Short stories from Life: The 81 prize stories in "Life's" Shortest Story Contest (2024)

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORIES FROM LIFE: THE 81 PRIZE STORIES IN "LIFE'S" SHORTEST STORY CONTEST ***

INTRODUCTION

By Thomas L. Masson
Managing Editor of Life

It was at a luncheon party that the idea of Life’sShort Story Contest was first suggested by Mr. LincolnSteffens. He propounded this interesting query:

“How short can a short story be and still be a short story?”

It was thereupon determined to discover, if possible,a practical answer to this interesting question.The columns of Life were thrown open to contributorsfor many months, prizes aggregating $1,750 wereoffered and eighty-one short stories were published.This book contains these stories, including the fourprize winners.

The contest cost in round numbers a little less than$12,000. Over thirty thousand manuscripts werereceived. They came from all over the world—fromsufferers on hospital cots, from literary toilers in thePhilippines, from Europe, Asia, and Africa, and fromevery State in the Union. One manuscript was sentfrom a trench at the French battle front, where thestory had been written between hand grenades.Every kind of story was represented, the war storyand the love story being the leaders. Every kind ofwriting was represented, from the short compoundof trite banalities to the terse, dramatic, carefullywrought out climax. Back of many of these effortsthe spectral forms of Guy de Maupassant and O.Henry hovered in sardonic triumph. Tragedy predominated.The light touch was few and far between.But it was still there, as the stories publishedshow.

Here let me pay a just tribute to the readers who,with almost superhuman courage, struggled throughthese thirty thousand manuscripts. In the beginningthey were a noble band of highly intelligent and cultivatedmen and women, with strong constitutions,ready and willing to face literature in any form. Iunderstand that many of them survived the contest.This speaks well for the virility of our Americanstock. Theirs was a noble and enduring toil, andtheirs will be a noble and enduring fame. Withoutthem this book now might contain twenty-ninethousand nine hundred and eleven poor storiesinstead of eighty-one good ones. To those amongthem who still live, a long life and, let us hope, anultimate recovery!

Naturally, in the method of securing the stories,there had to be some way of getting the contributorsto make them as short as possible. Mr. Steffens’ingenious suggestion admirably attained this end.First, a limit of fifteen hundred words was placedupon all stories submitted, no story longer than thisbeing admitted to the contest. For each story acceptedthe contributor was paid, not for what hewrote, but for what he did not write. That is tosay, he was paid at the rate of ten cents a wordfor the difference between what he wrote and fifteenhundred words. If his story, for example, happenedto be 1,500 words in length, he got nothing. If itwas 1,490 words he got one dollar. If there had beena story only ten words long, the author would havereceived $149. To be accurate, the longest storyactually accepted for the contest was 1,495 words, forwhich the author received fifty cents, and the shortestwas 76 words, for which the author received$142.40. The interested reader will be able to discoverthe identity of these two stories by examiningthe stories in the book. At the original luncheonparty a large part of the warm discussion that tookplace turned on how short a story could be made andstill come within the definition of a short story. Itwas really a question as to when is a story not astory, but only an anecdote. When a story is astory, is it a combination of plot, character, andsetting or is it determined by only one of these threeelements? Must it end when you have ended itor must it suggest something beyond the reading?I shall not attempt to answer these questions. Thedefinition of the short story should be relegated to therealm of “What is Humor?” “Who is the motherof the chickens?” and “How Old is Ann?” If youreally wish to vary the monotony of your intellectuallife and get it away from “Who Wrote Shakespeare?”or “Who killed Jack Robinson?” start a discussion asto what a short story is. It has long been my privateopinion that the best short story in the world is thestory of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, but I haveno doubt that, should I venture this assertion inthe company of others, there would be one toask: “What has that to do with the price of oilnow?”

But in order that the reader may have some ideaof the method adopted in judging the stories whichwere finally selected, it may be well to give what Imay term a composite definition of what a shortstory is, gathered from the various opinions offeredwhen the contest was originally under discussionby the judges. This definition is not intended to becomplete or final. It is not the cohesive opinion ofone individual, but only a number of rather off-handopinions which are of undoubted psychological interestas bearing upon the final decisions.

A short story must contain at least two characters,for otherwise there would be no contrast or struggle.A situation must be depicted in which there are twoopposing forces.

