 Mr. Wrenn." 
 
 She returned to the front of the room and went on 
 talking to a lank spinster about ruchings, but Mr. Wrenn 
 felt that he had known her long and as intimately as it 
 was possible to know so clever a young woman. 
 
 Nelly Croubel gave him the impression of a delicate 
 prettiness, a superior sort of prettiness, like that of the 
 daughter of the Big White House on the Hill, the Squire s 
 house, at Parthenon; though Nelly was not unusually 
 pretty. Indeed, her mouth was too large, her hair of 
 somewhat ordinary brown. But her face was always 
 changing with emotions of kindliness and life. Her skin 
 was perfect; her features fine, rather Greek; her smile, 
 13 181 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 quick yet sensitive. She was several inches shorter 
 than Mr. Wrenn, and all curves. Her blouse of white 
 silk lay tenderly along the adorably smooth softness of 
 her young shoulders. A smart patent-leather belt en 
 circled her sleek waist. Thin black lisle stockings showed 
 a modestly arched and rather small foot in a black pump. 
 
 She looked as though she were trained for business; 
 awake, self-reliant, self-respecting, expecting to have to 
 get things done, all done, yet she seemed indestructibly 
 gentle, indestructibly good and believing, and just a bit 
 shy. 
 
 Nelly Croubel was twenty-four or twenty-five in years, 
 older in business, and far younger in love. She was born 
 in Upton s Grove, Pennsylvania. There, for eighteen 
 years, she had played Skip to Malue at parties, hid away 
 the notes with which the boys invited her to picnics at 
 Baptist Beach, read much Walter Scott, and occasionally 
 taught Sunday-school. Her parents died when she was 
 beginning her fourth year in high school, and she came 
 to New York to work in Wanamacy s toy department at 
 six dollars a week during the holiday rush. Her patience 
 with fussy old shoppers and her large sales-totals had 
 gained her a permanent place in the store. 
 
 She had loftily climbed to the position of second 
 assistant buyer in the lingerie department, at fourteen 
 dollars and eighty cents a week That was quite all of her 
 history except that she attended a Presbyterian church 
 nearly every Sunday. The only person she hated was 
 Horatio Hood Teddem, the cheap actor who was playing 
 the piano at Mr. Wrenn s entrance. 
 
 Just now Horatio was playing ragtime with amazing 
 rapidity, stamping his foot and turning his head to smirk 
 at the others. 
 
 Mrs. Arty led her chattering flock to the basement 
 dining-room, which had pink wall-paper and a mountain 
 ous sideboard. Mr. Wrenn was placed between Mrs. 
 Arty and Nelly Croubel. Out of the mist of strangeness 
 
 182 
 
HE ENTERS SOCIETY 
 
 presently emerged the personality of Miss Mary Proud- 
 foot, a lively but religious spinster of forty who made 
 doilies for the Dorcas Women s Exchange and had two hun 
 dred dollars a year family income. To the right of the red- 
 glass pickle-dish were the elderly Ebbitts Samuel Ebbitt, 
 Esq., also Mrs. Ebbitt. Mr. Ebbitt had come from 
 Hartford five years before, but he always seemed just to 
 have come from there. He was in a real-estate office; 
 he was gray, ill-tempered, impatiently honest, and ad 
 dicted to rheumatism and the newspapers. Mrs. Ebbitt 
 was addicted only to Mr. Ebbitt. 
 
 Across the table was felt the presence of James T. 
 Duncan, who looked like a dignified red-mustached 
 Sunday-school superintendent, but who traveled for a 
 cloak and suit house, gambled heavily on poker and 
 auction pinochle, and was esteemed for his straight back 
 and knowledge of trains. 
 
 Which is all of them. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. Arty had guided Annie, the bashful 
 maid, in serving the vegetable soup, and had coaxed her 
 into bringing Mr. Wrenn a napkin, she took charge 
 of the conversation, a luxury which she would never have 
 intrusted to her flock s amateurish efforts. Mr. Poppins, 
 said she, had spoken of meeting a friend of Mr. Wrenn s; 
 Mr. Morton, was it not? A very nice man, she under 
 stood. Was it true that Mr. Wrenn and Mr. Morton had 
 gone clear across the Atlantic on a cattle-boat? It 
 really was ? 
 
 "Oh, how interesting!" contributed pretty Nelly Crou- 
 bel, beside Mr. Wrenn, her young eyes filled with an 
 admiration which caused him palpitation and difficulty 
 in swallowing his soup. He was confused by hearing old 
 Samuel Ebbitt state: 
 
 "Uh-h-h-h back in 18 uh 1872 the vessel Prissie 
 no, it was 1873; no > it must have been 72 
 
 "It was 1872, father," said Mrs. Ebbitt. 
 
 "1873. I was on a coasting- vessel, young man. But 
 
 183 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 we didn t carry cattle." Mr. Ebbitt inspected Horatio 
 Hood Teddem darkly, clicked his spectacle case sharply 
 shut, and fell to eating, as though he had settled all this 
 nonsense. 
 
 With occasional witty interruptions from the actor, Mr. 
 Wrenn told of pitching hay, of the wit of Morton, and the 
 wickedness of Satan, the boss. 
 
 "But you haven t told us about the brave things you 
 did," cooed Mrs. Arty. She appealed to Nelly Croubel: 
 "I ll bet he was a cool one. Don t you think he was, 
 Nelly?" 
 
 "I m sure he was." Nelly s voice was like a flute. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn knew that there was just one thing in the 
 world that he wanted to do; to persuade Miss Nelly 
 Croubel that (though he was a solid business man, indeed 
 yes, and honorable) he was a cool one, who had chosen, 
 in wandering o er this world so wide, the most perilous 
 and cattle-boaty places. He tried to think of something 
 modest yet striking to say, while Tom was arguing with 
 Miss Mary Proudfoot, the respectable spinster, about the 
 ethics of giving away street-car transfers. 
 
 As they finished their floating custard Mr. Wrenn 
 achieved, "Do you come from New York, Miss Croubel?" 
 and listened to the tale of sleighing-parties in Upton s 
 Grove, Pennsylvania. He was absolutely happy. 
 
 "This is like getting home," he thought. "And they re 
 classy folks to get home to now that I can tell em apart. 
 Gee! Miss Croubel is a peach. And brains golly!" 
 
 He had a frightened hope that after dinner he would 
 be able to get into a corner and talk with Nelly, but Tom 
 Poppins conferred with Horatio Hood Teddem and called 
 Mr. Wrenn aside. Teddem had been acting with a mov 
 ing-picture company for a week, and had three passes to 
 the celebrated Waldorf Photoplay Theater. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn had bloodthirstily disapproved Horatio 
 Hood s effeminate remarks, such as "Tee heel" and "Oh, 
 you naughty man," but when he heard that this molly- 
 
 184 
 
HE ENTERS SOCIETY 
 
 coddle had shared in the glory of making moving pictures 
 he went proudly forth with him and Tom. He had no 
 chance to speak to Mrs. Arty about taking the room to be 
 vacated. 
 
 He wished that Charley Carpenter or the Zapps could 
 see him sitting right beside an actor who was shown in the 
 pictures miraculously there before them, asking him how 
 they made movies, just as friendly as though they had 
 known each other always. 
 
 He wanted to do something to entertain his friends 
 beyond taking them out for a drink. He invited them 
 down to his room, and they came. 
 
 Teddem was in wonderful form; he mimicked every one 
 they saw so amiably that Tom Poppins knew the actor 
 wanted to borrow money. The party were lovingly hum 
 ming the popular song of the time "Any Little Girl 
 That s a Nice Little Girl is the Right Little Girl for Me" 
 as they frisked up the gloomy steps of the Zapps. Enter 
 ing, Poppins and Teddem struck attitudes on the inside 
 stairs and sang aloud. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn felt enormously conscious of Mrs. Zapp 
 down below. He kept listening, as he led them up-stairs 
 and lighted the gas. But Teddem so imitated Colonel 
 Roosevelt, with two water-glasses for eye-glasses and a 
 small hat-brush for mustache, that Mr. Wrenn was moved 
 wrigglingly to exclaim: "Say, I m going out and get some 
 beer. Or d you rather have something else? Some 
 cheese sandwiches? How about em?" 
 
 "Fine," said Tom and Teddem together. 
 
 Not only did Mr. Wrenn buy a large newspaper- 
 covered bundle of bottles of beer and Swiss-cheese sand 
 wiches, but also a small can of caviar and salty crackers. 
 In his room he spread a clean towel, then two clean 
 towels, on the bureau, and arrayed the feast, with two 
 water-glasses and a shaving-mug for cups. 
 
 Horatio Hood Teddem, spreading caviar on a sandwich, 
 and loudly singing his masterpiece, "Waal I swan," 
 
 185 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 stopped short and fixed amazed eyes on the door of the 
 room. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn hastily turned. The light fell as on a 
 cliff of crumbly gray rock on Mrs. Zapp, in the open 
 door, vast in her ungirdled gray wrapper, her arms folded, 
 glowering speechlessly. 
 
 "Mist* Wrenn," she began, in a high voice that prom 
 ised to burst into passion. 
 
 But she was addressing the formidable adventurer, 
 Bill Wrenn. He had to protect his friends. He sprang 
 up and walked across to her. 
 
 He said, quietly, "I didn t hear you knock, Mrs. Zapp." 
 
 "Ah didn t knock, and Ah want you should 
 
 "Then please do knock, unless you want me to give 
 notice." 
 
 He was quivering. His voice was shrill. 
 
 From the hall below Theresa called up, "Ma, come 
 down here. Ma /" 
 
 But Mrs. Zapp was too well started. "If you think 
 Ah m going to stand for a lazy sneaking little drunkard 
 keeping the whole street awake, and here it is prett* 
 nearly midnight 
 
 Just then Mr. William Wrenn saw and heard the most 
 astounding thing of his life, and became an eternal slave to 
 Tom Poppins. 
 
 Tom s broad face became hard, his voice businesslike. 
 He shouted at Mrs. Zapp: 
 
 "Beat it or I ll run you in. Trouble with you is, you 
 old hag, you don t appreciate a nice quiet little chap like 
 Wrenn, and you try to bully him and him here for years. 
 Get out or I ll put you out. I m no lamb, and I won t 
 stand for any of your monkey-shines. Get out. This 
 ain t your room; he s rented it he s paid the rent it s 
 his room. Get out!" 
 
 Kindly Tom Poppins worked in a cigar-store and was 
 accustomed to talk back to drunken men six feet tall. 
 His voice was tremendous, and he was fatly immovable; 
 
 186 
 
HE ENTERS SOCIETY 
 
 he didn t a bit mind the fact that Mrs. Zapp was still 
 "glaring speechless/ 
 
 But behold an ally to the forlorn lady. When Theresa, 
 in the hall below, heard Tom, she knew that Mr. Wrenn 
 would room here no more. She galloped up-stairs and 
 screeched over her mother s shoulder: 
 
 "You will pick on a lady, will you, you drunken scum 
 
 you you cads I ll have you arrested so quick 
 
 you 
 
 "Look here, lady," said Tom, gently. "I m a plain- 
 clothes man, a detective." His large voice purred like a 
 tiger-tabby s. "I don t want to run you in, but I will if 
 you don t get out of here and shut that door. Or you 
 might go down and call the cop on this block. He ll run 
 you in for breaking Code 2762 of the Penal Law! 
 Trespass and flotsam that s what it is!" 
 
 Uneasy, frightened, then horrified, Mrs. Zapp swung 
 bulkily about and slammed the door. 
 
 Sick, guilty, banished from home though he felt, Mr. 
 Wrenn s voice quavered, with an attempt at dignity: 
 
 "I m awful sorry she butted in while you fellows was 
 here. I don t know how to apologize 
 
 "Forget it, old man," rolled out Tom s bass. "Come 
 on, let s go up to Mrs. Arty s." 
 
 "But, gee! it s nearly a quarter to eleven." 
 
 "That s all right. We can get up there by a little 
 after, and Mrs. Arty stays up playing cards till after 
 twelve." 
 
 "Golly!" Mr. Wrenn agitatedly ejaculated under his 
 breath, as they noisily entered Mrs. Arty s though not 
 noisily on his part. 
 
 The parlor door was open. Mrs. Arty s broad back was 
 toward them, and she was announcing to James T. Dun 
 can and Miss Proudfoot, with whom she was playing three- 
 handed Five Hundred, "Well, I ll just bid seven on 
 hearts if you re going to get so set up." She glanced back, 
 
 187 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 nodded, said, "Come in, children," picked up the "widow," 
 and discarded with quick twitches of the cards. The fright 
 ened Mr. Wrenn, feeling like a shipwrecked land-lubber, 
 compared this gaming smoking woman unfavorably with 
 the intense respectability of his dear lost patron, Mrs. 
 Zapp. He sat uneasy till the hand of cards was finished, 
 feeling as though they were only tolerating him. And 
 Nelly Croubel was nowhere in sight. 
 
 Suddenly said Mrs. Arty, "And now you would like to 
 look at that room, Mr. Wrenn, unless I m wrong." 
 
 "Why uh yes, I guess I would like to." 
 
 "Come with me, child," she said, in pretended seventy. 
 "Tom, you take my hand in the game, and don t let me 
 hear you ve been bidding ten on no suit without the 
 joker." She led Mr. Wrenn to the settee hat-rack in the 
 hall. "The third-floor-back will be vacant in two weeks, 
 Mr. Wrenn. We can go up and look at it now if you d 
 like to. The man who has it now works nights he s 
 some kind of a head waiter at Rector s, or something like 
 that, and he s out till three or four. Come." 
 
 When he saw that third-floor-back, the room that the 
 smart people at Mrs. Arty s were really willing to let him 
 have, he felt like a man just engaged. It was all in soft 
 green grass-green matting, pale-green walls, chairs of 
 white wicker with green cushions; the bed, a couch with 
 a denim cover and four sofa pillows. It gave him the im 
 pression of being a guest on Fifth Avenue. 
 
 "It s kind of a plain room," Mrs. Arty said, doubtfully. 
 "The furniture is kind of plain. But my head-waiter 
 man it was furnished for a friend of his he says he 
 likes it better than any other room in the house. It is 
 comfortable, and you get lots of sunlight and 
 
 "I ll take How much is it, please, with board?" 
 
 She spoke with a take-it-or-leave-it defiance. "Eleven- 
 fifty a week." 
 
 It was a terrible extravagance; much like marrying a 
 sick woman on a salary of ten a week, he reflected; nine- 
 
 188 
 
HE ENTERS SOCIETY 
 
 teen minus eleven-fifty left him only seven-fifty for clothes 
 and savings and things and but "I ll take it," he 
 said, hastily. He was frightened at himself, but glad, 
 very glad. He was to live in this heaven; he was going to 
 
 be away from that Zapp woman; and Nelly Croubel 
 
 Was she engaged to some man? he wondered. 
 
 Mrs. Arty was saying: "First, I want to ask you some 
 questions, though. Please sit down." As she creaked 
 into one of the wicker chairs she suddenly changed from 
 the cigarette-rolling chaffing card-player to a woman 
 dignified, reserved, commanding. "Mr. Wrenn, you see, 
 Miss Proudfoot and Miss Croubel are on this floor. Miss 
 Proudfoot can take care of herself, all right, but Nelly is 
 
 such a trusting little thing She s like my daughter. 
 
 She s the only one I ve ever given a reduced rate to and 
 I swore I never would to anybody! . . . Do you uh 
 drink drink much, I mean?" 
 
 Nelly on this floor! Near him! Now! He had to 
 have this room. He forced himself to speak directly. 
 
 "I know how you mean, Mrs. Ferrard. No, I don t 
 drink much of any hardly at all; just a glass of beer 
 now and then; sometimes I don t even touch that a week 
 at a time. And I don t gamble and and I do try to 
 keep er straight and all that sort of thing." 
 
 "That s good." 
 
 "I work for the Souvenir and Art Novelty Company 
 on Twenty-eighth Street. If you want to call them up I 
 guess the manager 11 give me a pretty good recommend." 
 
 "I don t believe I ll need it, Mr. Wrenn. It s my 
 business to find out w r hat sort of animiles men are by just 
 talking to them." She rose, smiled, plumped out her 
 hand. "You will be nice to Nelly, wont you! I m going 
 to fire that Teddem out don t tell him, but I am be 
 cause he gets too fresh with her." 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 She suddenly broke into laughter, and ejaculated: 
 "Say, that was hard work! Don t you hate to have to be 
 
 189 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 serious? Let s trot down, and I ll make Tom or Duncan 
 rush us a growler of beer to welcome you to our midst. . . . 
 I ll bet your socks aren t darned properly. I m going to 
 sneak in and take a look at them, once I get you caged up 
 here. . . . But I won t read your love-letters! Now let s 
 go down by the fire, where it s comfy." 
 
XV 
 
 HE STUDIES FIVE HUNDRED, SAVOIR FAIRE, AND LOTSA- 
 SNAP OFFICE MOTTOES 
 
 ON a couch of glossy red leather with glossy black 
 buttons and stiff fringes also of glossy red leather, 
 Mr. William Wrenn sat upright and was very confiding 
 to Miss Nelly Croubel, who was curled among the satin 
 pillows with her skirts drawn carefully about her ankles. 
 He had been at Mrs. Arty s for two weeks now. He wore 
 a new light-blue tie, and his trousers were pressed like 
 sheet steel. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose you re engaged to some one, Miss 
 Nelly, and you ll go off and leave us go off to that blamed 
 Upton s Grove or some place." 
 
 "I am not engaged. I ve told you so. Who would 
 want to marry me? You stop teasing me you re mean 
 as can be; I ll just have to get Tom to protect me!" 
 
 "Course you re engaged." 
 
 "Ain t." 
 
 "Are." 
 
 "Ain t. Who would want to marry poor little me?" 
 
 "Why, anybody, of course." 
 
 "You stop teasing me. . . . Besides, probably you re in 
 love with twenty girls." 
 