A short story must be a picture out of real lifewhich gives the reader a definite sensation, such ashe gets upon looking at a masterpiece of painting.While it must be complete in itself, the art of it liesin what it suggests to the reader beyond its ownlimits. That is to say, it must convey an idea muchlarger than itself. This is the open sesame to thegolden principle. (This is well illustrated in thestory that took the first prize.)

Every short story must of necessity deal withhuman beings, either directly or indirectly. It mustreveal in the briefest manner possible—as it were,like a lightning flash—a situation that carries thereader beyond it. It is, therefore, inevitable that thesupreme test of the short story lies in its climax.The climax must gather up everything that has gonebefore, and perhaps by only one word epitomize thewhole situation in such a way as to produce in thereader a sense of revelation—just as if he were thesole spectator of a supremely interesting humanmystery now suddenly made plain.

The technique of the short story should be suchthat no word in its vocabulary will suggest tritenessor the fatal thought that the author is dependentupon others for his phrasing. When, for example, weread “With a glad cry she threw her arms about him”“A hoarse shout went up from the vast throng”“He flicked the ashes,” we know at once that theauthor is only dealing in echoes.

These were some of the general considerationswhich governed the readers and judges, but it wouldbe unfair to say that there were not other considerationswhich came up later on. In a number ofinstances, manuscripts which were interesting andwell written, and even longer than others that wereaccepted for the contest, were rejected because it wasfelt that they were not really stories, but more in thenature of descriptive sketches.

So far as the practical method pursued was concerned,it will not be amiss to state briefly how thework was carried on.

It was deemed best, on general principles, to letthe authors of the stories have a hand in the matter,the editors feeling frankly that they preferred a disinterestedmethod which would relieve them in ameasure from the fullest responsibility. The conditionswere therefore made to read that:

“The editors of ‘Life’ will first select out of all thestories published, the twelve which are, in their judgment,the best. The authors of these twelve stories willthen be asked to become judges of the whole contest, whichwill then include all the stories published. These twelveauthors will decide which are the best three stories, inthe order of their merit, to be awarded the prizes. Incase for any reason any one or more of these twelveauthors should be unable to act as a judge, then the contestwill be decided by the rest.

“Each of these twelve judges will, of course, if he sowishes, vote for his own story first, so that the final resultmay probably be determined by the combined second,third, and fourth choices of all the judges. This, however,will not affect the result. In case of a divisionamong the judges, the Editors of ‘Life’ will cast the decidingvote.”

This method worked well and was fully justifiedby the final result. As the manuscripts were receivedthey were registered according to a carefulclerical system and turned over to the readers, whowere from five to seven in number, including threewomen. The rule was that each story should beread independently by at least two readers, theirverdicts separately recorded. If they were unanimousin rejecting a story, it was returned. If theywere agreed upon its merits, or if they were at alldoubtful, it was then passed up to the five membersof Life’s editorial staff. It was read and reread bythem, and the individual comments of each editorrecorded independently. By this sifting process,each story was subjected to a final process of discussionand elimination. The stories, as accepted, werepaid for on the basis of ten cents a word for all thewords under 1,500 which the story did not containand were published in Life. From the authors of theeighty-one stories published, the editors selected thefollowing twelve judges, each one of whom consentedto serve:

• Herbert Heron, Carmel, Cal.
• J. H. Ranxom, Houston, Texas.
• Ralph Henry Barbour, Manchester, Mass.
• Clarence Herbert New, Brooklyn, N. Y.
• William Johnston, New York City.
• Graham Clark, New York City.
• Mrs. Elsie D. Knisely, Everett, Wash.
• Mrs. Jane Dahl, San Francisco, Cal.
• Selwyn Grattan, New York City.
• E. L. Smith, Ft. Worth, Texas.
• Herbert Riley Howe, Sioux Falls, S. Dak.
• Miss Ruth Sterry, Los Angeles, Cal.

These judges, independently of each other, sent intheir opinions, several of them not voting for theirown stories as the first prize, although this was allowableunder the rules. There was no difficulty ontheir part in awarding the first prize of one thousanddollars and the second prize of five hundred dollars.In the case of the third prize there was such a divisionof opinion that the editors, under the rule of thecompetition that gave them the final decision, determinedthat it would be fair to divide the thirdprize between two competitors who had received thesame number of the judges’ votes.