 "I am not. Why, I ve never hardly known but just 
 two girls in my life. One was just a girl I went to theaters 
 with once or twice she was the daughter of the land 
 lady I used to have before I came here." 
 
 "If you don t make love to the .landlady s daughter 
 You won t get a second piece of pie!" 
 
 quoted Nelly, out of the treasure-house of literature. 
 
 191 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Sure. That s it. But I bet you " 
 
 " Who was the other girl ?" 
 
 "Oh! She. . . . She was a an artist. I liked her a 
 
 lot. But she was oh, awful highbrow. Gee! if 
 
 But- 
 
 A sympathetic silence, which Nelly broke with: 
 
 "Yes, they re funny people. Artists. . . . Do you 
 have your lesson in Five Hundred to-night? Your very 
 first one?" 
 
 "I think so. Say, is it much like this here bridge- 
 whist? Oh say, Miss Nelly, why do they call it Five 
 Hundred?" 
 
 "That s what you have to make to go out. No, I 
 guess it isn t very much like bridge; though, to tell the 
 truth, I haven t ever played bridge. My! it must be a 
 nice game, though." 
 
 "Oh, I thought prob ly you could play it. You can do 
 most everything. Honest, I ve never seen nothing like 
 it." 
 
 "Now you stop, Mr. Wrenn. I know I m a what 
 was it Mr. Teddem used to call me? A minx. But " 
 
 "Miss Nelly! You arent a minx !" 
 
 "Well- 
 
 "Or a mink, either. You re a let s see an antelope." 
 
 "I am not! Even if I can wriggle my nose like a 
 rabbit. Besides, it sounds like a muskmelon. But, any 
 way, the head buyer said I was crazy to-day." 
 
 "If I heard him say you were crazy 
 
 "Would you beat him for me?" She cuddled a cushion 
 and smiled gratefully. Her big eyes seemed to fill with 
 light. 
 
 He caught himself wanting to kiss the softness of her 
 shoulder, but he said only, "Well, I ain t much of a 
 scrapper, but I d try to make it interesting for him." 
 
 "Tell me, did you ever have a fight? When you were a 
 boy? Were you such a bad boy?" 
 
 "I never did when I was a boy, but well I did have a 
 
 192 
 
HE STUDIES FIVE HUNDRED 
 
 <:ouple of fights when I was on the cattle-boat and in 
 England. Neither of them amounted to very much, 
 though, I guess. I was scared stiff!" 
 
 "Don t believe it!" 
 
 "Sure I was." 
 
 "I don t believe you d be scared. You re too earnest." 
 
 "Me, Miss Nelly? Why, I m a regular cut-up." 
 
 "You stop making fun of yourself! I like it when 
 you re earnest like when you saw that beautiful snow 
 fall last night. . . . Oh dear, isn t it hard to have to miss 
 so many beautiful things here in the city there s just the 
 parks, and even there there aren t any birds, real wild 
 birds, like we used to have in Pennsylvania." 
 
 "Yes, isn t it! Isn t it hard!" Mr. Wrenn drew 
 nearer and looked sympathy. 
 
 "I m afraid I m getting gushy. Miss Hartenstein 
 she s in my department she d laugh at me. . . . But I do 
 love birds and squirrels and pussy-willows and all those 
 things. In summer I love to go on picnics on Staten 
 Island or tramp in Van Cortlandt Park." 
 
 "Would you go on a picnic with me some day next 
 spring?" Hastily, "I mean with Miss Proudfoot and 
 Mrs. Arty and me?" 
 
 "I should be pleased to." She was prim but trusting 
 about it. "Oh, listen, Mr. Wrenn; did you ever tramp 
 along the Palisades as far as Englewood? It s lovely 
 there the woods and the river and all those funny little 
 tugs puffing along, way way down below you why, I 
 could lie on the rocks up there and just dream and dream 
 for hours. After I ve spent Sunday up there" she was 
 dreaming now, he saw, and his heart was passionately 
 tender toward her "I don t hardly mind a bit having to 
 go back to the store Monday morning. . . . You ve been up 
 along there, haven t you?" 
 
 "Me? Why, I guess I m the guy that discovered the 
 Palisades! . . . Yes, it is won-derful up there!" 
 
 "Oh, you are, are you? I read about that in American 
 
 193 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 history! . . . But honestly, Mr. Wrenn, I do believe you 
 care for tramps and things not like that Teddem or Mr. 
 Duncan they always want to just stay in town or 
 even Tom, though he s an old dear." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn looked jealous, with a small hot jealousy. 
 She hastened on with: "Of course, I mean he s just like a 
 big brother. To all of us." 
 
 It was sweet to both of them, to her to declare and to 
 him to hear, that neither Tom nor any other possessed her 
 heart. Their shy glances were like an outreach of ten 
 derly touching hands as she confided, "Mrs. Arty and he 
 get up picnics, and when we re out on the Palisades he 
 says to me you know, sometimes he almost makes me 
 think he is sleepy, though I do believe he just sneaks off 
 under a tree and talks to Mrs. Arty or reads a magazine 
 but I was saying: he always says to me, Well, sister, I 
 suppose you want to mousey round and dream by your 
 self you won t talk to a growly old bear like me. Well, 
 I m glad of it. I want to sleep. I don t want to be 
 bothered by you and your everlasting chatter. Get out! 
 I b lieve he just says that cause he knows I wouldn t 
 vvant to run off by myself if they didn t think it was 
 proper." 
 
 As he heard her lively effort to imitate Tom s bass- 
 Mr. Wrenn laughed and pounded his knee and agreed: 
 "Yes, Tom s an awfully fine fellow, isn t he! ... I love to 
 get out some place by myself, too. I like to wander 
 round places and make up the doggondest fool little 
 etories to myself about them; just as bad as a kiddy, 
 that way." 
 
 "And you read such an awful lot, Mr. Wrenn! My! 
 Oh, tell me, have you ever read anything by Harold Bell 
 Wright or Myrtle Reed, Mr. Wrenn? They write such 
 Sweet stories." 
 
 He had not, but he expressed an unconquerable resolve 
 so to do, and with immediateness. She went on: 
 
 "Mrs. Arty told me you had a real big library nearly 
 
 194 
 
HE STUDIES FIVE HUNDRED 
 
 a hundred books and Do you mind ? I went in your 
 room and peeked at them." 
 
 "No, course I don t mind ! If there s any of them you d 
 like to borrow any time, Miss Nelly, I would be awful 
 glad to lend them to you. . . . But, rats! Why, I haven t 
 got hardly any books." 
 
 "That s why you haven t wasted any time learning 
 Five Hundred and things, isn t it? Because you ve been 
 so busy reading and so on?" 
 
 "Yes, kind of." Mr. Wrenn looked modest. 
 
 "Haven t you always been lots of oh, haven t you 
 always magined lots ?" 
 
 She really seemed to care. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn felt excitedly sure of that, and imparted: 
 "Yes, I guess I have. . . . And I ve always wanted to 
 travel a lot." 
 
 "So have I! Isn t it wonderful to go around and see 
 new places!" 
 
 "Yes, isn t it!" he breathed. "It was great to be in 
 England though the people there are kind of chilly some 
 ways. Even when I m on a wharf here in New York I 
 feel just like I was off in China or somewheres. I d like to 
 see China. And India. . . . Gee! when I hear the waves 
 down at Coney Island or some place you know how the 
 waves sound when they come in. Well, sometimes I 
 almost feel like they was talking to a guy you know 
 telling about ships. And, oh say, you know the white- 
 caps aren t they just like the waves was motioning at 
 you they want you to come and beat it with you over 
 to China and places." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Wrenn, you re a regular poet!" 
 
 He looked doubtful. 
 
 "Honest; I m not teasing you; you are a poet. And 
 
 I think it s fine that Mr. Teddem was saying that 
 
 nobody could be a poet or like that unless they drank 
 an awful lot and uh oh, not be honest and be on a job. 
 But you aren t like that. Are your" 
 
 195 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 He looked self-conscious and mumbled, earnestly, "Well, 
 I try not to be." 
 
 "But I am going to make you go to church. You ll be 
 a socialist or something like that if you get to be too much 
 of a poet and don t 
 
 "Miss Nelly, please may I go to church with you?" 
 
 "Why- 
 
 "Next Sunday?" 
 
 "Why, yes, I should be pleased. Are you a Presby 
 terian, though?" 
 
 "Why uh I guess I m kind of a Congregationalist; 
 but still, they re all so much alike." 
 
 "Yes, they really are. And besides, what does it 
 matter if we all believe the same and try to do right; 
 and sometimes that s hard, when you re poor, and it 
 seems like like 
 
 "Seems like what?" Mr. Wrenn insisted. 
 
 "Oh nothing. . . . My, you ll have to get up awful 
 early Sunday morning if you d like to go with me. My 
 church starts at ten-thirty." 
 
 "Oh, I d get up at five to go with you." 
 
 "Stupid! Now you re just trying to jolly me; you are; 
 because you men aren t as fond of church as all that, I 
 know you aren t. You re real lazy Sunday mornings, and 
 just want to sit around and read the papers and leave the 
 
 poor women But please tell me some more about 
 
 your reading and all that." 
 
 "Well, I ll be all ready to go at nine-thirty. ... I don t 
 know; why, I haven t done much reading. But I would 
 like to travel and Say, wouldn t it be great to I 
 suppose I m sort of a kid about it; of course, a guy has to 
 tend right to business, but it would be great Say a 
 man was in Europe with with a friend, and they both 
 knew a lot of history -say, they both knew a lot about 
 Guy Fawkes (he was the guy that tried to blow up the 
 English Parliament), and then when they were there in 
 London they could almost think they saw him, and they 
 
 196 
 
HE STUDIES FIVE HUNDRED 
 
 could go round together and look at Shelley s window- 
 he was a poet at Oxford Oh, it would be great with a 
 with a friend." 
 
 "Yes, wouldn t it? ... I wanted to work in the book 
 department one time. It s so nice your being 
 
 "Ready for Five Hundred?" bellowed Tom Poppins 
 in the hall below. "Ready partner you, Wrenn?" 
 
 Tom was to initiate Mr. Wrenn into the game, playing 
 with him against Mrs. Arty and Miss Mary Proudfoot. 
 
 Mrs. Arty sounded the occasion s pitch of high merri 
 ment by delivering from the doorway the sacred old 
 saying, "Well, the ladies against the men, eh?" 
 
 A general grunt that might be spelled "Hmmmmhm" 
 assented. 
 
 "I m a good suffragette," she added. "Watch us squat 
 the men, Mary." 
 
 "Like to smash windows? Let s see it s red fours, 
 black fives up?" remarked Tom, as he prepared the pack 
 of cards for playing. 
 
 "Yes, I would! It makes me so tired," asseverated 
 Mrs. Arty, "to think of the old goats that men put up for 
 candidates when they know they re solemn old fools! 
 I d just like to get out and vote my head off." 
 
 "Well, I think the woman s place is in the home," 
 sniffed Miss Proudfoot, decisively, tucking away a doily 
 she was finishing for the Women s Exchange and jabbing 
 at her bangs. 
 
 They settled themselves about the glowing, glancing, 
 glittering, golden-oak center-table. Miss Proudfoot shuf 
 fled sternly. Mr. Wrenn sat still and frightened, like a 
 shipwrecked professor on a raft with two gamblers and a 
 press-agent, though Nelly was smiling encouragingly at 
 him from the couch where she had started her embroidery 
 a large Christmas lamp mat for the wife of the Presby 
 terian pastor at Upton s Grove. 
 
 "Don t you wish your little friend Horatio Hood 
 Teddem was here to play with you?" remarked Tom. 
 14 197 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "I do not," declared Mrs. Arty. "Still, there was one 
 thing about Horatio. I never had to look up his account 
 to find out how much he owed me. He stopped calling 
 me * Little Buttercup when he owed me ten dollars, and 
 he even stopped slamming the front door when he got up 
 to twenty. O Mr. Wrenn, did I ever tell you about the 
 time I asked him if he wanted to have Annie sweep " 
 
 "Gerty!" protested Miss Proudfoot, while Nelly, on the 
 couch, ejaculated mechanically, "That story!" but Mrs. 
 Arty chuckled fatly, and continued: 
 
 "I asked him if he wanted me to have Annie sweep his 
 nightshirt when she swept his room. He changed it next 
 day." 
 
 "Your bid, Mr. Poppins," said Miss Proudfoot, severely. 
 
 "First, I want to tell Wrenn how to play. You see, 
 Wrenn, here s the schedule. We play Avondale Schedule, 
 you know." 
 
 "Oh yes," said Mr. Wrenn, timorously. ... He had 
 once heard of Carbondale in New Jersey or Pennsyl 
 vania or somewhere but that didn t seem to help much. 
 
 "Well, you see, you either make or go back," con 
 tinued Tom. "Plus and minus, you know. Joker is 
 high, then right bower, left, and ace. Then uh let s 
 see; high bid takes the cat widdie, you know and 
 discards. Ten tricks. Follow suit like whist, of course. 
 I guess that s all that ought to give you the hang of it, 
 anyway. I bid six on no trump." 
 
 As Tom Poppins finished these instructions, given in the 
 card-player s rapid don t-ask-me-any-more-fool-questions 
 manner, Mr. Wrenn felt that he was choking. He craned 
 up his neck, trying to ease his stiff collar. So, then, he was 
 a failure, a social outcast already. 
 
 So, then, he couldn t learn Five Hundred! And he had 
 been very proud of knowing one card from another per 
 fectly, having played a number of games of two-handed 
 poker with Tim on the cattle-boat. But what the dick 
 ens did "left cat follow suit" mean? 
 
 198 
 
HE STUDIES FIVE HUNDRED 
 
 And to fail with Nelly watching him! He pulled at his 
 collar again. 
 
 Thus he reflected while Mrs. Arty and Tom were carry 
 ing on the following brilliant but cryptic society-dialogue: 
 
 Mrs. Arty: Well, I don t know. 
 
 Tom: Not failure, but low bid is crime, little one. 
 
 Mrs. Arty: Mary, shall I make 
 
 Tom: Hey! No talking cross table! 
 
 Mrs. Arty: Um let me see. 
 
 Tom: Bid up, bid up! Bid a little seven on hearts? 
 
 Mrs. Arty: Just for that \will bid seven on hearts, smarty! 
 
 Tom: Oh, how we will squat you! What you bidding, 
 Wrenn ? 
 
 Behind Mr. Wrenn, Nelly Croubel whispered to him: 
 "Bid seven on no suit. You ve got the joker." Her 
 delicate forefinger, its nail shining, was pointing at a 
 curious card in his hand. 
 
 "Seven nosut," he mumbled. 
 
 "Eight hearts," snapped Miss Proudfoot. 
 
 Nelly drew up a chair behind Mr. Wrenn s. He 
 listened to her soft explanations with the desperate respect 
 and affection which a green subaltern would give to a 
 general in battle. 
 
 Tom and he won the hand. He glanced back at Nelly 
 with awe, then clutched his new hand, fearfully, dizzily, 
 staring at it as though it might conceal one of those 
 malevolent deceivers of which Nelly had just warned him 
 a left bower. 
 
 "Good! Spades see," said Nelly. 
 
 Fifteen minutes later Mr. Wrenn felt that Tom was 
 hoping he would lead a club. He played one, and the 
 whole table said: "That s right. Fine!" 
 
 On his shoulder he felt a light tap, and he blushed like 
 a sunset as he peeped back at Nelly. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn, the society light, was Our Mr. Wrenn of 
 the Souvenir Company all this time. Indeed, at present 
 
 199 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 he intended to keep on taking The Job seriously until 
 that most mistily distant time, which we all await, "when 
 something turns up." His fondling of the Southern 
 merchants was showing such results that he had grown 
 from an interest in whatever papers were on his desk to a 
 belief in the divine necessity of The Job as a whole. Not 
 now, as of old, did he keep the personal letters in his desk 
 tied up, ready for a sudden departure for Vienna or 
 Kamchatka. Also, he wished to earn much more money 
 for his new career of luxury. Mr. Guilfogle had assured 
 him that there might be chances ahead business had 
 been prospering, two new road salesmen and a city- 
 trade man had been added to the staff, and whereas 
 the firm had formerly been jobbers only, buying their 
 novelties from manufacturers, now they were having 
 printed for them their own Lotsa - Snap Cardboard 
 Office Mottoes, which were making a big hit with the 
 trade. 
 
 Through his friend Rabin, the salesman, Mr. Wrenn got 
 better acquainted with two great men Mr. L. J. Glover, 
 the purchasing agent of the Souvenir Company, and John 
 Hensen, the newly engaged head of motto manufacturing. 
 He "wanted to get onto all the different lines of the 
 business so s he could step right in anywhere"; and from 
 these men he learned the valuable secrets of business 
 wherewith the marts of trade build up prosperity for all of 
 us: how to seat a selling agent facing the light, so you 
 can see his face better than he can see yours. How much 
 ahead of time to telephone the motto-printer that "we ve 
 simply got to have proof this afternoon; what s the 
 matter with you, down there? Don t you want our 
 business any more?" He also learned something of the 
 various kinds of cardboard and ink-well glass, though 
 these, of course, were merely matters of knowledge, not of 
 brilliant business tactics, and far less important than 
 what Tom Poppins and Rabin called "handing out a 
 snappy line of talk." 
 
 200 
 
HE STUDIES FIVE HUNDRED 
 
 "Say, you re getting quite chummy lately reg lar 
 society leader," Rabin informed him. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn s answer was in itself a proof of the sound 
 ness of Rabin s observation: 
 
 "Sure Fm going to borrow some money from you 
 fellows. Got to make an impression, see?" 
 