The prize winners were as follows:

FIRST PRIZE

Ralph Henry Barbour of Manchester, Mass., andGeorge Randolph Osborne of Cambridge, Mass.,joint authors of “Thicker Than Water.”

SECOND PRIZE

Harry Stillwell Edwards of Macon, Georgia,author of “The Answer.”

THIRD PRIZE

Dwight M. Wiley of Princeton, Ill., author of“Her Memory,” and Redfield Ingalls of New YorkCity, author of “Business and Ethics.” This prizewas divided.

This book is now offered to the public in the confidenthope and the firm belief that it will be found avaluable contribution to the literature of shortfiction, in addition to the interest it also meritsbecause of the stories themselves.

One final point should be emphasized. This bookis not, in the very nature of the case, a book of uniformliterary style; it is not the polished expressionof the highest literary art. It is the best of thirtythousand attempts to write a short story, by all sortsand conditions of minds—a fair proportion of themamateurs, a fair proportion writers of considerableexperience, and a small proportion excellently skilledcraftsmen. In their final selection of these stories,the readers and judges were governed, not so muchby the question “Is this superfine literary art?” asthey were by the question “Is this interesting?”By this touchstone the book certainly justifies itsexistence.

T. L. M.

N. B.

By Joseph Hall

Lieutenant Ludwig Kreusler glancedhurriedly through the mail that had accumulatedduring the month that the X-8 had been awayfrom base. At the bottom of the pile he found theletter he had been seeking and his eyes brightened.It was a fat letter, addressed in feminine handwriting,and its original postmark was Washington, D. C.,U. S. A.

“His Excellency will see you, sir.” The orderlyhad entered quietly and stood at attention.

With a slightly impatient shrug the Lieutenantshoved the letters into his pocket and left the room.

He found Admiral Von Herpitz, the wizard of thesea, at his desk. As the young man entered the oldAdmiral rose and came forward. This unusualmark of favour somewhat embarrassed the youngofficer until the old man, placing both huge handsupon his shoulders, looked into his eyes.

“Excellent.”

The one word conveyed a volume of praise, gratification.The old sea dog was known as a silent man.Censure was more frequent from him than applause.

The Lieutenant could find no word. The situationwas for him embarrassing in the extreme. He, likeHerpitz, was a man of actions, and words confusedhim.

“These English,” the old Admiral spoke grimly,“we will teach them. Have you seen the reports?They are having quite a little panic in America alsoover the Seronica. Two hundred of the passengerslost were American.”

A file of papers lay on the table. Kreusler ranthrough them hurriedly. The Berlin journals gavethe sinking of the Seronica great headlines followedby columns of sheer joy. The London and Paris andsome of the New York sheets called the exploit acrime and its perpetrators pirates. But they allgave it utter and undivided thought. The X-8 hadbecome the horror craft of the world. Berlin figurativelycarried her young commander on her shoulders.He found himself the hero of the hour.

“You have done well for the Fatherland,” VonHerpitz repeated as the Lieutenant was goingout.

In his own cabin Kreusler forgot the Seronica andthe X-8. The fat letter with the Washington postmarkabsorbed him.

Two years, ending with the outbreak of the greatwar, Kreusler had been naval attaché to the Germanembassy at Washington. He had been popular inthe society of the American capital. He was highlyeducated, a profound scientist, an original thinker,and an adaptable and interesting dinner guest.Dorothy Washburn, the youngest daughter of theSenator from Oregon, had made her début in Washingtonduring the second winter of Kreusler’s presencethere. The two had met. They were exactopposites; he tall, severe, blond, thoughtfully serious;she, small, dark, vivacious, bubbling with the joy oflife. Love was inevitable.

The fat letter was engrossing. It breathed inevery line and word and syllable the fine love thiswonder woman gave him. One paragraph was mostastounding. It read:

“To be near thee, loved one, I have arranged,through the gracious kindness of our friends, to cometo Berlin as a nurse. Just when is as yet uncertain,but come I will, fear not, as quickly as may be.Dost long for me, to see me, dearest heart, as I forthee? Well, soon perhaps that may not be so faraway. Couldst not thou arrange to be wounded—onlyslightly, of course, my love—so that I might attendthee?”

The letter ended with tender love messages andassurances of devotion. The last sheet bore a singleword, “Over,” and on the reverse side a woman’smost important news, a postscript. This read:

“P. S. Arrangements have been completed.Everything is settled. Even my father has consented,knowing of my great love. I sail next week.”