 A few hours after this commendation came Istra s 
 second letter: 
 
 Mouse dear, I m so glad to hear about the simpatico boarding- 
 house. Yes indeed I would like to hear about the people in it. 
 And you are reading history? That s good. I m getting sick 
 of Paris and some day I m going to stop an absinthe on the 
 boulevard and slap its face to show I m a sturdy moving-picture 
 Western Amurrican and then leap to saddle and pursue the 
 bandit. I m working like the devil but what s the use. That 
 is I mean unless one is doing the job well, as I m glad you are. 
 My dear, keep it up. You know I want you to be real whatever 
 you are. I didn t mean to preach but you know I hate people 
 who aren t real that s why I haven t much of a flair for myself. 
 
 Au recrire 9 I. N. 
 
 After he had read her letter for the third time he was 
 horribly shocked and regarded himself as a traitor, be 
 cause he found that he was only pretending to be enjoy- 
 ably excited over it. ... It seemed so detached from him 
 self. "Flair" "au recrire" Now, what did those mean? 
 And Istra was always so discontented. "What d she do 
 if she had to be on the job like Nelly? . . . Oh, Istra is 
 wonderful. But gee! I dunno " 
 
 And when he who has valorously loved says "But gee! 
 I dunno " love flees in panic. 
 
 He walked home thoughtfully. 
 
 After dinner he said abruptly to Nelly, "I had a letter 
 from Paris to-day." 
 
 "Honestly? Who is she?" 
 
 "G-g-g-g " 
 
 "Oh, it s always a she." 
 
 "Why uh it is from a girl. I started to tell you about 
 
 201 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 her one day. She s an artist, and once we took a long 
 tramp in the country. I met her she was staying at the 
 same place as I was in London. But oh, gee! I dunno; 
 
 she s so blame literary. She is a fine person Do 
 
 you think you d like a girl like that?" 
 
 "Maybe I would." 
 
 "If she was a man?" 
 
 "Oh, yes-s! Artists are so romantic." 
 
 "But they ain t on the job more n half the time," he 
 said, jealously. 
 
 "Yes, that s so." 
 
 His hand stole secretly, craftily skirting a cushion, to 
 touch hers which she withdrew, laughing: 
 
 "Hump-a! You go hold your artist s hand!" 
 
 "Oh, Miss Nelly! When I told you about her myself!" 
 
 "Oh yes, of course." 
 
 She was contrite, and they played Five Hundred 
 animatedly all evening. 
 
XVI 
 
 HE BECOMES MILDLY RELIGIOUS AND HIGHLY LITERARY 
 
 THE hero of the one-act play at Hammerstein s Victoria 
 vaudeville theater on that December evening was, it 
 appeared, a wealthy young mine-owner in disguise. He 
 was working for the "fake mine promoter" because he 
 loved the promoter s daughter with a love that passed 
 all understanding except that of the girls in the gallery. 
 When the postal authorities were about to arrest the 
 promoter our young hero saved him by giving him a real 
 mine, and the ensuing kiss of the daughter ended the 
 suspense in which Mr. Wrenn and Nelly, Mrs. Arty and 
 Tom had watched the play from the sixth row of the 
 balcony. 
 
 Sighing happily, Nelly cried to the group: "Wasn t 
 that grand? I got so excited! Wasn t that young miner 
 a dear?" 
 
 "Awfully nice," said Mr. Wrenn. "And, gee! wasn t 
 that great, that office scene with that safe and the rest of 
 the stuff just like you was in a real office. But, say, 
 they wouldn t have a copying-press in an office like that; 
 those fake mine promoters send out such swell letters; 
 they d use carbon copies and not muss the letters all up." 
 
 "By gosh, that s right!" and Tom nodded his chin 
 toward his right shoulder in approval. Nelly cried, 
 "That s so; they would"; while Mrs. Arty, not knowing 
 what a copying-press was, appeared highly commenda 
 tory, and said nothing at all. 
 
 During the moving pictures that followed, Mr. Wrenn 
 
 203 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 felt proudly that he was taken seriously, though he had 
 known them but little over a month. He followed up his 
 conversational advantage by leading the chorus in won 
 dering, "which one of them two actors the heroine was 
 married to?" and "how much a week they get for acting 
 in that thing?" It was Tom who invited them to Miggle- 
 ton s for coffee and fried oysters. Mr. Wrenn was silent 
 for a while. But as they were stamping through the 
 rivulets of wheel -tracks that crisscrossed on a slushy 
 street-crossing Mr. Wrenn regained his advantage by 
 crying, "Say, don t you think that play d have been 
 better if the promoter d had an awful grouch on the 
 young miner and d had to crawfish when the miner saved 
 him?" 
 
 "Why, yes; it would!" Nelly glowed at him. 
 
 "Wouldn t wonder if it would," agreed Tom, kicking 
 the December slush off his feet and patting Mr. Wrenn s 
 back. 
 
 "Well, look here," said Mr. Wrenn, as they left Broad 
 way, with its crowds betokening the approach of Christmas, 
 and stamped to the quieter side of Forty-second, "why 
 wouldn t this make a slick play: say there s an awfully 
 rich old guy; say he s a railway president or something, 
 d you see? Well, he s got a secretary there in the office 
 on the stage, see? The scene is his office. Well, this guy s 
 the rich old guy s daughter comes in and says she s 
 married to a poor man and she won t tell his name, but 
 she wants some money from her dad. You see, her dad s 
 been planning for her to marry a marquise or some kind 
 of a lord, and he s sore as can be, and he won t listen to 
 her, and he just cusses her out something fierce, see? 
 Course he doesn t really cuss, but he s awful sore; and she 
 tells him didn t he marry her mother when he was a poor 
 young man; but he won t listen. Then the secretary 
 butts in my idea is he s been kind of keeping in the 
 background, see and he s the daughter s husband all the 
 while, see ? and he tells the old codger how he s got some 
 
 204 
 
HE BECOMES LITERARY 
 
 of his some of the old fellow s papers that give it away 
 how he done something that was crooked some kind of 
 deal rebates and stuff, see how I mean? and the 
 secretary s going to spring this stuff on the newspapers if 
 the old man don t come through and forgive them; so of 
 course the president has to forgive them, see?" 
 
 "You mean the secretary was the daughter s husband 
 all along, and he heard what the president said right 
 there?" Nelly panted, stopping outside Miggleton s, in 
 the light from the oyster-filled window. 
 
 "Yes; and he heard it all." 
 
 "Why, I think that s just a fine idea," declared Nelly, 
 as they entered the restaurant. Though her little manner 
 of dignity and even restraint was evident as ever, she 
 seemed keenly joyous over his genius. 
 
 "Say, that s a corking idea for a play, Wrenn," ex 
 claimed Tom, at their table, gallantly removing the 
 ladies wraps. 
 
 "It surely is," agreed Mrs. Arty. 
 
 "Why don t you write it?" asked Nelly. 
 
 "Aw I couldn t write it!" 
 
 "Why, sure you could, Bill," insisted Tom. "Straight; 
 you ought to write it. (Hey, waiter! Four fries and 
 coffee!) You ought to write it. Why, it s a wonder; 
 
 it d make a dev Scuse me, ladies. It d make a 
 
 howling hit. You might make a lot of money out 
 of it." 
 
 The renewed warmth of their wet feet on the red-tile 
 floor, the scent of fried oysters, the din of "Any Little 
 Girl" on the piano, these added color to this moment of 
 Mr. Wrenn s great resolve. The four stared at one 
 another excitedly. Mr. Wrenn s eyelids fluttered. Tom 
 brought his hand down on the table with a soft flat 
 "plob" and declared: "Say, there might be a lot of 
 money in it. Why, I ve heard that Harry Smith writes 
 the words for these musical comedies makes a mint of 
 money." 
 
 205 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Mr. Poppins ought to help you in it he s seen such a 
 lot of plays," Mrs. Arty anxiously advised. 
 
 "That s a good idea," said Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 It had, apparently, been ordained that he was to write 
 it. They were now settling important details. So when 
 Nelly cried, "I think it s just a fine idea; I knew you had 
 lots of imagination," Tom interrupted her with: 
 
 "No; you write it, Bill. I ll help you all I can, of 
 course. . . . Tell you what you ought to do: get hold of 
 Teddem he s had a lot of stage experience; he d help you 
 about seeing the managers. That d be the hard part 
 you can write it, all right, but you d have to get next to 
 
 the guys on the inside, and Teddem Say, you cer-^ 
 
 tainly ought to write this thing, Bill. Might make a lot 
 of money." 
 
 "Oh, a lot!" breathed Nelly. 
 
 "Heard about a fellow," continued Tom "fellow named 
 Gene Wolf, I think it was that was so broke he was 
 sleeping in Bryant Park, and he made a hundred thousand 
 dollars on his first play or, no; tell you how it was: he 
 sold it outright for ten thousand something like that, 
 anyway. I got that right from a fellow that s met him." 
 
 "Still, an author s got to go to college and stuff" like 
 that." Mr. Wrenn spoke as though he would be pleased 
 to have the objection overruled at once, which it was 
 with a universal: 
 
 "Oh, rats!" 
 
 Crunching oysters in a brown jacket of flour, whose 
 every lump was a crisp delight, hearing his genius lauded 
 and himself called Bill thrice in a quarter-hour, Mr. Wrenn 
 was beatified. He asked the waiter for some paper, and 
 while the four hotly discussed things which "it would 
 be slick to have the president s daughter do " he drew up a 
 list of characters on a sheet of paper he still keeps. It is 
 headed, "Miggleton s Forty-second Street Branch." At 
 the bottom appear numerous scribblings of the name 
 Nelly. 
 
 206 
 
POPULAR PRICES *& MUSIC ^58? BEST SEBVICE 
 
 IN 
 
 JDb** 
 
 JE 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "I think I ll call the heroine Nelly/ " he mused. 
 
 Nelly Croubel blushed. Mrs. Arty and Tom glanced 
 at each other. Mr. Wrenn realized that he had, even at 
 this moment of social triumph, "made a break." 
 
 He said, hastily: "I always liked that name. I I 
 had an aunt named that!" 
 
 "Oh " started Nelly. 
 
 "She was fine to me when I was a kid," Mr. Wrenn 
 added, trying to remember whether it was right to lie 
 when in such need. 
 
 "Oh, it s a horrid name," declared Nelly. "Why 
 don t you call her something nice, like Hazel or oh 
 Dolores." 
 
 "Nope; Nelly s an elegant name an elegant name." 
 
 He walked with Nelly behind the others, along Forty- 
 second Street. To the outsider s eye he was a small 
 respectable clerk, slightly stooped, with a polite mus 
 tache and the dignity that comes from knowing well a 
 narrow world; wearing an overcoat too light for winter; 
 too busily edging out of the way of people and guiding the 
 nice girl beside him into clear spaces by diffidently touch 
 ing her elbow, too pettily busy to cast a glance out of the 
 crowd and spy the passing poet or king, or the iron night 
 sky. He was as undistinguishable a bit of the evening 
 street life as any of the file of street-cars slashing through 
 the wet snow. Yet, he was the chivalrous squire to the 
 greatest lady of all his realm; he was a society author, 
 and a man of great prospective wealth and power over 
 mankind! 
 
 "Say, we ll have the grandest dinner you ever saw if 
 I get away with the play," he was saying. "Will you 
 come, Miss Nelly?" 
 
 "Indeed I will! Oh, you sha n t leave me out! Wasn t 
 I there when 
 
 "Indeed you were! Oh, we ll have a reg Iyr feast at the 
 Astor artichokes and truffles and all sorts of stuff. 
 . . . Would would you like it if I sold the play?" 
 
 208 
 
HE BECOMES LITERARY 
 
 "Course I would, silly!" 
 
 "I d buy the business and make Rabin manager the 
 Souvenir Company." 
 
 So he came to relate all those intimacies of The Job; 
 and he was overwhelmed at the ease with which she "got 
 onto old Goglefogle." 
 
 His preparations for writing the play were elaborate. 
 
 He paced Tom s room till twelve-thirty, consulting as 
 to whether he had to plan the stage-setting; smoking 
 cigarettes in attitudes on chair arms. Next morning in 
 the office he made numerous plans of the setting on 
 waste half-sheets of paper. At noon he was telephoning 
 at Tom regarding the question of whether there ought 
 to be one desk or two on the stage. 
 
 He skipped the evening meal at Mrs. Arty s, dining with 
 literary pensiveness at the Armenian, for he had subtle 
 problems to meditate. He bought a dollar fountain-pen, 
 which had large gold-like bands and a rather scratchy pen- 
 point, and a box of fairly large sheets of paper. Pressing 
 his literary impedimenta tenderly under his arm, he at 
 tended four moving-picture and vaudeville theaters. By 
 eleven he had seen three more one-act plays and a dramatic 
 playlet. 
 
 He slipped by the parlor door at Mrs. Arty s. 
 
 His room was quiet. The lamplight on the delicately 
 green walls was like that of a regular author s den, he was 
 quite sure. He happily tested the fountain-pen by writ 
 ing the names Nelly and William Wrenn on a bit of 
 wrapping-paper (which he guiltily burned in an ash-tray); 
 washed his face with water which he let run for a minute 
 to cool; sat down before his table with a grunt of content; 
 went back and washed his hands; fiercely threw off the 
 bourgeois encumbrances of coat and collar; sat down 
 again; got up to straighten a picture; picked up his 
 pen; laid it down, and glowed as he thought of Nelly, 
 slumbering there, near at hand, her exquisite cheek nestling 
 
 silkenly against her arm, perhaps, and her white dreams 
 
 209 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Suddenly he roared at himself, "Get on the job there, 
 will yuh?" He picked up the pen and wrote: 
 
 THE MILLIONAIRE S DAUGHTER 
 
 A ONE ACT DRAMATIC PLAYLET 
 
 by 
 
 WILLIAM WRENN 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 John Warrington^ a railway president; quite rich. 
 Nelly Warrington, Mr. Warrington s daughter. 
 Reginald Thome, his secretary. 
 
 He was jubilant. His pen whined at top speed, scatter 
 ing a shower of tiny drops of ink. 
 
 Stage Scene: An office. Very expensive. Mr. Warrington and 
 Mr. Thome are sitting there. Miss Warrington comes in. She 
 says: 
 
 He stopped. He thought. He held his head. He 
 went over to the stationary bowl and soaked his hair with 
 water. He lay on the bed and kicked his heels, slowly and 
 gravely smoothing his mustache. Fifty minutes later he 
 gave a portentous groan and went to bed. 
 
 He hadn t been able to think of what Miss Warrington 
 says beyond "I have come to tell you that I am married, 
 papa," and that didn t sound just right; not for a first 
 line it didn t, anyway. 
 
 At dinner next night Saturday Tom was rather in 
 clined to make references to "our author," and to remark: 
 "Well, I know where somebody was last night, but of 
 course I won t tell. Say, them authors are a wild lot." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn, who had permitted the teasing of even 
 Tim, the hatter, "wasn t going to stand for no kidding 
 from nobody not when Nelly was there," and he called 
 for a glass of water with the air of a Harvard assistant 
 
 210 
 
HE BECOMES LITERARY 
 
 professor forced to eat in a lunch-wagon and slapped on 
 the back by the cook. 
 
 Nelly soothed him. "The play is going well, isn t it?" 
 
 When he had, with a detached grandeur of which he 
 was immediately ashamed, vouchsafed that he was 
 already "getting right down to brass tacks on it," that 
 he had already investigated four more plays and begun 
 the actual writing, every one looked awed and asked him 
 assorted questions. 
 
 At nine-thirty that evening he combed and tightly 
 brushed his hair, which he had been pawing angrily for 
 an hour and a half, went down the hall to Nelly s hall 
 bedroom, and knocked with: "It s Mr. Wrenn. May I 
 ask you something about the play?" 
 
 "Just a moment," he heard her say. 
 
 He waited, panting softly, his lips apart. This was to 
 be the first time he had ever seen Nelly s room. She 
 opened the door part way, smiling shyly, timidly, hold 
 ing her pale-blue dressing-gown close. The pale blueness 
 was a modestly brilliant spot against the whiteness of the 
 room white bureau, hung with dance programs and a 
 yellow Upton s Grove High School banner, white tiny 
 rocker, pale-yellow matting, white-and-silver wall-paper, 
 and a glimpse of a white soft bed. 
 
 He was dizzy with the exaltation of that purity, but he 
 got himself to say: 
 
 "I m kind of stuck on the first part of the play, Miss 
 Nelly. Please tell me how you think the heroine would 
 speak to her dad. Would she call him papa or sir/ 
 do you think?" 
 
 "Why let me see " 
 
 "They re such awful high society " 
 
 "Yes, that s so. Why, I should think she d say sir. 
 Maybe oh, what was it I heard in a play at the Academy 
 of Music? Father, I have come back to you! " 
 
 " Sa-a-ay, that s a fine line ! That 11 get the crow r d going 
 right from the first. ... I told you you d help me a lot." 
 
 211 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Fm awfully glad if I have helped you," she said, 
 earnestly; " awfully glad, but Good night and good 
 luck with the play. Good night." 
 
 "Good night. Thank you a lot, Miss Nelly. Church 
 in the morning, remember! Good night." 
 
 "Good night." 
 
 As it is well known that all playwrights labor with toy 
 theaters before them for working models, Mr. Wrenn 
 ran to earth a fine unbroken pasteboard box in which a 
 ninety-eight-cent alarm-clock had recently arrived. He 
 went out for some glue and three small corks. Setting up 
 his box stage, he glued a pill-box and a match-box on the 
 floor the side of the box it had always been till now 
 and there he had the mahogany desks. He thrust three 
 matches into the corks, and behold three graceful actors 
 graceful for corks, at least. There was fascination in 
 having them enter, through holes punched in the back of 
 the box, frisk up to their desks and deliver magic emo 
 tional speeches that would cause any audience to weep; 
 speeches regarding which he knew everything but the 
 words; a detail of which he was still quite ignorant after 
 half an hour of playing with his marionettes. 
 
 Before he went despairingly to bed that Saturday 
 night he had added to his manuscript: 
 
 Mr. Thome says : Here are the papers, sir. As a great railway 
 president you should 
 
 The rest of that was to be filled in later. How the 
 dickens could he let the public know how truly great his 
 president was? 
 
 (Daughter, Miss Nelly, comes in.) 
 
 Miss Nelly: Father, I have come back to you, sir. 
 
 Mr. Harrington: My daughter! 
 
 Nelly: Father, I have something to tell you; something 
 
 Breakfast at Mrs. Arty s was always an inspiration. 
 In contrast to the lonely dingy meal at the Hustler 
 
 212 
 
HE BECOMES LITERARY 
 
 Dairy Lunch of his Zapp days, he sat next to a trimly 
 shirtwaisted Nelly, fresh and enthusiastic after nine hours 
 sleep. So much for ordinary days. But Sunday morn 
 ing that was paradise! The oil-stove glowed and purred 
 like a large tin pussy cat; it toasted their legs into dreamy 
 comfort, while they methodically stuffed themselves with 
 toast and waffles and coffee. Nelly and he always felt 
 gently superior to Tom Poppins, who would be a-sleeping 
 late, as they talked of the joy of not having to go to the 
 office, of approaching Christmas, and of the superiority of 
 Upton s Grove and Parthenon. 
 
 This morning was to be Mr. Wrenn s first attendance 
 at church with Nelly. The previous time they had 
 planned to go, Mr. Wrenn had spent Sunday morning in 
 unreligious fervor at the Chelsea Dental Parlors with a 
 young man in a white jacket instead of at church with 
 Nelly. 
 
 This was also the first time that he had attended a 
 church service in nine years, except for mass at St. 
 Patrick s, which he regarded not as church, but as beauty. 
 He felt tremendously reformed, set upon new paths of 
 virtue and achievement. He thought slightingly of those 
 lonely bachelors, Morton and Mittyford, Ph.D. They 
 just didn t know what it meant to a fellow to be going to 
 church with a girl like Miss Nelly, he reflected, as he re- 
 brushed his hair after breakfast. 
 
 He walked proudly beside her, and made much of the 
 gentility of entering the church, as one of the well-to-do 
 and intensely bathed congregation. He even bowed to 
 an almost painfully washed and brushed young usher 
 with gold-rimmed eye-glasses. He thought scornfully of 
 his salad days, when he had bowed to the Brass-button 
 Man at the Nickelorion. 
 
 The church interior was as comfortable as Sunday- 
 morning toast and marmalade half a block of red carpet 
 in the aisles; shiny solid-oak pews, gorgeous stained-glass 
 windows, and a general polite creaking of ladies best 
 
 15 2I3 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 stays and gentlemen s stiff shirt-bosoms, and an odor of 
 the best cologne and moth-balls. 
 
 It lacked but six days till Christmas. Mr. Wrenn s 
 heart was a little garden, and his eyes were moist, and he 
 peeped tenderly at Nelly as he saw the holly and ivy and 
 the frosted Christmas mottoes, "Peace on Earth, Good 
 Will to Men," and the rest, that brightened the spaces 
 between windows. 
 
 Christmas happy homes laughter. . . . Since, as a boy, 
 he had attended the Christmas festivities of the Old 
 Church Sunday-school at Parthenon, and got highly 
 colored candy in a net bag, his holidays had been cele 
 brated by buying himself plum pudding at lonely Christ 
 mas dinners at large cheap restaurants, where there was 
 no one to wish him "Merry Christmas" except his 
 waiter, whom he would quite probably never see again, 
 nor ever wish to see. 
 
 But this Christmas he surprised himself and Nelly 
 suddenly by hotly thrusting out his hand and touching 
 her sleeve with the searching finger-tips of a child com 
 forted from night fears. 
 
 During the sermon he had an idea. What was it Nelly 
 had told him about "Peter Pan"? Oh yes; somebody 
 in it had said "Do you believe in fairies?" Say, why 
 wouldn t it be great to have the millionaire s daughter 
 say to her father, "Do you believe in love?" 
 
 "Gee, 7 believe in love!" he yearned to himself, as he 
 felt Nelly s arm unconsciously touch his. 
 
 Tom Poppins had Horatio Hood Teddem in that after 
 noon for a hot toddy. Horatio looked very boyish, very 
 confiding, and borrowed five dollars from Mr. Wrenn 
 almost painlessly, so absorbed was Mr. Wrenn in learn 
 ing from Horatio how to sell a play. To know the address 
 of the firm of Wendelbaum & Schirtz, play-brokers, 
 located in a Broadway theater building, seemed next 
 door to knowing a Broadway manager. 
 
 When Horatio had gone Tom presented an idea which 
 
 214 
 
HE BECOMES LITERARY 
 
 he had ponderously conceived during his Sunday noon- 
 hour at the cigar-store. 
 
 "Why not have three of us say me and you and Mrs. 
 Arty talk the play, just like we was acting it?" 
 
 He enthusiastically forced the plan on Mr. Wrenn. He 
 pounded down-stairs and brought up Mrs. Arty. He 
 dashed about the room, shouting directions. He dragged 
 out his bureau for the railroad-president s desk, and a 
 table for the secretary, and, after some consideration and 
 much rubbing of his chin, with two slams and a bang he 
 converted his hard green Morris-chair into an office safe. 
 
 The play was on. Mr. T. Poppins, in the role of the 
 president, entered, with a stern high expression on his face, 
 threw a "Good morning, Thorne," at Wrenn, his secretary, 
 and peeled off his gloves. (Mr. Wrenn noted the gloves; 
 they were a Touch.) 
 
 Mr. Wrenn approached diffidently, his face expression 
 less, lest Mrs. Arty laugh at him. "Here 
 
 "Say, what do you think would be a good way for the 
 secretary to tell the crowd that the other guy is the 
 president? Say, how about this: The vice-president of 
 the railway would like to have you sign these, sir, as 
 president ?" 
 
 "That s fine!" exclaimed Mrs. Arty, whose satin dress 
 was carefully spread over her swelling knees, as she sat in 
 the oak rocker, like a cheerful bronze monument to Sunday 
 propriety. "But don t you think he d say, when it s 
 convenient to you, sir ?" 
 
 "Gee, that s dandy!" 
 
 The play was on. 
 
 It ended at seven. Mr. Wrenn took but fifteen minutes 
 for Sunday supper, and wrote till one of the morning, 
 finishing the first draft of his manuscript. 
 
 Revision was delightful, for it demanded many con 
 ferences with Nelly, sitting at the parlor table, with 
 shoulders confidentially touching. They were the more 
 intimate because Tom had invited Mr. Wrenn, Nelly, and 
 
 215 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Mrs. Arty to the Grand Christmas Eve Ball of the Cigar- 
 Makers Union at Melpomene Hall. Nelly asked of Mr. 
 Wrenn, almost as urgently as of Mrs. Arty, whether she 
 should wear her new white mull or her older rose-colored 
 China silk. 
 
 Two days before Christmas he timidly turned over the 
 play for typing to a haughty public stenographer who 
 looked like Lee Theresa Zapp. She yawned at him when 
 he begged her to be careful of the manuscript. The 
 gloriously pink-bound and red-underlined typed manu 
 script of the play was mailed to Messrs. Wendelbaum & 
 Schirtz, play-brokers, at 6.15 P.M., Christmas Eve. 
 
 The four walked down Sixth Avenue to the Cigar- 
 Makers Ball. They made an Indian file through the 
 Christmas shopping crowds, and stopped frequently and 
 noisily before the street-booths glamour of tinsel and 
 teddy-bears. They shrieked all with one rotund mad 
 laughter as Tom Poppins capered over and bought for 
 seven cents a pink bisque doll, which he pinned to the 
 lapel of his plaid overcoat. They drank hot chocolate 
 at the Olympic Confectionery Store, pretending to each 
 other that they were shivering with cold. 
 
 It was here that Nelly reached up and patted Mr. 
 Wrenn s pale-blue tie into better lines. In her hair was 
 the scent which he had come to identify as hers. Her 
 white furs brushed against his overcoat. 
 
 The cigar-makers, with seven of them in full evening- 
 dress and two in dinner-coats, were already dancing on 
 the waxy floor of Melpomene Hall when they arrived. A 
 full orchestra was pounding and scraping itself into an 
 hysteria of merriment on the platform under the red 
 stucco-fronted balcony, and at the bar behind the balcony 
 there was a spirit of beer and revelry by night. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn embarrassedly passed large groups of pretty 
 girls. He felt very light and insecure in his new gun- 
 metal-finish pumps now that he had taken off his rubbers 
 
 216 
 
HE BECOMES LITERARY 
 
 and essayed the slippery floor. He tried desperately not 
 to use his handkerchief too conspicuously, though he had a 
 cold. 
 
 It was not till the choosing of partners for the next 
 dance, when Tom Poppins stood up beside Nelly, their 
 arms swaying a little, their feet tapping, that Mr. Wrenn 
 quite got the fact that he could not dance. 
 
 He had casually said to the others, a week before, that 
 he knew only the square dances which, as a boy, he had 
 learned at parties at Parthenon. But they had reas 
 sured him: "Oh, come on we ll teach you how to dance 
 at the ball it won t be formal. Besides, we ll give you 
 some lessons before we go." Playwriting and playing 
 Five Hundred had prevented their giving him the lessons. 
 So he now sat terrified as a two-step began and he saw 
 what seemed to be thousands of glittering youths and 
 maidens whirling deftly in a most involved course, 
 getting themselves past each other in a way which he was 
 sure he could never imitate. The orchestra yearned over 
 music as rich and smooth as milk chocolate, which made 
 him intensely lonely for Nelly, though she was only across 
 the room from him. 
 
 Tom Poppins immediately introduced Nelly to a face 
 tious cigar salesman, who introduced her to three of the 
 beaux in evening clothes, while Tom led out Mrs. Arty. 
 Mr. Wrenn, sitting in a row of persons who were not at all 
 interested in his sorrows, glowered out across the hall, and 
 wished, oh! so bitterly, to flee home. Nelly came up, 
 glowing, laughing, with black-mustached and pearl- 
 waistcoated men, and introduced him to them, but he 
 glanced at them disapprovingly; and always she was 
 carried off to dance again. 
 
 She found and hopefully introduced to Mr. Wrenn a 
 wallflower who came from Yonkers and had never heard 
 of Tom Poppins or aeroplanes or Oxford or any other 
 topic upon which Mr. Wrenn uneasily tried to discourse 
 as he watched Nelly waltz and smile up at her partners. 
 
 217 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Presently the two sat silent. The wallflower excused 
 herself and went back to her mama from Yonkers. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn sat sulking, hating his friends for having 
 brought him, hating the sweetness of Nelly Croubel, and 
 saying to himself, "Oh sure she dances with all those 
 other men me, Fm only the poor fool that talks to her 
 when she s tired and tries to cheer her up." 
 
 He did not answer when Tom came and told him a new 
 story he had just heard in the barroom. 
 
 Once Nelly landed beside him and bubblingly insisted 
 on his coming out and trying to learn to dance. He 
 brightened, but shyly remarked, "Oh no, I don t think 
 I d better." Just then the blackest-mustached and pearl- 
 waistcoatedest of all the cigar salesmen came begging for 
 a dance, and she was gone, with only: "Now get up your 
 courage. I m going to make you dance." 
 
 At the intermission he watched her cross the floor with 
 the hateful cigar salesman, slender in her tight crisp new 
 white mull, flourishing her fan and talking with happy 
 rapidity. She sat down beside him. He said nothing; 
 he still stared out across the glassy floor. She peeped at 
 him curiously several times, and made a low tapping 
 with her fan on the side of her chair. 
 
 She sighed a little. Cautiously, but very casually, she 
 said, "Aren t you going to take me out for some refresh 
 ments, Mr. Wrenn?" 
 
 "Oh sure I m good enough to buy refreshments for 
 her!" he said to himself. 
 
 Poor Mr. Wrenn; he had not gone to enough parties in 
 Parthenon, and he hadn t gone to any in New York. At 
 nearly forty he was just learning the drab sulkiness and 
 churlishness and black jealousy of the lover. . . . To her: 
 "Why didn t you go out with that guy with the black 
 mustache?" He still stared straight ahead. 
 
 She was big-eyed, a tear showing. "Why, Billy " 
 
 was all she answered. 
 
 He clenched his hands to keep from bursting out with 
 
 218 
 
HE BECOMES LITERARY 
 
 all the pitiful tears which were surging in his eyes. But 
 he, said nothing. 
 
 "Billy, what " 
 
 He turned shyly around to her; his hand touched hers 
 softly. 
 
 "Oh, Pm a beast," he said, rapidly, low, his undertone 
 trembling to her ears through the laughter of a group 
 next to them. "I didn t mean that, but I was I felt 
 like such a mutt not being able to dance. Oh, Nelly, 
 
 I m awfully sorry. You know I didn t mean Come 
 
 on! Let s go get something to eat!" 
 
 As they consumed ice-cream, fudge, doughnuts, and 
 chicken sandwiches at the refreshment counter they were 
 very intimate, resenting the presence of others. Tom and 
 Mrs. Arty joined them. Tom made Nelly light her first 
 cigarette. Mr. Wrenn admired the shy way in which, 
 taking the tiniest of puffs, she kept drawing out her 
 cigarette with little pouts and nose wriggles and pre 
 tended sneezes, but he felt a lofty gladness when she threw 
 it away after a minute, declaring that she d never smoke 
 again, and that she was going to make all three of her 
 companions stop smoking, "now that she knew how 
 horrid and sneezy it was, so there!" 
 
 With what he intended to be deep subtlety Mr. Wrenn 
 drew her away to the barroom, and these two children, 
 over two glasses of ginger-ale, looked their innocent and 
 rustic love so plainly that Mrs. Arty and Tom sneaked 
 away. Nelly cut out a dance, which she had promised to 
 a cigar-maker, and started homeward with Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 "Let s not take a car I want some fresh air after that 
 smoky place," she said. "But it was grand. . . . Let s 
 walk up Fifth Avenue." 
 
 "Fine. ...Tired, Nelly?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 He thought her voice somewhat chilly. 
 
 "Nelly I m so sorry I didn t really have the chance 
 to tell you in there how sorry I was for the way I spoke to 
 
 219 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 you. Gee! it was fierce of me but I felt I couldn t 
 dance, and oh " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "And you did mind it, didn t you?" 
 
 "Why, I didn t think you were so very nice about it 
 when I d tried so hard to have you have a good time * 
 
 "Oh, Nelly, I m so sorry " 
 
 There was tragedy in his voice. His shoulders, which 
 he always tried to keep as straight as though they were in 
 a vise when he walked with her, were drooping. 
 
 She touched his glove. "Oh don t, Billy; it s all right 
 now. I understand. Let s forget " 
 
 "Oh, you re too good to me!" 
 
 Silence. 
 
 As they crossed Twenty-third on Fifth Avenue she 
 took his arm. He squeezed her hand. Suddenly the 
 world was all young and beautiful and wonderful. It was 
 the first time in his life that he had ever walked thus, 
 with the arm of a girl for whom he cared cuddled in his. 
 He glanced down at her cheap white furs. Snowflakes, 
 tremulous on the fur, were turned into diamond dust in 
 the light from a street-lamp which showed as well a tiny 
 place where her collar had been torn and mended ever so 
 carefully. Then, in a millionth of a second, he who had 
 been a wanderer in the lonely gray regions of a detached 
 man s heart knew the pity of love, all its emotion, and 
 the infinite care for the beloved that makes a man of a 
 rusty sales-clerk. He lifted a face of adoration to the 
 misty wonder of the bare trees, whose tracery of twigs 
 filled Madison Square; to the Metropolitan Tower, with 
 its vast upward stretch toward the ruddy sky of the 
 city s winter night. All these mysteries he knew and 
 sang. What he said was: 
 
 "Gee, those trees look like a reg lar picture! . . . The 
 Tower just kind of fades away. Don t it?" 
 
 "Yes, it is pretty," she said, doubtfully, but with a 
 pressure of his arm. 
 
 220 
 
HE BECOMES LITERARY 
 
 Then they talked like a summer-time brook, planning 
 that he was to buy a Christmas bough of evergreen, which 
 she would smuggle to breakfast in the morning. Through 
 their chatter persisted the new intimacy which had been 
 born in the pain of their misunderstanding. 
 
 On January loth the manuscript of "The Millionaire s 
 Daughter" was returned by play-brokers Wendelbaum & 
 Schirtz with this letter: 
 
 DEAR SIR, We regret to say that we do not find play avail 
 able. We inclose our reader s report on the same. Also 
 inclose bill for ten dollars for reading-fee, which kindly remit 
 at early convenience. 
 
 He stood in the hall at Mrs. Arty s just before dinner. 
 He reread the letter and slowly opened the reader s 
 report, which announced: 
 
 "Millionaire s Daughter." One-act vile. Utterly impos. 
 Amateurish to the limit. Dialogue sounds like burlesque of 
 Laura Jean Libbey. Can it. 
 
 Nelly was coming down-stairs. He handed her the 
 letter and report, then tried to stick out his jaw. She 
 read them. Her hand slipped into his. He went quickly 
 toward the basement and made himself read the letter 
 though not the report to the tableful. He burned the 
 manuscript of his play before going to bed. The next 
 morning he waded into The Job as he never had before. 
 He was gloomily certain that he would never get away 
 from The Job. But he thought of Nelly a hundred times 
 a day and hoped that sometime, some spring night of a 
 burning moon, he might dare the great adventure and kiss 
 
 her. Istra Theoretically, he remembered her as a great 
 
 experience. But what nebulous bodies these theories are! 
 
 That slow but absolutely accurate Five-Hundred 
 player, Mr. William Wrenn, known as Billy, glanced 
 triumphantly at Miss Proudfoot, who was his partner 
 
 221 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 against Mrs. Arty and James T. Duncan, the traveling-man, 
 on that night of late February. His was the last bid in 
 the crucial hand of the rubber game. The others waited 
 respectfully. Confidently, he bid "Nine on no trump." 
 
 "Good Lord, Bill!" exclaimed James T< Duncan. 
 
 "I ll make it." 
 