And then:

“N. B. The ship on which I sail is the Seronica.”

THE CLEAREST CALL

By Brevard Mays Connor

“Don’t worry,” said the great surgeon. “Shewill pull through. She has a fine constitution.”

“She will pull through because you are handlingthe case,” the nurse murmured, with an admiringglance.

“She will pull through,” agreed the ReverendPaul Templeton, “because I shall pray.”

He did not see the ironical glance which passedbetween nurse and doctor, materialists both. Hehad stooped and kissed his wife, who lay on thewheeled table that was to carry her to the operatingroom. She was asleep, for the narcotic had takenimmediate effect.

For a moment he hung over her and then he movedaside. When the door of the operating room hadclosed on the wheeled table with its sheeted burdenhe stepped out on the little upper balcony beneaththe stars, knelt, and earnestly addressed himself tohis Maker.

A distant clock struck eight. The operationwould take an hour....

Humbly he prayed, but with superb confidence.He had lived a blameless life, and his efforts were inbehalf of a life equally blameless. It was inconceivablethat he who had given all and asked nothingshould be refused this, his first request. It was evenmore inconceivable that his wife, who was so worthyof pardon, should be condemned. Humbly heprayed, but not without assurance of a friendlyAuditor.

It was a sweet May night, satin-soft, blossom-scented.The south wind was whispering confidencesto the elms; the stars were unutterably benign.Surely God was in His heaven, thought the ReverendPaul Templeton.

Then up from the darkness beneath the trees camethe low, thrilling laugh of a girl. He lifted his facefrom his hands and stared, scarce breathing, into thenight, while his ears still held every note of that low,thrilling laugh, which spoke of youth in love in thespringtime.

The black bulk of the hospital behind him fadedinto obscurity as swiftly as a scene struck on a darkenedstage. He was no longer on a little upper porch,but in an old-fashioned summer-house, hidden fromthe tactless moon by a mesh of honeysuckle in bloom.He was no longer on his knees before his Maker, butsitting beside the girl who had been Ellen McCartney.

She was dressed in white. She was so close hecould feel the warmth of her. Somehow, in thatdarkness, their hands met and clung, shouldertouched shoulder—the fragrance of her hair in hisnostrils. The soft, womanly yielding of her body.

Now her palms were resting against his cheeks,drawing his head down; now, as lightly as a butterflyupon a flower, her lips brushed his one closed eye andthen the other; now she laughed, a low, thrillinglaugh, which spoke of youth in love in the springtime.

Prayer had gone dry at its source, choked by theluxuriant vegetation of memory. He rememberedother kisses and thrilled in sympathy with the delightof other time....

The distant clock struck nine, but he did not hearit. The shriek of a woman in pain sliced through thesilence but could not penetrate the walls of hisdream. The girl who had been Ellen McCartneylay in his arms, her lips to his.

Then a hand fell upon his shoulder.

“Come,” said the nurse, and slipped back into theroom.

The Reverend Paul Templeton came back with awrench to consciousness of the time and place, andhorror surged through his veins like a burning poison.It was over—and he had not prayed! And worse!When his whole being should have been prostrate inhumble supplication he had allowed it to walk brazenlyerect among memories that at the best werefrivolous and at the worst—carnal! He seemed tohear a voice saying:

“I am the Lord of Vengeance. Heavy is minehand against them that slight Me!”

Mastered by despair, he clung to the iron railing.What could he hope of science when he had failed inhis duty to faith? Somehow he managed to struggleto his feet and gain the room.

The sheeted figure on the bed was very still, theface paler than the pillow on which it lay. He crumpleddown beside her and hid his face, too sick withshame to weep. He knew with a horrid certaintythat she was dead and that he had killed her.

And then:

“Paul!”

It was the merest wisp of sound, almost too impalpableto be human utterance. He lifted his headand looked into the face of the great surgeon....He was smiling.

“Paul!”

He looked now into the pale face of his wife ...and she was smiling.

“There, there,” said the great surgeon. “I toldyou she would come back. Her constitution——”

“Constitution!” scoffed the nurse. “It was you.”

“Or,” smiled the surgeon, magnanimously, “yourprayers, sir.”

But the sick woman made a gesture of dissent.