 And he did. He arose a victor. There was no un 
 easiness, but rather all the social polish of Mrs. Arty s at 
 its best, in his manner, as he crossed to Mrs. Ebbitt s chair 
 and asked: "How is Mr. Ebbitt to-night? Pretty 
 rheumatic?" Miss Proudfoot offered him a lime tablet, 
 and he accepted it judicially. "I believe these tablets 
 are just about as good as Park & Tilford s," he said, 
 cocking his head. "Say, Dunk, I ll match you to see 
 who rushes a growler of beer. Tom 11 be here pretty 
 soon store ought to be closed by now. We ll have some 
 ready for him." 
 
 "Right, Bill," agreed James T. Duncan. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn lost. He departed, after secretively ob 
 taining not one, but two pitchers, in one of which he got 
 a "pint of dark" and in the other a surprise. He bawled 
 up-stairs to Nelly, "Come on down, Nelly, can t you? 
 Got a growler of ice-cream soda for the ladies!" 
 
 It is true that when Tom arrived and fell to conversa 
 tional blows with James T. Duncan over the merits of a 
 Tom Collins Mr. Wrenn was not brilliant, for the reason 
 that he took Tom Collins to be a man instead of the 
 drink he really is. 
 
 Yet, as they went up-stairs Miss Proudfoot said to 
 Nelly: "Mr. Wrenn is quiet, but I do think in some ways 
 he s one of the nicest men I ve seen in the house for years. 
 And he is so earnest. And I think he ll make a good 
 pinochle player, besides Five Hundred." 
 
 "Yes," said Nelly. 
 
 "I think he was a little shy at first. ... 7 was always 
 shy. . . . But he likes us, and I like folks that like folks." 
 
 "Yes!" said Nelly. 
 
XVII 
 
 HE IS BLOWN BY THE WHIRLWIND 
 
 "He was blown by the whirlwind and followed a wandering 
 flame through perilous seas to a happy shore." Quoth Francois. 
 
 ON an April Monday evening, when a small moon 
 passed shyly over the city and the streets were 
 filled with the sound of hurdy-gurdies and the spring 
 cries of dancing children, Mr. Wrenn pranced down to the 
 basement dining-room early, for Nelly Croubel would be 
 down there talking to Mrs. Arty, and he gaily wanted 
 to make plans for a picnic to occur the coming Sunday. 
 He had a shy unacknowledged hope that he might kiss 
 Nelly after such a picnic; he even had the notion that he 
 might some day well, other fellows had been married; 
 why not? 
 
 Miss Mary Proudfoot was mending a rent in the current 
 table-cloth with delicate swift motions of her silvery- 
 skinned hands. She informed him: "Mr. Duncan will 
 be back from his Southern trip in five days. We ll have 
 to have a grand closing progressive Five Hundred tourna 
 ment." Mr. Wrenn was too much absorbed in wondering 
 whether Miss Proudfoot would make some of her cele 
 brated and justly celebrated minced-ham sandwiches 
 for the picnic to be much interested. He was not much 
 more interested when she said, "Mrs. Ferrard s got a 
 letter or something for you." 
 
 Then, as dinner began, Mrs. Ferrard rushed in dramatic 
 ally and said, "There s a telegram for you, Mr. Wrenn!" 
 
 223 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 Was it death? Whose death? The table panted, Mr. 
 Wrenn with them. . . . That s what a telegram meant to 
 them. 
 
 Their eyes were like a circle of charging bayonets as he 
 opened and read the message a ship s wireless. 
 
 Meet me Hesperida. ISTRA. 
 
 "It s just a a business message," he managed to say, 
 and splashed his soup. This was not the place to take the 
 feelings out of his thumping heart and examine them. 
 
 Dinner was begun. Picnics were conversationally con 
 sidered in all their more important phases historical, 
 dietetical, and social. Mr. Wrenn talked much and a 
 little wildly. After dinner he galloped out to buy a paper. 
 The S.S. Hesperida was due at ten next morning. 
 
 It was an evening of frightened confusion. He tottered 
 along Lexington Avenue on a furtive walk. He knew only 
 that he was very fond of Nelly, yet pantingly eager to see 
 Istra. He damned himself "damned" is literal every 
 other minute for a cad, a double-faced traitor, and all the 
 other horrifying things a man is likely to declare himself to 
 be for making the discovery that two women may be 
 different and yet equally likable. And every other 
 minute he reveled in an adventurous gladness that he was 
 going to see Istra actually, incredibly going to see her, 
 just the next day! He returned to find Nelly sitting on the 
 steps of Mrs. Arty s. 
 
 "Hello." 
 
 "Hello." 
 
 Both good sound observations, and all they could say 
 for a time, while Mr. Wrenn examined the under side 
 of the iron steps rail minutely. 
 
 "Billy was it something serious, the telegram?" 
 
 "No, it was Miss Nash, the artist I told you 
 about, asked me to meet her at the boat. I suppose she 
 wants me to help her with her baggage and the customs 
 and all them things. She s just coming from Paris." 
 
 224 
 
THE WHIRLWIND 
 
 "Oh yes, I see." 
 
 So lacking in jealousy was Nelly that Mr. Wrenn was 
 disappointed, though he didn t know why. It always 
 hurts to have one s thunderous tragedies turn out realistic 
 dialogues. 
 
 "I wonder if you would like to meet her. She s awful 
 well educated, but I dunno maybe she d strike you as 
 
 kind of snobbish. But she dresses I don t think I 
 
 ever seen anybody so elegant. In dressing, I mean. 
 Course" hastily "she s got money, and so she can 
 afford to. But she s oh, awful nice, some ways. I hope 
 you like I hope she won t " 
 
 "Oh, I sha n t mind if she s a snob. Of course a lady 
 gets used to that, working in a department store," she 
 said, chillily; then repented swiftly and begged: "Oh, I 
 didn t mean to be snippy, Billy. Forgive me! I m sure 
 Miss Nash will be real nice. Does she live here in New 
 York?" 
 
 "No in California. ... I don t know how long she s 
 going to stay here." 
 
 "Well well hum-m-m. I m getting so sleepy. I 
 guess I d better go up to bed. Good night." 
 
 Uneasy because he was away from the office, displeased 
 because he had to leave his beloved letters to the Southern 
 trade, angry because he had had difficulty in getting a pass 
 to the wharf, and furious, finally, because he hadn t slept, 
 Mr. Wrenn nursed all these cumulative emotions atten 
 tively and waited for the coming of the Hesperida. He 
 was wondering if he d want to see Istra at all. He couldn t 
 remember just how she looked. Would he like her? 
 
 The great steamer swung side-to and was coaxed along 
 side the wharf. Peering out between rows of crowding 
 shoulders, Mr. Wrenn coldly inspected the passengers lin 
 ing the decks. Istra was not in sight. Then he knew that 
 he was wildly agitated about her. Suppose something 
 had happened to her! 
 
 225 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 The smallish man who had been edging into the crowd 
 so politely suddenly dashed to the group forming at the 
 gang-plank and pushed his way rudely into the front rank. 
 His elbow dug into the proper waistcoat of a proper plump 
 old gentleman, but he didn t know it. He stood grasping 
 the rope rail of the plank, gazing goggle-eyed while the 
 plank was lifted to the steamer s deck and the long line of 
 smiling and waving passengers disembarked. Then he 
 saw her tall, graceful, nonchalant, uninterested, in a smart 
 check suit with a lively hat of black straw, carrying a 
 new Gladstone bag. 
 
 He stared at her. "Gee!" he gasped. "I m crazy 
 about her. I am, all right." 
 
 She saw him, and their smiles of welcome made them 
 one. She came from the plank and hastily kissed him. 
 
 "Really here!" she laughed. 
 
 "Well, well, well, well! I m so glad to see you!" 
 
 "Glad to see you, Mouse dear." 
 
 "Have good tr " 
 
 " Don t ask me about it ! There was a married man sans 
 wife who persecuted me all the way over. I m glad you 
 aren t going to fall in love with me." 
 
 "Why uh " 
 
 "Let s hustle over and get through the customs as soon 
 as we can. Where s N? Oh, how clever of it, it s right 
 by M. There s one of my trunks already. How are you, 
 Mouse dear?" 
 
 But she didn t seem really to care so very much, and 
 the old bewilderment she always caused was over him. 
 
 "It is good to get back after all, and Mouse dear, I 
 know you won t mind finding me a place to live the next 
 few days, will you?" She quite took it for granted. "We ll 
 find a place this morning, nest-ce -pas? Not too expensive. 
 I ve got just about enough to get back to California." 
 
 Man fashion, he saw with acute clearness the pile of 
 work on his desk, and, man fashion, responded, "No; 
 be glad tuh." 
 
 226 
 
THE WHIRLWIND 
 
 "How about the place where you re living? You spoke 
 about its being so clean and all." 
 
 The thought of Nelly and Istra together frightened him. 
 
 "Why, I don t know as you d like it so very much." 
 
 "Oh, it 11 be all right for a few days, anyway. Is there 
 a room vacant." 
 
 He was sulky about it. He saw much trouble ahead. 
 
 "Why, yes, I suppose there is." 
 
 "Mouse dear!" Istra plumped down on a trunk in the 
 confused billows of incoming baggage, customs officials, 
 and indignant passengers that surged about them on the 
 rough floor of the vast dock-house. She stared up at him 
 with real sorrow in her fine eyes. 
 
 "Why, Mouse! I thought you d be glad to see me. 
 I ve never rowed with you, have I? I ve tried not to be 
 temperamental with you. That s why I wired you, when 
 there are others I ve known for years." 
 
 "Oh, I didn t mean to seem grouchy; I didn t! I just 
 wondered if you d like the house." 
 
 He could have knelt in repentance before his goddess, 
 what time she was but a lonely girl in the clatter of New 
 York. He went on: 
 
 \ "And we ve got kind of separated, and I didn t know 
 
 But I guess I ll always oh kind of worship you." 
 
 "It s all right, Mouse. It s Here s the customs 
 
 men." 
 
 Now Istra Nash knew perfectly that the customs 
 persons were not ready to examine her baggage as yet. 
 But the discussion was ended, and they seemed to under 
 stand each other. 
 
 "Gee, there s a lot of rich Jew ladies coming back this 
 time!" said he. 
 
 "Yes. They had diamonds three times a day," she 
 assented. 
 
 "Gee, this is a big place!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 So did they testify to fixity of friendship till they 
 
 227 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 reached the house and Istra was welcomed to "that Ted- 
 dem s" room as a new guest. 
 
 Dinner began with the ceremony due Mrs. Arty. 
 There was no lack of the sacred old jokes. Tom Poppins 
 did not fail to bellow "Bring on the dish-water," nor Miss 
 Mary Proudfoot to cheep demurely "Don t y knaow" in 
 a tone which would have been recognized as fascinatingly 
 English anywhere on the American stage. Then the talk 
 stopped dead as Istra Nash stood agaze in the doorway 
 pale and intolerant, her red hair twisted high on her head, 
 tall and slim and uncorseted in a gray tight-fitting gown. 
 Every head turned as on a pivot, first to Istra, then to 
 Mr. Wrenn. He blushed and bowed as if he had been 
 called on for a speech, stumblingly arose, and said: 
 "Uh uh uh you met Mrs. Ferrard, didn t you, Istra? 
 She ll introduce you to the rest." 
 
 He sat down, wondering why the deuce he d stood up, 
 and unhappily realized that Nelly was examining Istra 
 and himself with cool hostility. In a flurry he glowered at 
 Istra as she nonchalantly sat down opposite him, beside 
 Mrs. Arty, and incuriously unfolded her napkin. He 
 thought that in her cheerful face there was an expression 
 of devilish amusement. 
 
 He blushed. He furiously buttered his bread as Mrs. 
 Arty remarked to the assemblage: 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, I want you all to meet Miss 
 Istra Nash. Miss Nash you ve met Mr. Wrenn; Miss 
 Nelly Croubel, our baby; Tom Poppins, the great Five- 
 Hundred player; Mrs. Ebbitt, Mr. Ebbitt, Miss Proud- 
 foot." 
 
 Istra Nash lifted her bowed eyes with what seemed shy 
 ness, hesitated, said "Thank you" in a clear voice with a 
 precise pronunciation, and returned to her soup, as though 
 her pleasant communion with it had been unpleasantly 
 interrupted. 
 
 The others began talking and eating very fast and 
 
 228 
 
THE WHIRLWIND 
 
 rather noisily. Miss Mary Proudfoot s thin voice pierced 
 the clamor: 
 
 "I hear you have just come to New York, Miss Nash." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Is this your first visit to " 
 
 "No." 
 
 Miss Proudfoot rancorously took a long drink of water. 
 
 Nelly attempted, bravely: 
 
 "Do you like New York, Miss Nash?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Nelly and Miss Proudfoot and Tom Poppins began dis 
 cussing shoe-stores, all at once and very rapidly, while 
 hot and uncomfortable Mr. Wrenn tried to think of some 
 thing to say. . . . Good Lord, suppose Istra "queered" him 
 at Mrs. Arty s! . . . Then he was angry at himself and all 
 of them for not appreciating her. How exquisite she 
 looked, with her tired white face! 
 
 As the soup-plates were being removed by Annie, the 
 maid, with an elaborate confusion and a general passing of 
 plates down the line, Istra Nash peered at the maid 
 petulantly. Mrs. Arty frowned, then grew artificially 
 pleasant and said: 
 
 "Miss Nash has just come back from Paris. She s a 
 regular European traveler, just like Mr. Wrenn." 
 
 Mrs. Samuel Ebbitt piped: "Mr. Ebbitt was to 
 Europe. In 1882." 
 
 "No twa n t, Fannie; twas in 1881," complained 
 Mr. Ebbitt. 
 
 Miss Nash waited for the end of this interruption as 
 though it were a noise which merely had to be endured, 
 like the Elevated. 
 
 Twice she drew in her breath to speak, and the whole 
 table laid its collective knife and fork down to listen. All 
 she said was: 
 
 "Oh, will you pardon me if I speak of it now, Mrs. 
 Ferrard, but would you mind letting me have my break 
 fast in my room to-morrow? About nine? Just some- 
 
 16 "9 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 thing simple a cantaloupe and some shirred eggs and 
 chocolate?" 
 
 "Oh no; why, yes, certainly," mumbled Mrs. Arty, 
 while the table held its breaths and underneath them 
 gasped: 
 
 "Chocolate!" 
 
 "Acanteloupe!" 
 
 "Shirred eggs!" 
 
 "In her room at nine!" 
 
 All this was very terrible to Mr. Wrenn. He found 
 himself in the position of a man scheduled to address the 
 Brewers Association and the W. C. T. U. at the same 
 hour. Valiantly he attempted: 
 
 "Miss Nash oughta be a good person for our picnics. 
 She s a regular shark for outdoor tramping." 
 
 "Oh yes, Mr. Wrenn and I tramped most all night in 
 England one time," said Istra, innocently. 
 
 The eyes of the table asked Mr. Wrenn what he meant 
 by it. He tried to look at Nelly, but something hurt 
 inside him. 
 
 "Yes," he mumbled. "Quite a long walk." 
 
 Miss Mary Proudfoot tried again: 
 
 "Is it pleasant to study in Paris? Mrs. Arty said you 
 were an artist." 
 
 "No." 
 
 Then they were all silent, and the rest of the dinner 
 Mr. Wrenn alternately discussed Olympia Johns with 
 Istra and picnics with Nelly. There was an undertone 
 of pleading in his voice which made Nelly glance at him 
 and even become kind. With quiet insistence she dragged 
 Istra into a discussion of rue de la Paix fashions which 
 nearly united the shattered table and won Mr. Wrenn s 
 palpitating thankfulness. 
 
 After dessert Istra slowly drew a plain gold cigarette- 
 case from a brocade bag of silver} 7 " gray. She took out a 
 match and a thin Russian cigarette, which she carefully 
 lighted. She sat smoking in one of her best attitudes, 
 
 230 
 
THE WHIRLWIND 
 
 pointed elbows on the table, coolly contemplating a huge 
 picture called "Hunting the Stag" on the wall behind 
 Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 Mrs. Arty snapped to the servant, "Annie, bring me my 
 cigarettes." But Mrs. Arty always was penitent when she 
 had been nasty, and though Istra Nash did not at once 
 seem to know that the landlady had been nasty Mrs. Arty 
 invited her up to the parlor for after-dinner so cordially 
 that Istra could but grant "Perhaps I will," and she even 
 went so far as to say, "I think you re all to be envied, 
 having such a happy family." 
 
 "Yes, that s so," reflected Mrs. Arty. 
 
 "Yes," added Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 And Nelly: "That s so." 
 
 The whole table nodded gravely, "Yes, that s so." 
 
 "I m sure" Istra smiled at Mrs. Arty "that it s 
 because a woman is running things. Now think what 
 cat-and-dog lives you d lead if Mr. Wrenn or Mr. 
 Popple, was it? were ruling." 
 
 They applauded. They felt that she had been hu 
 morous. She was again and publicly invited up to the 
 parlor, and she came, though she said, rather shortly, 
 that she didn t play Five Hundred, but only bumblepuppy 
 bridge, a variety of whist which Mr. Wrenn instantly re 
 solved to learn. She reclined ("reclined" is perfectly 
 accurate) on the red-leather couch, among the pillows, and 
 smoked two cigarettes, relapsing into "No? "s for con 
 versation. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn said to himself, almost spitefully, as she 
 snubbed Nelly, "Too good for us, is she?" But he 
 couldn t keep away from her. The realization that Istra 
 was in the room made him forget most of his melds at 
 pinochle; and when Miss Proudfoot inquired his opinion 
 as to whether the coming picnic should be held on Staten 
 Island or the Palisades he said, vaguely, "Yes, I guess 
 that would be better." 
 
 For he was wanting to sit down beside Istra Nash, 
 
 231 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 just be near her; he had to be! So he ventured over and 
 was instantly regarding all the rest as outsiders whom 
 his wise comrade and himself were studying. 
 