“No,” she said, “it was none of those things. Icame back when I remembered——”

“Paul,” she whispered, “lean down.”

He obeyed. Her palms fluttered against hischeeks, and, as lightly as a butterfly on a flower, herlips brushed his one closed eye and then the other.And then the girl who had been Ellen McCartneylaughed a low, thrilling laugh, which spoke of youth inlove in the springtime.

GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN

By Selwyn Grattan

The empty vial—the odour of bitter almonds—andin the chair what had been a man.

On the desk this note:

“Farewell. From the day of our marriage I haveknown. I love you. I love my friend. Better thatI should go and leave you two to find happiness thanthat I should stay and the three of us wear outwretched lives. Again farewell—and bless you.

“Robert.”

THE GRETCHEN PLAN

By William Johnston

“And Solomon had seven hundred wives,” readPastor Brandt.

Gretchen Edeler sat up to listen. A new idea hadcome to her. A distressing state of affairs existed inthe village of Eisen. There had gone to the war fromthe village over three hundred men. From the warthere had returned fifty-one—only fifty-one—andthere in Eisen were two hundred and eighty-one girlswanting husbands.

Of the fifty-one returned soldiers twenty had wivesand families already. Two had married during thewar, married the nurses they had had in the hospital.Hilda Sachs, the rich widow, had captured one.That left just twenty-eight men available for husbands—twenty-eightto two hundred and eighty-one girls.

Yet no marriages occurred. The men wished tomarry as much as the girls, but how could a man decidewith so many to pick from? Thus stood mattersthat Sunday morning.

After the service Gretchen waited to speak toPastor Brandt.

“Everything in the Bible,” she asked anxiously,“is it always right?”

“Ja,” the herr pastor affirmed, “the Bible alwaysgives right.”

“About everything?”

“Ja, about everything.”

“The Bible says that Jacob had two wives andthat Solomon had seven hundred wives. Is it rightfor men to have many wives?”

“It was right in Bible days,” affirmed the pastorguardedly. “In those times many wives wereneeded to populate the land.”

“Many wives are needed now to populate theland,” asserted Gretchen. “Why should not eachman in Eisen take now ten wives?”

“It is against the law,” declared the pastor.

“It is not against Bible law.”

The pastor pondered ten minutes.

“Nein,” he answered, “it is not against Biblelaw.”

“It would be for the good of the Fatherland.”

The pastor pondered twenty minutes.

“Ja,” he decided, “it would be for the good of theFatherland.”

“We will do it,” announced Gretchen. “Ten ofus will take one husband. Better a tenth of a husbandthan never any husband. Will you marryus?”

The pastor pondered thirty minutes.

“Ja,” he said at length, “for the good of theFatherland.”

Quickly Gretchen spread her news. Quickly thegirls accepted the Gretchen plan. Quickly theyformed themselves into groups of ten and selecteda husband. Quickly the twenty-eight men accepted.What man wouldn’t?

Only Selma Kronk, the homeliest of homely oldmaids, was left unmated. In indignant dismay shehastened to Frau Werner’s kaffee-klatch and unfoldedto the married women assembled there theschreckliche Gretchen plan.

“Impossible!” asserted Frau Stern.

“Unspeakable!” declared Frau Heitner.

“It must not be!” announced Frau Werner.

In outraged wrath they appealed to their husbandsto interfere.

“It is for the good of the Fatherland,” the husbandsone and all declared. “What man would nothave ten wives if he could?”

They appealed to the Mayor, to the Governor,even to the Kaiser himself, but in vain. To a manthey welcomed the idea.

So the Gretchen plan was carried out. Each warhero took ten wives, not only in Eisen, but throughoutthe land.

Nevertheless, Frau Werner and the other aggrievedrespectable advocates of monogamy had their revenge.

As invariably happens after a war, all the babiesborn were boy babies.

“Aha!” cried Frau Werner exultantly, as each newbirth was announced. “Twenty years from nowthere will not be women enough to go around. Eachwife then will have to have ten husbands. I wonderhow the men will like that?”

THE GLORY OF WAR

By M. B. Levick

He was an orderly in the hospital and had gotthe job through a friend in his Grand ArmyPost. The work was not for a fastidious man, butJohn was not fastidious. In his duties he affectedthe bluff manner of a veteran, and, peering at theinternes with a wise squint, would say, “Oh, thisain’t nothin’; an old soldier is used to such things.If y’ want t’ see the real thing, jus’ go to war.” Andhe would laugh at them and they would laugh at him.