 "Tell me, Mouse dear, why do you like the people 
 here? The peepul, I mean. They don t seem so very 
 remarkable. Enlighten poor Istra." 
 
 "Well, they re awful kind. I ve always lived in a house 
 where the folks didn t hardly know each other at all, 
 except Mrs. Zapp she was the landlady and I didn t 
 like her very much. But here Tom Poppins and Mrs. 
 Arty and the rest they really like folks, and they make 
 it just like a home. . . . Miss Croubel is a very nice girl. 
 She works for Wanamacy s she has quite a big job there. 
 She is assistant buyer in the 
 
 He stopped in horror. He had nearly said "in the 
 lingery department." He changed it to "in the clothing 
 department," and went on, doubtfully: "Mr. Duncan is 
 a traveling-man. He s away on a trip." 
 
 "Which one do you play with? So Nelly likes to well, 
 make b lieve magine?" 
 
 "How did you " 
 
 "Oh, I watched her looking at you. I think she s a 
 terribly nice pink-face. And just now you re comparing 
 her and me." 
 
 "Gee!" he said. 
 
 She was immensely pleased with herself. "Tell me, 
 what do these people think about; at least, what do you 
 talk about?" 
 
 "Say!" 
 
 " S-s-s-h! Not so loud, my dear." 
 
 "Say, I know how you mean. You feel something like 
 what I did in England. You can t get next to what the 
 folks are thinking, and it makes you sort of lonely." 
 
 "Well, I " 
 
 Just then Tom Poppins rolled jovially up to the couch. 
 He had carried his many and perspiring pounds over to 
 Third Avenue because Miss Proudfoot reflected, "I ve 
 
 232 
 
THE WHIRLWIND 
 
 got a regular sweet tooth to-night." He stood before 
 Istra and Mr. Wrenn theatrically holding out a bag of 
 chocolate drops in one hand and peanut brittle in the 
 other; and grandiloquently: 
 
 "Which shall it be, your Highness? Nobody loves a 
 fat man, so he has to buy candy so s they ll let him stick 
 around. Le s see; you take chocolates, Bill. Name your 
 drink, Miss Nash." 
 
 She looked up at him, gravely and politely too gravely 
 and politely. She didn t seem to consider him a nice 
 person. 
 
 " Neither, thank you," sharply, as he still stood there. 
 He moved away, hurt, bewildered. 
 
 Istra was going on, "I haven t been here long enough to 
 
 be lonely yet, but in any case " when Mr. Wrenn 
 
 interrupted: 
 
 "You ve hurt Tom s feelings by not taking any candy; 
 and, gee, he s awful kind!" 
 
 "Have I?" mockingly. 
 
 "Yes, you have. And there ain t any too many kind 
 people in this world." 
 
 "Oh yes, of course you re right. I am sorry, really I 
 
 am." 
 
 She dived after Tom s retreat and cheerfully addressed 
 him: 
 
 "Oh, I do want some of those chocolates. Will you let 
 me change my mind? Please do." 
 
 "Yes ma am, you sure can!" said broad Tom, all one 
 pleased chuckle, poking out the two bags. 
 
 Istra stopped beside the Five-Hundred table to smile 
 in a lordly way down at Mrs. Arty and say, quite humanly: 
 
 "I m so sorry I can t play a decent game of cards. I m 
 afraid I m too stupid to learn. You are very lucky, I 
 think." 
 
 Mr. Wrenn on the couch was horribly agitated. . . . 
 Wasn t Istra coming back? 
 
 She was. She detached herself from the hubbub of 
 
 233 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 invitations to learn to play Five Hundred and wandered 
 back to the couch, murmuring: "Was bad Istra good? 
 Am I forgiven? Mouse dear, I didn t mean to be rude 
 to your friends/ 
 
 As the bubbles rise through water in a cooking-pot, as 
 the surface writhes, and then, after the long wait, suddenly 
 the water is aboil, so was the emotion of Mr. Wrenn now 
 that Istra, the lordly, had actually done something he 
 suggested. 
 
 "Istra That was all he could say, but from his 
 
 eyes had gone all reserve. 
 
 Her glance back was as frank as his only it had more 
 of the mother in it; it was like a kindly pat on the head; 
 and she was the mother as she mused: 
 
 "So you have missed me, then?" 
 
 "Missed you " 
 
 "Did you think of me after you came here? Oh, I 
 know I was forgotten; poor Istra abdicates to the 
 pretty pink-face." 
 
 "Oh, Istra, don t. I can t we just go out for a little 
 walk so so we can talk?" 
 
 "Why, we can talk here." 
 
 "Oh, gee! there s so many people around. . . . Golly! 
 when I came back to America gee! I couldn t hardly 
 sleep nights " 
 
 From across the room came the boisterous, somewhat 
 coarse-timbred voice of Tom, speaking to Nelly: 
 
 "Oh yes, of course you think you re the only girl that 
 ever seen a vodville show. We ain t never seen a vodville 
 show. Oh no!" 
 
 Nelly and Miss Proudfoot dissolved in giggles at the wit. 
 
 Mr. Wrenn gazed at them, detached; these were not his 
 people, and with startled pride he glanced at Istra s face, 
 delicately carven by thought, as he stumbled hotly on. 
 
 " just couldn t sleep nights at all. . . . Then I got on 
 
 the job. . . ." 
 
 "Let s see, you re still with that same company?" 
 
 234 
 
THE WHIRLWIND 
 
 "Yes. Souvenir and Art Novelty Company. And I 
 got awfully on the job there, and so I managed to forget 
 for a little while and 
 
 "So you really do like me even after I was so beastly 
 to you in England." 
 
 "Oh, that wasn t nothing. . . . But I was always think 
 ing of you, even when I was on the job 
 
 "It s gratifying to have some one continue taking me 
 seriously. . . . Really, dear, I do appreciate it. But you 
 mustn t you mustn t " 
 
 "Oh, gee! I just can t get over it you here by me 
 ain t it curious! . . ." Then he persisted with the tale 
 of his longing, which she had so carefully interrupted: 
 "The people here are awful kind and good, and you can 
 bank on em. But oh " 
 
 From across the room, Tom s pretended jeers, lighted up 
 with Miss Proudfoot s giggles, as paper lanterns illumine 
 Coney Island. From Tom: 
 
 "Yes, you re a hot dancer, all right. I suppose you can 
 do the Boston and all them swell dances. Wah-h-h-h-h I" 
 
 but Istra, oh, gee! you re like poetry like all 
 them things a feller can t get but he tries to when he reads 
 Shakespeare and all those poets." 
 
 "Oh, dear boy, you mustn t! We will be good friends. 
 I do appreciate having some one care whether I m alive 
 or not. But I thought it was all understood that we 
 weren t to take playing together seriously; that it was to 
 be merely playing nothing more." 
 
 "But, anyway, you will let me play with you here in 
 New York as much as I can? Oh, come on, let s go for a 
 walk let s let s go to a show." 
 
 "I m awf ly sorry, but I promised a man s going to 
 call for me, and we re going to a stupid studio party on 
 Bryant Park. Bore, isn t it, the day of landing? And 
 poor Istra dreadfully landsick." 
 
 235 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 : Oh, then," hopefully, "don t go. Let s- 
 
 "I m sorry, Mouse dear, but I m afraid I can t break 
 the date. . . . Fact, I must go up and primp now " 
 
 "Don t you care a bit?" he said, sulkily. 
 
 "Why, yes, of course. But you wouldn t have Istra 
 disappoint a nice Johnny after he s bought him a cunnin* 
 new weskit, would you? . . . Good night, dear." She 
 smiled the mother smile and was gone with a lively 
 good night to the room in general. 
 
 Nelly went up to bed early. She was tired, she said. 
 He had no chance for a word with her. He sat on the 
 steps outside alone a long time. Sometimes he yearned 
 for a sight of Istra s ivory face. Sometimes, with a fierce 
 compassion that longed to take the burden from her, he 
 pictured Nelly working all day in the rushing department 
 store on which the fetid city summer would soon descend. 
 
 They did have their walk the next night, Istra and Mr. 
 Wrenn, but Istra kept the talk to laughing burlesques of 
 their tramp in England. Somehow he couldn t tell ex 
 actly why he couldn t seem to get in all the remarks he 
 had inside him about how much he had missed her. 
 
 Wednesday Thursday Friday; he saw her only at 
 one dinner, or on the stairs, departing volubly with clever- 
 looking men in evening clothes to taxis waiting before the 
 house. 
 
 Nelly was very pleasant; just that pleasant. She 
 pleasantly sat as his partner at Five Hundred, and 
 pleasantly declined to go to the moving pictures with 
 him. She was getting more and more tired, staying till 
 seven at the store, preparing what she called "special 
 stunts" for the summer white sale. Friday evening he 
 saw her soft fresh lips drooping sadly as she toiled up the 
 front steps before dinner. She went to bed at eight, at 
 which time Istra was going out to dinner with a thin, 
 hatchet-faced sarcastic-looking man in a Norfolk jacket 
 
 236 
 
THE WHIRLWIND 
 
 and a fluffy black tie. Mr. Wrenn resented the Norfolk 
 jacket. Of course, the kingly men in evening dress 
 would be expected to take Istra away from him, but a 
 Norfolk jacket He did not call it that. Though he 
 had worn one in the fair village of Aengusmere, it was 
 still to him a "coat with a belt." 
 
 He thought of Nelly all evening. He heard her there 
 on the same floor with him talking to Miss Proudfoot, 
 who stood at Nelly s door, three hours after she was sup 
 posed to be asleep. 
 
 "No," Nelly was saying with evidently fictitious cheer 
 fulness, "no, it was just a little headache. . . . It s much 
 better. I think I can sleep now. Thank you very much 
 for coming." 
 
 Nelly hadn t told Mr. Wrenn that she had a severe 
 headache she who had once, a few weeks before, run 
 to him with a cut in her soft small finger, demanding that 
 he bind it up. ... He went slowly to bed. 
 
 He had lain awake half an hour before his agony so 
 overpowered him that he flung out of bed. He crouched 
 low by the bed, like a child, his legs curled under him, the 
 wooden sideboard pressing into his chest in one long line 
 of hot pain, while he prayed: 
 
 "O God, O God, forgive me, forgive me, oh, forgive me! 
 Here I been forgetting Nelly (and I love her) and compar 
 ing her with Istra and not appreciating her, and Nelly 
 
 always so sweet to me and trusting me so O God, 
 
 keep me away from wickedness!" 
 
 He huddled there many minutes, praying, the scorch 
 ing pressure of the bedside growing more painful. All the 
 while the camp-fire he had shared with Istra was burning 
 within his closed eyes, and Istra was visibly lording it in a 
 London flat filled with clever people, and he was passion 
 ately aware that the line of her slim breast was like the 
 lip of a shell; the line of her pallid cheek, defined by her 
 flame-colored hair, something utterly fine, something he 
 could not express. 
 
 237 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Oh," he groaned, "she is like that poetry stuff in 
 Shakespeare that s so hard to get. . . . I ll be extra nice to 
 Nelly at the picnic Sunday. . . . Her trusting me so, and 
 then me O God, keep me away from wickedness!" 
 
 As he was going out Saturday morning he found a note 
 from Istra waiting in the hall on the hat-rack: 
 
 Do you want to play with poor Istra to-morrow Sat. after 
 noon and perhaps evening, Mouse? You have Saturday after 
 noon off, don t you ? Leave me a note if you can call for me 
 at 1.30. I. N. 
 
 He didn t have Saturday afternoon off, but he said he 
 did in his note, and at one-thirty he appeared at her door 
 in a new spring suit (purchased on Tuesday), a new spring 
 hat, very fuzzy and gay (purchased Saturday noon), and 
 the walking-stick he had bought on Tottenham Court 
 Road, but decently concealed from the boarding-house. 
 
 Istra took him to what she called a "futurist play." 
 She explained it all to him several times, and she stood 
 him tea and muffins, and recalled Mrs. Cattermole s 
 establishment with full attention to Mrs. Cattermole s 
 bulbous but earnest nose. They dined at the Brevoort, 
 and were back at nine-thirty; for, said Istra, she was 
 "just a bit tired, Mouse." 
 
 They stood at the door of Istra s room. Istra said, 
 "You may come in just for a minute." 
 
 It was the first time he had even peeped into her room 
 in New York. The old shyness was on him, and he glanced 
 back. 
 
 Nelly was just coming up-stairs, staring at him where 
 he stood inside the door, her lips apart with amazement. 
 
 Ladies distinctly did not entertain in their rooms at 
 Mrs. Arty s. 
 
 He wanted to rush out, to explain, to invite her in, to 
 to He stuttered in his thought, and by now Nelly 
 had hastened past, her face turned from them. 
 
 238 
 
THE WHIRLWIND 
 
 Uneasily he tilted on the front of a cane-seated rocking- 
 chair, glaring at a pile of books before one of Istra s 
 trunks. Istra sat on the bedside nursing her knee. She 
 burst out: 
 
 "O Mouse dear, Fm so bored by everybody every sort 
 of everybody. ... Of course I don t mean you; you re a 
 good pal. . . . Oh Paris is too complex especially when 
 you can t quite get the nasal vowels and New York is too 
 youthful and earnest; and Dos Puentes, California, will 
 be plain hell. . . . And all my little parties I start out on 
 them happily, always, as naive as a kiddy going to a 
 birthday party, and then I get there and find I can t 
 even dance square dances, as the kiddy does, and go 
 home Oh damn it, damn it, damn it! Am I shock 
 ing you? Well, what do I care if I shock everybody!" 
 
 Her slim pliant length was flung out along the bed, and 
 she was crying. Her beautiful hands clutched the 
 corners of a pillow bitterly. 
 
 He crept over to the bed, patting her shoulder, slowly 
 and regularly, too frightened of her mood even to want to 
 kiss her. 
 
 She looked up, laughing tearfully. "Please say, There, 
 there, there; don t cry. It always goes with pats for 
 weepy girls, you know. . . . O Mouse, you will be good to 
 some woman some day." 
 
 Her long strong arms reached up and drew him down. 
 It was his head that rested on her shoulder. It seemed to 
 both of them that it was he who was to be petted, not she. 
 He pressed his cheek against the comforting hollow of her 
 curving shoulder and rested there, abandoned to a for 
 lorn and growing happiness, the happiness of getting so 
 far outside of his tight world of Wrennishness that he 
 could give comfort and take comfort with no prim worried 
 thoughts of Wrenn. 
 
 Istra murmured: "Perhaps that s what I need some 
 
 one to need me. Only " She stroked his hair. 
 
 "Now you must go, dear." 
 
 239 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "You It s better now? I m afraid I ain t helped 
 
 you much. It s kinda t other way round." 
 
 "Oh yes, indeed, it s all right now! Just nerves. 
 Nothing more. Now, good night." 
 
 " Please, won t you come to the picnic to-morrow? 
 It s " 
 
 "No. Sorry, but can t possibly." 
 
 "Please think it over." 
 
 "No, no, no, no, dear! You go and forget me and 
 enjoy yourself and be good to your pink-face Nelly, 
 isn t it? She seems to be terribly nice, and I know you 
 two will have a good party. You must forget me. I m 
 just a teacher of playing games who hasn t been successful 
 at any game whatever. Not that it matters. I don t 
 care. I don t, really. Now, good night." 
 
XVIII 
 
 AND FOLLOWS A WANDERING FLAME THROUGH PERILOUS 
 
 SEAS 
 
 ""PHEY had picnic dinner early up there on the Palisades: 
 1 Nelly and Mr. Wrenn, Mrs. Arty and Tom, Miss 
 Proudfoot and Mrs. Samuel Ebbitt, the last of whom kept 
 ejaculating: "Well! I ain t run off like this in ten years!" 
 They squatted about a red-cotton table-cloth spread on a 
 rock, broadly discussing the sandwiches and cold chicken 
 and lemonade and stuffed olives, and laughing almost to a 
 point of distress over Tom s accusation that Miss Proud- 
 foot had secreted about her person a bottle of rye whisky. 
 
 Nelly was very pleasant to Mr. Wrenn, but she called 
 him neither Billy nor anything else, and mostly she talked 
 to Miss Proudfoot, smiling at him, but saying nothing when 
 he managed to get out a jest about Mrs. Arty s chewing- 
 gum. When he moved to her side with a wooden plate of 
 cream-cheese sandwiches (which Tom humorously termed 
 "cold-cream wafers") Mr. Wrenn started to explain how 
 he had come to enter Istra s room. 
 
 "Why shouldn t you?" Nelly asked, curtly, and turned 
 to Miss Proudfoot. 
 
 "She doesn t seem to care much," he reflected, relieved 
 and stabbed in his humble vanity and reattracted to 
 Nelly, all at once. He was anxious about her opinion of 
 Istra and her opinion of himself, and slightly defiant, as 
 she continued to regard him as a respectable person whose 
 name she couldn t exactly remember. 
 
 Hadn t he the right to love Istra if he wanted to? 
 241 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 he desired to know of himself. Besides, what had he 
 done? Just gone out walking with his English hotel 
 acquaintance Istra! He hadn t been in her room but just 
 a few minutes. Fine reason that was for Nelly to act like 
 a blooming iceberg! Besides, it wasn t as if he were 
 engaged to Nelly, or anything like that. Besides, of 
 course Istra would never care for him. There were 
 several other besideses with which he harrowed himself 
 while trying to appear picnically agreeable. He was 
 getting very much confused, and was slightly abrupt as 
 he said to Nelly, "Let s walk over to that high rock on 
 the edge." 
 
 A dusky afterglow filled the sky before them as they 
 silently trudged to the rock and from the top of the sheer 
 cliff contemplated the smooth and steely-gray Hudson 
 below. Nelly squeaked her fear at the drop and clutched 
 his arm, but suddenly let go and drew back without his 
 aid. 
 
 He groaned within, "I haven t the right to help her." 
 He took her arm as she hesitatingly climbed from the 
 rock down to the ground. 
 
 She jerked it free, curtly saying, "No, thank you." 
 
 She was repentant in a moment, and, cheerfully: 
 
 "Miss Nash took me in her room yesterday and showed 
 me her things. My, she s got such be-yoo-ti-ful jewels! 
 La V lieres and pearls and a swell amethyst brooch. My! 
 She told me all about how the girls used to study in 
 Paris, and how sorry she would be to go back to California 
 and keep house." 
 
 "Keep house?" 
 
 Nelly let him suffer for a moment before she relieved 
 him with, "For her father." 
 
 "Oh. . . . Did she say she was going back to California 
 soon?" 
 
 "Not till the end of the summer, maybe." 
 
 "Oh Oh, Nelly- 
 
 For the first time that day he was perfectly sincere. 
 
 242 
 
A WANDERING FLAME 
 
 He was trying to confide in her. But the shame of having 
 
 emotions was on him. He got no farther. 
 
 To his amazement, Nelly mused, "She is very nice." 
 He tried hard to be gallant. "Yes, she is interesting, 
 
 but of course she ain t anywheres near as nice as you are, 
 
 Nelly, be- 
 "Oh, don t, Billy!" 
 
 The quick agony in her voice almost set them both 
 weeping. The shared sorrow of separation drew them 
 together for a moment. Then she started off, with short 
 swift steps, and he tagged after. He found little to say. 
 He tried to comment on the river. He remarked that the 
 apartment-houses across in New York were bright in the 
 sunset; that, in fact, the upper windows looked "like 
 there was a fire in there." Her sole comment was "Yes." 
 
 When they rejoined the crowd he was surprised to hear 
 her talking volubly to Miss Proudfoot. He rejoiced that 
 she was "game," but he did not rejoice long. For a 
 frightened feeling that he had to hurry home and see 
 Istra at once was turning him weak and cold. He didn t 
 want to see her; she was intruding; but he had to go go 
 at once; and the agony held him all the way home, while 
 he was mechanically playing the part of stern reformer 
 and agreeing with Tom Poppins that the horrors of the 
 recent Triangle shirt-waist-factory fire showed that 
 "something oughta be done something sure oughta be." 
 
 He trembled on the ferry till Nelly, with a burst of 
 motherly tenderness in her young voice, suddenly asked: 
 "Why, you re shivering dreadfully! Did you get a chill?" 
 
 Naturally, he wanted the credit of being known as an 
 invalid, and pitied and nursed, but he reluctantly smiled 
 and said, "Oh no, it ain t anything at all." 
 
 Then Istra called him again, and he fumed over the 
 slowness of their landing. 
 
 And, at home, Istra was out. 
 
 He went resolutely down and found Nelly alone, sitting 
 on a round pale-yellow straw mat on the steps. 
 
 243 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 He sat by her. He was very quiet; not at all the 
 jovial young man of the picnic properly following the 
 boarding-house-district rule that males should be jocular 
 and show their appreciation of the ladies by "kidding 
 them." And he spoke with a quiet graciousness that was 
 almost courtly, with a note of weariness and spiritual 
 experience such as seldom comes into the boarding-houses, 
 to slay joy and bring wisdom and give words shyness. 
 
 He had, as he sat down, intended to ask her to go with 
 him to a moving-picture show. But inspiration was on 
 him. He merely sat and talked. 
 
 When Mr. Wrenn returned from the office, two evenings 
 later, he found this note awaiting him: 
 
 DEAR MOUSE, Friend has asked me to join her in studio 
 & have beat it. Sorry not see you & say good-by. Come see 
 me sometime phone before and see if I m in Spring xxx ad 
 dress xx South Washington Sq. In haste, ISTRA. 
 
 He spent the evening in not going to the studio. Several 
 times he broke away from a pinochle game to rush up 
 stairs and see if the note was as chilly as he remembered. 
 It always was. 
 
 Then for a week he awaited a more definite invitation 
 from her, which did not come. He was uneasily polite 
 to Nelly these days, and tremulously appreciative of her 
 gentleness. He wanted to brood, but he did not take to 
 his old habit of long solitary walks. Every afternoon he 
 planned one for the evening; every evening found that 
 he "wanted to be around with folks." 
 
 He had a sort of youthful defiant despair, so he jested 
 much at the card-table, by way of practising his new game 
 of keeping people from knowing what he was thinking. 
 He took sophisticated pleasure in noting that Mrs. Arty 
 no longer condescended to him. He managed to imitate 
 Tom s writing on a card which he left with a bunch of 
 jonquils in Nelly s room, and nearly persuaded even 
 Tom himself that Tom was the donor. Probably because 
 
 244 
 
A WANDERING FLAME 
 
 he didn t much care what happened he was able to force 
 Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle to raise his salary to twenty- 
 three dollars a week. Mr. Guilfogle went out of his way to 
 admit that the letters to the Southern trade had been 
 "a first-rate stunt, son/ 
 
 John Henson, the head of the Souvenir Company s 
 manufacturing department, invited Mr. Wrenn home to 
 dinner, and the account of the cattle-boat was much 
 admired by Mrs. Henson and the three young Hensons. 
 
 A few days later, in mid-June, there was an unusually 
 cheerful dinner at the boarding-house. Nelly turned to 
 Mr. Wrenn yes, he was quite sure about it; she was 
 speaking exclusively to him, with a lengthy and most 
 merry account of the manner in which the floor superin 
 tendent had "called down" the unkindest of the aislesmen. 
 
 He longed to give his whole self in his answer, to be 
 in the absolute community of thought that lovers know. 
 But the image of Istra was behind his chair. Istra he 
 had to see her now, this evening. He rushed out to the 
 corner drug-store and reached her by telephone. 
 
 Yes-s, admitted Istra, a little grudgingly, she was going 
 to be at the studio that evening, though she well, there 
 was going to be a little party some friends but yes, 
 she d be glad to have him come. 
 
 Grimly, Mr. Wrenn set out for Washington Square. 
 
 Since this scientific treatise has so exhaustively examined 
 Mr. Wrenn s reactions toward the esthetic, one need give 
 but three of his impressions of the studio and people he 
 found on Washington Square namely: 
 
 (a) That the big room was bare, ill kept, and not com 
 parable to the red-plush splendor of Mrs. Arty s, for all 
 its pretension to superiority. Why, a lot of the pictures 
 weren t framed! And you should have seen the giltness 
 and fruit-borderness of the frames at Mrs. Arty s! 
 
 (b) That the people were brothers-in-talk to the inmates 
 of the flat on Great James Street, London, only far less 
 friendly; and 
 
 17 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 (c) That Mr. Wrenn was now a man of friends, and if 
 the "blooming Bohemians," as he called them, didn t like 
 him they were permitted to go to the dickens. 
 
 Istra was always across the room from him somehow. 
 He found himself glad. It made their parting definite. 
 
 He was going back to his own people, he was deciding. 
 
 As he rose with elaborate boarding-house apologies 
 to the room at large for going, and a cheerful but not 
 intimate "Good night" to Istra, she followed him to the 
 door and into the dark long hallway without. 
 
 "Good night, Mouse dear. I m glad you got a chance 
 to talk to the Silver Girl. But was Mr. Hargis rude to 
 you ? I heard him talking Single Tax or was it Matisse ? 
 and he s usually rude when he talks about them." 
 
 "No. He was all right." 
 
 "Then what is worrying you?" 
 
 "Oh nothing. Good ni " 
 
 "You are going off angry. Aren t you?" 
 
 "No, but oh, there ain t any use of our of me be 
 ing Is there?" 
 
 "\T " 
 
 JN-no 
 
 "Matisse the guy you just spoke about and these 
 artists here to-night in bobtail dress-suits I wouldn t 
 know when to wear one of them things, and when a 
 swallow-tail if I had one, even or when a Prince 
 Albert or " 
 
 "Oh, not a Prince Albert, Mouse dear. Say, a frock- 
 coat." 
 
 "Sure. That s what I mean. It s like that Matisse 
 guy. I don t know about none of the things you re in 
 terested in. While you ve been away from Mrs. Arty s 
 Lord, I ve missed you so! But when I try to train with 
 your bunch, or when you spring Matisse" (he seemed 
 peculiarly to resent the unfortunate French artist) "on 
 me I sort of get onto myself and now it ain t like it was 
 in England; I ve got a bunch of my own I can chase 
 around with. Anyway, I got onto myself to-night. I 
 
 246 
 
A WANDERING FLAME 
 
 s pose it s partly because I been thinking you didn t care 
 much for my friends." 
 
 "But, Mouse dear, all this isn t news to me. Surely 
 you, who ve gipsied with me, aren t going to be so obvious, 
 so banal, as to blame me because you ve cared for me, are 
 you, child?" 
 
 "Oh no, no, no! I didn t mean to do that. I just 
 wanted oh, gee! I dunno well, I wanted to have things 
 between us definite." 
 
 "I do understand. You re quite right. And now we re 
 just friends, aren t we?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then good-by. And sometime when I m back in 
 New York I m going to California in a few days 
 I think I ll be able to get back here I certainly hope so 
 though of course I ll have to keep house for friend father 
 for a while, and maybe I ll marry myself w T ith a local 
 magnate in desperation but, as I was saying, dear, when 
 I get back here we ll have a good dinner, nicht wahr?" 
 
 "Yes, and good-by." 
 
 She stood at the top of the stairs looking down. He 
 slowly clumped down the wooden treads, boiling with the 
 amazing discoveries that he had said good-by to Istra, 
 that he was not sorry, and that now he could offer to 
 Nelly Croubel everything. 
 
 Istra suddenly called, "O Mouse, wait just a moment." 
 
 She darted like a swallow. She threw her arm about 
 his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Instantly she was 
 running up-stairs again, and had disappeared into the 
 studio. 
 
 Mr. William Wrenn was walking rapidly up Riverside 
 Drive, thinking about his letters to the Southern mer 
 chants. 
 
 While he w^as leaving the studio building he had per 
 fectly seen himself as one who was about to go through a 
 tumultuous agony, after which he would be free of all the 
 
 247 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 desire for Istra and ready to serve Nelly sincerely and 
 humbly. 
 
 But he found that the agony was all over. Even to 
 save his dignity as one who was being dramatic, he couldn t 
 keep his thoughts on Istra. 
 
 Every time he thought of Nelly his heart was warm and 
 he chuckled softly. Several times out of nothing came 
 pictures of the supercilious persons whom he had heard 
 solving the problems of the world at the studio on Wash 
 ington Square, and he muttered: "Oh, hope they choke. 
 Istra s all right, though; she learnt me an awful lot. 
 But gee! I m glad she ain t in the same house; I sup 
 pose I d ag nize round if she was." 
 
 Suddenly, at no particular street corner on Riverside 
 Drive, just a street, he fled over to Broadway and the 
 Subway. He had to be under the same roof with Nelly. 
 If it were only possible to see her that night! But it was 
 midnight. However, he formulated a plan. The next 
 morning he would leave the office, find her at her de 
 partment store, and make her go out to Manhattan 
 Beach with him for dinner that night. 
 
 He was home. He went happily up the stairs. He 
 would dream of Nelly, and 
 
 Nelly s door opened, and she peered out, drawing her 
 peignoir about her. 
 
 "Oh," she said, softly, "is it you?" 
 
 "Yes. My, you re up late." 
 
 " Do you Are you all right ?" 
 
 He dashed down the hall and stood shyly scratching at 
 the straw of his newest hat. 
 
 "Why yes, Nelly, course. Poor Oh, don t tell 
 
 me you have a headache again?" 
 
 "No I was awful foolish, of course, but I saw you 
 
 when you went out this evening, and you looked so savage, 
 and you didn t look very well." 
 
 "But now it s all right." 
 
 "Then good night." 
 
 248 
 
A WANDERING FLAME 
 
 "Oh no listen please do! I went over to the place 
 Miss Nash is living at, because I was pretty sure that I 
 ain t hipped on her sort of hypnotized by her any more. 
 And I found I ain t! / ain t! I don t know what to say, 
 but somehow I want to I want you to know that from 
 now on I m going to try and see if I can t get you to care 
 for me." He was dreadfully earnest, and rather quiet, 
 with the dignity of the man who has found himself. 
 "I m scared/ he went on, "about saying this, because 
 maybe you ll think I ve got an idea I m kind of a little tin 
 god, and all I ve got to do is to say which girl I ll want 
 and she ll come a-running, but it isn t that; it isnt. It s 
 just that I want you to know I m going to give all of me 
 to you now if I can get you to want me. And I am glad 
 I knew Istra she learnt me a lot about books and all, so 
 I have more to me, or maybe will have, for you. It s 
 
 Nelly promise you ll be my friend promise If 
 
 you knew how I rushed back here to-night to see you!" 
 
 "Billy " 
 
 She held out her hand, and he grasped it as though it 
 were the sacred symbol of his dreams. 
 
 "To-morrow," she smiled, with a hint of tears, "I ll be a 
 reg lar lady, I guess, and make you explain and explain 
 like everything, but now I m just glad. Yes," defiantly, 
 " I will admit it if I want to ! I am glad !" 
 
 Her door closed. 
 
XIX 
 
 TO A HAPPY SHORE 
 
 UPON an evening of November, 1911, it chanced that 
 of Mrs. Arty s flock only Nelly and Mr. Wrenn were 
 at home. They had finished two hot games of pinochle, 
 and sat with their feet on a small amiable oil-stove. 
 Mr. Wrenn laid her hand against his cheek with in 
 finite content. He was outlining the situation at the 
 office. 
 
 The business had so increased that Mr. Mortimer R. 
 Guilfogle, the manager, had told Rabin, the head travel 
 ing-salesman, that he was going to appoint an assistant 
 manager. Should he, Mr. Wrenn queried, try to get the 
 position? The other candidates, Rabin and Henson and 
 Glover, were all good friends of his, and, furthermore, 
 could he "run a bunch of guys if he was over them?" 
 
 "Why, of course you can, Billy. I remember when you 
 came here you were sort of shy. But now you re most the 
 star boarder! And won t those others be trying to get the 
 job away from you? Of course I" 
 
 "Yes, that s so." 
 
 "Why, Billy, some day you might be manager!" 
 
 "Say, that would be great, wouldn t it! But hones , 
 Nell, do you think I might have a chance to land the 
 assistant s job?" 
 
 "I certainly do." 
 
 "Oh, Nelly gee! you make me oh, learn to bank on 
 myself " 
 
 He kissed her for the second time in his life. 
 
 250 
 
TO A HAPPY SHORE 
 
 "Mr. Guilfogle," stated Mr. Wrenn, next day, "I want 
 to talk to you about that assistant managership." 
 
 The manager, in his new office and his new flowered 
 waistcoat, had acted interested when Our steady and 
 reliable Mr. Wrenn came in. But now he tried to appear 
 dignified and impatient. 
 
 "That " he began. 
 
 "I ve been here longer than any of the other men, and I 
 know every line of the business now, even the manufac 
 turing. You remember I held down Henson s job when 
 his wife was sick." 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 "And I guess Jake thinks I can boss all right, and Miss 
 Leavenbetz, too." 
 
 "Now will you kindly low me to talk a little, Wrenn? 
 I know a little something about how things go in the 
 office myself! I don t deny you re a good man. Maybe 
 some day you may get to be assistant manager. But I m 
 going to give the first try at it to Glover. He s had so 
 much more experience with meeting people directly 
 personally. But you re a good man " 
 
 "Yes, I ve heard that before, but I ll be gol-darned if 
 I ll stick at one desk all my life just because I save you all 
 the trouble in that department, Guilfogle, and now " 
 
 "Now, now, now, now! Calm down; hold your horses, 
 my boy. This ain t a melodrama, you know." 
 
 "Yes, I know; I didn t mean to get sore, but you 
 know " 
 
 "Well, now I ll tell you what I m going to do. I m 
 going to make you head of the manufacturing department 
 instead of getting in a new man, and shift Henson to 
 purchasing. I ll put Jake on your old job, and expect 
 you to give him a lift when he needs it. And you d 
 better keep up the most important of the jollying-letters, 
 I guess." 
 
 "Well, I like that all right. I appreciate it. But of 
 
 course I expect more pay two men s work " 
 
 251 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 "Let s see; what you getting now?" 
 
 " Twenty- three." 
 
 "Well, that s a good deal, you know. The overhead 
 expenses have been increasing a lot faster than our 
 profits, and we ve " 
 
 "Huh!" 
 
 " got to see where new business is coming in to 
 
 justify the liberal way we ve treated you men before we 
 can afford to do much salary-raising though we re just 
 as glad to do it as you men to get it; but " 
 
 "Huh!" 
 
 " if we go to getting extravagant we ll go bankrupt, 
 
 and then we won t any of us have jobs. . . . Still, I am 
 willing to raise you to twenty-five, though " 
 
 "Thirty-five!" 
 
 Mr. Wrenn stood straight. The manager tried to stare 
 him down. Panic was attacking Mr. Wrenn, and he had 
 to think of Nelly to keep up his defiance. At last Mr. 
 Guilfogle glared, then roared: 
 
 "Well, confound it, Wrenn, I ll give you twenty-nine- 
 fifty, and not a cent more for at least a year. That s 
 final. Understand?" 
 
 "All right," chirped Mr. Wrenn. 
 
 "Gee!" he was exulting to himself, "never thought I d 
 get anything like that. Twenty-nine-fifty ! More n enough 
 to marry on now! I m going to get twenty-nine- fifty!" 
 
 "Married five months ago to-night, honey," said Mr. 
 Wrenn to Nelly, his wife, in their Bronx flat, and thus set 
 down October 17, 1913, as a great date in history. 
 
 "Oh, I know it, Billy. I wondered if you d remember. 
 You just ought to see the dessert I m making but that s 
 a s prise." 
 
 "Remember! Should say I did! See what I ve got 
 for somebody!" 
 
 He opened a parcel and displayed a pair of red-worsted 
 bed-slippers, a creation of one of the greatest red-worsted 
 
 252 
 
TO A HAPPY SHORE 
 
 artists in the whole land. Yes, and he could afford them, 
 too. Was he not making thirty-two dollars a week 
 he who had been poor! And his chances for the assistant 
 managership "looked good." 
 