He wore his G. A. R. emblem conspicuously on alloccasions. At the slightest chance he became a borewith long tales of fighting, of how he had chasedJohnny Reb and how those were the days. Thestudents, still near enough to the classroom to hold alingering repugnance for the text-books’ overemphasison the Civil War, would guy him, but Johnnever suspected.

On Decoration Day he marched and attended asmany exercises as he could squeeze into the too shorthours. He wore a committee ribbon like a decorationfor valour. Once he carried a flag in a parade,and for weeks talked about Old Glory, the Starsand Stripes, and regimental colours that had changedhands in distant frays.

And he had fought only to save his country, hewould assert. He didn’t have no eye on Uncle Sam’spurse, not he; he could take care of himself, and ifnot, why, there was them as would. When theyouths accused him of sinking his pension, he turnedhotly to remind them of their lack of beard.

He was ever so ready to defend himself with anancient vigour that the students and the nurses weresorry when he fell ill. Perhaps his campaigning hadtaken from his vitality, they surmised. The housesurgeon told them he would never get up. Afterthat—and the afterward was not long—John toldhis tales to more sober auditors.

He had been in bed a week and had begun to suspectthe state of affairs when he called to him oneevening the youth who of all had shown him the mostdeference.

“Sit down,” he said, without looking the youngsterin the eye; and for a time there were heard only thenoises of the day-weary ward. Presently John spoke,in an apprehensive tone of confidences.

“I’ve been a soldier now for forty-five years,” hesaid, “an’ for once I want to be just myself....I kind o’ like you, an’ there ain’t nobody else I cantalk to, for I ain’t got any one....

“In ’61 I was on my father’s farm in Pennsylvani’.I was on’y a kid then—fifteen—but when the warcome I wanted the worst way to go. But my mother,she cried an’ begged me not to, an’ my daddy saidhe’d lick me, so I tried t’ forget it.

“But I couldn’t. Lots o’ other boys was goin’away t’ enlist an’ they was all treated like heroes.Ye’d ’a’ thought they’d won the war already bythemselves the way folks carried on when they left—thegirls cryin’ about ’em an’ the teacher an’ theminister an’ the circuit judge speakin’ to ’em an’all the stay-at-homes mad because they wasn’tgoin’, too.

“It kept gettin’ harder an’ harder to work on thefarm, an’ finally I said, ‘Well, I’ll go anyway.’ Iknew pa an’ ma wouldn’t change their mind, soI didn’t say nothin’ to them. But I went to all theother boys an’ told them. ‘I’m goin’ away t’ enlist,’I’d say, an’ when they’d laugh an’ say, ‘Why, y’r mawon’t let ye,’ I’d look wise an’ tell ’em to watch me,an’ I’d strut aroun’ an’ wink sly-like.

“They got to talkin’ about it so much I was scairtmy dad would find out, but he didn’t, an’ I held backas long as I could, because all the other boys waslookin’ up to me. I was a man, all right, then.None o’ ’em that went away was the mogul I was.The girls got wind of it, too, an’ I could see ’em outo’ the tail o’ my eye watchin’ me an’ whisperin’ an’sayin’, girl-like, all the things the boys was tryin’not to say. That on’y made the boys talk more,too.

“So after a few days I ran away. The first nightI hung roun’ near the town an’ after dark sneakedback to hear ’em talkin’. ‘He’ll be back soon,’ onefeller said. Another, just to show he knew more,spoke up, ‘No, he won’ come back ’less in blue or in acoffin.’ An’ the others laughed.

“I thought that was fine—in blue or a coffin.‘You bet I won’t; I’m the man f’r that,’ says I tomyself.

“It took me three days to walk to the city. WhenI told the recruitin’ sergeant I wanted to be highcorporal he laughed an’ pounded me an’ put methrough my paces. Then he said I couldn’t be asoldier. My eyes wasn’t good enough.

“I cried at that; on’y a kid, y’ know—the’ was lotsof ’em younger than me fightin’. But I rememberedthe feller what said, ‘He won’t come back ’cept inblue or a coffin,’ so I went where the soldiers was an’bummed an’ hobnobbed with ’em till they let mehelp at peelin’ vegetables and pot-wrastlin’ an’ suchthings. Then I got to be a sort o’ water boy. My,I was proud!... But that on’y lasted a month,an’ I had to get out.

“I jus’ couldn’t go home without the blue, an’ itseemed too soon to get a coffin yet, so I went to NewYork an’ stayed all through the war. Nearly starved,too.

“After it was over I went back home. They didn’tsuspicion, o’ course, an’ the first thing I knew I’d told’em I’d been in the army. Hadn’t planned to, butsome way it just popped out.

“Right away it was hail-fellow-well-met with themthat had been at the front, an’ we were goin’ roun’givin’ oursel’s airs an’ the girls seemed to think wewas better than all the rest.... Well, sometimesI....

“I was jus’ a young fellow, y’ know, an’ kep’ gettin’in deeper an’ deeper an’ never thought it’d meananything. When a man says, ‘John, you rememberthat clump o’ trees the Fifty-eighth lay under atAntietam?’ why, you say, ‘Yes.’ An’ the next timey’r tellin’ about Antietam you jus’ throw in themtrees without thinkin’. That’s the way it was withme. An’ I read books to get my facks straight an’no one never caught me nappin’. I used t’ correctthem.... At last I got to believe it all myself....

“Then the G. A. R. Post was organized in ourtown.... An’ so it went.

“Well, it’s been a long time. If I’d ’a’ known inthe first place maybe it’d ’a’ been different....But it was my right, anyway, wasn’t it, now? Say,don’t you think it was comin’ to me? It wasn’t myfault. By God, I wanted to fight! Jus’ one chancean’ so help me——

“They cheated me out o’ it an’ I got even. That’sall it was. I never took no pension. I’ve had theglory, like ’em.... I’ve paid for it....I on’y took my own.

“And the Post will bury me.”

THE AVIATOR

By Hornell Hart

“The French Government declines to accept yourservices.” The words said themselves overand over in his ears in the drone of the motor, asthe monoplane climbed into the velvet night sky.Was that diplomatic blunder of two years ago soutterly unforgivable? Was exile not enough? Wouldthe Republic deny him even the right to fight underher colours? “The French Government declines toaccept your services.” The recruiting officer hadsaid it, and General Joffre had reiterated the unrelentingstatement in reply to his direct appeal forenlistment. And now the drone of the propeller, thehum of the motor, and the rush of the air through thebraces whispered the words ceaselessly into his ears asthe great wings carried him up into the darkness.

Below, the ghostly searchlight fingers of the fortressreached up, groping toward him. The centralsearchlight of the fortress was playing on a Frenchcruiser which had crept up recklessly close to the fortand was pouring shells in rapid salvos up into thebattlements on the hill. The sparks of fire from theship’s side seemed but tiny points of light far downbelow. Momentarily balls of flame appeared aboveand around the dim outlines of the fortifications, andthe smoke of bursting shells drifted wanly acrossthe white, searching pencils of light. Down thereFrance, undaunted, grappled the Turk in the darkness.From the farther shore distant lights of Asiatwinkled in the night.

Behind that central searchlight, Henri had said,lay the entrance to the powder magazine. Thatpassageway was the vital spot of the fortress. Anexplosion there would ignite the ammunition andshatter the entire centre of the fortifications.

A searchlight came wheeling across the sky andshot past just behind the monoplane. The flash ofthe guns on the hill were now just beneath him, andtheir roar formed a surging background of sound tothe whirr of the machine. He swept in a huge curvetoward a position back of the fortress. The searchlightwas circling the sky again. For a fraction of asecond the aeroplane was silhouetted in its full glare.The beam wavered and returned zigzagging to pickhim up again. This time it caught and followed him.A shell burst below him. If one fragment of shrapnelshould strike the nitroglycerine which he carriedFrance would profit little from this last ride of his.

The fortress was not far behind him. He sweptabout and pointed the nose of the monoplane downwardstraight toward the base of the central searchlight.Its beam had ceased to play on the battleshipand was lifting swiftly toward him. Suddenly itsglare caught him straight in the eyes. He grippedthe controls and steered tensely for that dazzlingtarget.

“The French Government declines to accept yourservices.” He smiled grimly. They could not welldecline them now. The air rushed past him soswiftly that it seemed stiff like a stream of waterunder high pressure. Below him at that point oflight death stood smiling. The crash of