 "Oh, they ll be so comfy when it gets cold. You re a 
 dear! Oh, Billy, the janitress says the Jewish lady across 
 the court in number seventy is so lazy she wears her 
 corsets to bed!" 
 
 "Did the janitress get the coal put in, Nell?" 
 
 "Yes, but her husband is laid off again. I was talking 
 to her quite a while this afternoon. . . . Oh, dear, I do get 
 so lonely for you, sweetheart, with nothing to do. But 
 I did read some Kim this afternoon. I liked it." 
 
 "That s fine!" 
 
 "But it s kind of hard. Maybe I ll Oh, I don t 
 
 know. I guess I ll have to read a lot." 
 
 He patted her back softly, and hoped: "Maybe some 
 day we can get a little house out of town, and then you 
 can garden. . . . Sorry old Siddons is laid off again. . . . 
 Is the gas-stove working all right now?" 
 
 "Um-huh, honey. I fixed it." 
 
 "Say, let me make the coffee, Nell. You ll have enough 
 to do with setting the table and watching the sausages." 
 
 "All rightee, hun. But, oh, Billy, I m so shamed. I 
 was going to get some potato salad, and I ve just re 
 membered I forgot." She hung her head, with a finger 
 tip to her pretty lips, and pretended to look dreadfully 
 ashamed. "Would you mind so ver-ee much skipping 
 down to Bachmeyer s for some? Ah-h, is it just fearful 
 neglected when it comes home all tired out?" 
 
 "No, indeedy. But you got to kiss me first, else I 
 won t go at all." 
 
 Nelly turned to him and, as he held her, her head bent 
 far back. She lay tremblingly inert against his arms, 
 staring up at him, panting. With her head on his shoul 
 der a soft burden of love that his shoulder rejoiced to 
 bear they stood gazing out of the narrow kitchen window 
 
 253 
 
OUR MR. WRENN 
 
 of their sixth-story flat and noticed for the hundredth time 
 that the trees in a vacant lot across were quite as red 
 and yellow as the millionaire trees in Central Park along 
 Fifth Avenue. 
 
 "Sometime/* mused Mr. Wrenn, "we ll live in Jersey, 
 where there s trees and trees and trees and maybe 
 there ll be kiddies to play under them, and then you 
 won t be lonely, honey; they ll keep you some busy!" 
 
 "You skip along now, and don t be talking nonsense, or 
 I ll not give you one single wee bit of dinner I" Then she 
 blushed adorably, with infinite hope. 
 
 He hastened out of the kitchen, with the happy glance 
 he never failed to give the living-room its red-papered 
 walls with shiny imitation-oak woodwork; the rows of 
 steins on the plate-rack; the imitation-oak dining-table, 
 with a vase of newly dusted paper roses; the Morris chair, 
 with Nelly s sewing on a tiny wicker table beside it; the 
 large gilt-framed oleograph of" Pike s Peak by Moonlight." 
 
 He clattered down the slate treads of the stairs. He 
 fairly vaulted out of doors. He stopped, startled. 
 
 Across the ragged vacant lots to the west a vast sunset 
 processional marched down the sky. It had not been 
 visible from their flat, which looked across East River 
 to the tame grassy shore of a real-estate boomer s suburb. 
 "Gee!" he mourned, "it s the first time I ve noticed 
 a sunset for a month! I used to see knights flags and 
 Mandalay and all sorts of stuff in sunsets!" 
 
 Wistfully the exile gazed at his lost kingdom, till the 
 October chill aroused him. 
 
 But he learned a new way to cook eggs from the pro 
 prietor of the delicatessen store; and his plans for spend 
 ing the evening playing pinochle with Nelly, and reading 
 the evening paper aloud, set him chuckling softly to him 
 self as he hurried home through the brisk autumn breeze 
 with seven cents worth of potato salad. 
 
 THE END 
 
"The Books You Like to Read 
 at the Price You Like to Pay" 
 
 There Are Two Sides 
 to Everything 
 
 including the wrapper which covers 
 every Grosset & Dunlap book. When 
 you feel in the mood for a good ro 
 mance, refer to the carefully selected list 
 of modern fiction comprising most of 
 the successes by prominent writers of 
 the day which is printed on the back of 
 every Grosset & Dunlap book wrapper. 
 
 You will find more than five hundred 
 titles to choose from books for every 
 mood and every taste and every pocket- 
 book. 
 
 Don t forge f the other side, lut in case 
 the wrapper is lost, write to the -publishers 
 for a complete catalog. 
 
 There is a Grosset & Dunlap Book 
 for every mood and for every taste 
 
RUBY M. AYRE S NOVELS 
 
 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap s list. 
 
 RICHARD CHATTERTON 
 
 A fascinating story in which love and jealousy play 
 strange tricks with women s souls. 
 
 A BACHELOR HUSBAND 
 
 Can a woman love two men at the same time ? 
 
 In its solving of this particular variety of triangle " A 
 Bachelor Husband " will particularly interest, and strangely 
 enough, without one shock to the most conventional minded. 
 
 THE SCAR 
 
 With fine comprehension and insight the author shows a 
 terrific contrast between the womam whose love was of the 
 flesh and one whose love was of the spirit. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF BARRY WICKLOW 
 
 Here is a man and woman who, marrying for love, yet try 
 to build their wedded life upon a gospel of hate for each 
 other and yet win back to a greater love for each other in 
 the end. 
 
 THE UPHILL ROAD 
 
 The heroine of this story was a consort of thieves. The 
 man was fine, clean, fresh from the West. It is a story of 
 strength and passion. 
 
 WINDS OF THE WORLD 
 
 Jill, a poor little typist, marries the great Henry Sturgess 
 and inherits millions, but not happiness. Then at last but 
 we must leave that to Ruby M. Ayres to tell you as only 
 she can. 
 
 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 
 
 In this story the author has produced a book which no 
 one who has loved or hopes to love can afford to miss. 
 The story fairly leaps from climax to climax. 
 
 THE PHANTOM LOVER 
 
 Have you not often heard of someone being in love with 
 love rather than the person they believed the object of their 
 affections ? That was Esther ! But she passes through the 
 crisis into a deep and profound love. 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
 
PETER B. KYNE S NOVELS 
 
 May be hat! wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap s list. 
 
 THE PRIDE OF PALOMAR 
 
 When two strong men clash and the under-dog has Irish 
 blood in his veins there s a tale that Kyne can tell 1 And 
 " the girl " is also very much in evidence. 
 
 KINDRED OF THE DUST 
 
 Donald McKay, son of Hector McKay, millionaire lum 
 ber king, falls in love with " Nan of the Sawdust Pile," a 
 charming girl who has been ostracized by her townsfolk. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE GIANTS 
 
 The right of the Cardigans, father and son, to hold the 
 Valley of the Giants against treachery. The reader finishes 
 with a sense of having lived with big men and women in a 
 big country. 
 
 GAPPY RICKS 
 
 The story of old Cappy Ricks and of Matt Peasley, the 
 boy he tried to break because he knew the acid test was 
 good for his soul. 
 
 WEBSTER: MAN S MAN 
 
 In a little Jim Crow Republic in Central America, a man 
 and a woman, hailing from the " States," met up with a 
 revolution and for a while adventures and excitement came 
 so thick and fast that their love affair had to wait for a lull 
 in the game. 
 
 CAPTAIN SCRAGGS 
 
 This sea yarn recounts the adventures of three rapscal 
 lion sea-faring men a Captain Scraggs, owner of the green 
 vegetable freighter Maggie, Gibney the mate and McGuff- 
 ney the engineer. 
 
 THE LONG CHANCE 
 
 A story fresh from the heart of the West, of San Pasquar, 
 a sun-baked desert town, of Harley P. Hennage, the best 
 gambler, the best and worst man of San Pasqual and of 
 lovely Donna. 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
 
Dr. Virginia Page is forced to go with the sheriff on a night journey 
 into the strongholds of a lawless band. Thrills and excitement sweep the 
 reader along to the end. 
 
 JACKSON GREGORY S NOVELS 
 
 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap s list. 
 
 THE EVERLASTING WHISPER 
 
 The story of a strong man s struggle against savage nature and human- 
 $ty, and of a beautiful girl s regeneration from a spoiled child of wealth into 
 a courageous strong-willed woman* 
 
 DESERT VALLEY 
 
 A college professor sets out with his daughter to find gold. They meet 
 a rancher who loses his heart, and become involved in a feud. An intensely 
 exciting story. 
 
 MAN TO MAN 
 
 Encircled with enemies, distrusted, Steve defends his right*. How he 
 won his game and the girl he loved it the story filled with breathless 
 ituationt. 
 
 THE BELLS OF SAN JUAN 
 
 Dr. Virginia Page is forced to go \> 
 into the strongholds of a lawless band. 1 
 reader along to the end. 
 
 JUDITH OF BLUE LAKE RANCH 
 
 Judith Sanford part owner of a cattle ranch realizes she is being robbed 
 by her foreman. How, with the help of Bud Lee. she checkmates Trevor s 
 scheme makes fascinating reading. 
 
 THE SHORT CUT 
 
 Wayne is suspected of killing his brother after a violent quarrel. Finan 
 cial complications, villains, a horse-race and beautiful Wanda, all go to make 
 up a thrilling romance. 
 
 THE JOYOUS TROUBLE MAKER 
 
 A reporter sets up housekeeping close to Beatrice s Ranoh much to her 
 chagrin. There is " another man " who complicates matters, but all turn? 
 out as it should in this tale of romance and adventure. 
 
 SIX FEET FOUR 
 
 Beatrice Waverly is robbed of $5,000 and suspicion fastens upon Buck 
 Thornton, but she soon realizes he it not guilty. Intensely exciting, here is a 
 seal story of the Great Far West. 
 
 WOLF BREED 
 
 No Luck Drennan had grown hard through loss of faith in men he had 
 trusted. A woman hater and sharp of tongue, he finds a match in Ygerne 
 whose clever fencing wins the admiration and love of the " Lone Wolf." 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
 
Records the many wonderful exploits by which Tarzan proves 
 his right to ape kingship. 
 
 EDGAR RICE BURROUGH S 
 NOVELS 
 
 May bi tod inr>ver books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap s list. 
 
 TARZAN AND THE GOLDEN LION~ 
 
 A tale of the African wilderness which appeals to all readers 
 of fiction. . . 
 
 TARZAN THE TERRIBLE 
 
 Further thrilling adventures of Tarzan while seeking his wife 
 in Africa. >~ ^ 
 
 TARZAN THE UNTAMED 
 
 ; Tells of Tarzan s return to the life of the ape-man in seeking 
 vengeance for the loss of his wife and home. 
 
 JUNGLE TALES OF TARZAN 
 
 Records the many wonderful expl 
 his right to ape kingship. 
 
 AT THE EARTH S CORE 
 
 An astonishing series of adventures in a world located inside 
 of the Earth. ^ 
 
 THE MUCKER 
 
 The story of Billy Byrne as extraordinary a character as the 
 famous Tarzan. 
 
 A PRINCESS OF MARS 
 
 Forty-three million miles from the earth a succession of the 
 wierdest and most astounding adventures in fiction. 
 
 THE GODS OF MARS 
 
 John Carter s adventures on Mara, where he fights the fero 
 cious "plant men," and defies Issus, the Goddess of Death. 
 
 THE WARLORD OF MARS 
 
 Old acquaintances, made in two other stori*a reappear, Tars 
 Tarkas, Tardos Mors and others. 
 
 THUVIA, MAID OF MARS 
 
 The story centers around the adventures of Carthoris, the son 
 of John Carter and Thuvia, daughter of a Martian Emperor. 
 
 THE CHESSMEN OF MARS 
 
 > The adventures of Princess Tara in the land of headless men, 
 creatures with the power of detaching their htads from their 
 bodies and replacing them at will. 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
 
FLORENCE L. BARCLAY S 
 NOVELS 
 
 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap s list. 
 
 THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER 
 
 A novel of the 12th Century. ,The heroine, believing she 
 had lost her lover, enters a convent. He returns, and in 
 teresting developments follow. 
 
 THE UPAS TREE 
 
 A love story of rare charm. It deala with a successful 
 author and his wife. 
 
 THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE 
 
 The story of a seven day courtship, in which the dis 
 crepancy in ages vanished into insignificance before the 
 convincing demonstration of abiding love. 
 
 THE ROSARY 
 
 The story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty 
 above all else in the world, but who, when blinded through 
 an accident, gains life s greatest happiness. A rare story 
 of the great passion of two real people superbly capable of 
 love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward. 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 
 
 The lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently widowed by the 
 death of a husband who never understood her, meets a fine, 
 clean young chap who is ignorant of her title and they fall 
 deeply in love with each other. When he learns her real 
 identity a situation of singular power is developed. 
 
 THE BROKEN HALO 
 
 The story of a young man whose religious belief was 
 shattered in childhood and restored to him by the little 
 white lady, many years older than himself , to whom he is 
 passionately devoted. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR 
 
 The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for 
 Africa, marries wealthy Diana Rivers, in order to help her 
 fulfill the conditions of her uncle s will, and how they finally 
 come to love each other and are reunited after experiences 
 that soften and purify. 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
 
ETHEL M. DELI/S NOVELS 
 
 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap s list 
 
 CHARLES REX 
 
 The struggle against a hidden secret and the love of z 
 strong man and a courageous woman. 
 THE TOP OF THE WORLD 
 
 Tells of the path which leads at last to the " top of the 
 world," which it is given to few seekers to find. 
 THE LAMP IN THE DESERT 
 
 Tells of the lamp of love that continues to shine through 
 all sorts of tribulations to final happiness. 
 GREATHEART 
 
 The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals 
 a noble soul. 
 THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE 
 
 A hero who worked to win even when there was only 
 " a hundredth chance." 
 THE SWINDLER 
 
 The story of a "bad man s" soul revealed by a 
 woman s faith. 
 THE TIDAL WAVE 
 
 Tales of love and of women who learned to know the 
 true from the false. 
 THE SAFETY CURTAIN 
 
 A very vivid love story of India. The volume also 
 contains four other long stories of equal interest. 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
 
ELEANOR H. PORTER S NOVELS 
 
 May be had wherever books arc sold. Ask for Cresset & Darrtap s list. 
 
 JUST DAVID 
 
 The tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to 
 nil in the hearts of the gruff farmer folk to whose care he 
 is left. 
 
 THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING 
 
 A compelling romance of love and marriage. 
 OH, MONEY ! MONEY ! 
 
 Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the disposi 
 tions of his relatives, sends them each a check for $100,* 
 000, and then as plain John Smith comes among them to 
 watch the result of his experiment. 
 
 SIX STAR RANCH 
 
 A wholesome story of a club of six girls and their sum 
 mer on Six Star Ranch. 
 
 DAWN 
 
 The story of a blind boy whose courage leads him 
 through the gulf of despair into a final victory gained D)l 
 dedicating his life to the service of blind soldiers. 
 
 ACROSS THE YEARS 
 
 Short stories of our own kind and of our own people 
 Contains some of the best writing Mrs. Porter has done, 
 
 THE TANGLED THREADS 
 
 In these stories we find the concentrated charm an/ 
 tenderness of all her other books. 
 
 THE TIE THAT BINDS 
 
 Intensely human stories told with Mrs. Porter s won 
 derfui talent for warm and vivid character drawing. 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
 
BOOTH TARKINGTON S 
 NOVELS 
 
 May be had wherever books are sold. AskTTor Grosset & Dunlap s list 
 
 SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown. 
 
 No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed 
 the immortal young people of this story. Its humor is irre 
 sistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was 
 Seventeen. 
 
 PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant. 
 
 This is a picture of a boy s heart, full of the lovable, hu 
 morous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older 
 folks. It is a finished, exquisite work. 
 
 PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm. 
 
 Like " Penrod ". and " Seventeen," this book contains 
 some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best 
 stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written. 
 
 THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers. 
 
 Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who re 
 volts against his father s plans for him to be a servitor of 
 big business. The love of a fine girl turns Bibb s life from 
 failure to success. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece. 
 
 A story of love and politics, more especially a picture of 
 a country editor s life in Indiana, but the charm of the book 
 lies in the love interest. 
 
 THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. 
 
 The " Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl s 
 engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder 
 of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end 
 marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really 
 worthy one to marry her sister. 
 
 Aak for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
 
KATHLEEN NORRIS 1 STORIES 
 
 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap s list 
 
 SISTERS. Frontispiece by Frank Street 
 
 The California Redwoods furnish the background for this 
 beautiful story of sisterly devotion and sacrifice. 
 
 POOR, DEAR. MARGARET KIRBY. 
 Frontispiece by George Gibbs. 
 
 A collection of delightful stories, including " Bridging the 
 Years " and The Tide-Marsh. This story is now shown in 
 moving pictures. 
 
 JQSSELYN S WIFE. Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert. 
 
 The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight fof 
 happiness and love. 
 
 MARTIE. THE UNCONQUERED. 
 Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers. 
 The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions. 
 
 THE HEART OF RACHAEL. 
 Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. 
 
 An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come 
 with a second marriage. 
 
 THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. 
 
 Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert. 
 
 J^"A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of a normal girl, obscure 
 
 and lonely, for the happiness of life. 
 
 SATURDAY S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes. 
 
 Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through 
 sheer determination to the better things for which her soul 
 hungered ? 
 
 1 MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 
 
 A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background 
 of every girl s life, and some dreams which came true. 
 
 Ask for Complete free list of G. 6- D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
 

14 DAY USE 
 
 XN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall 
 
 ^~m 
 
 
 243un T 62SS 
 
 ! OV 2 2 1974 3 5 
 
 AU625 64-5RW 
 
 IT-**** 
 
 LD 21A-50m-ll, 62 
 (D3279slO)476B 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley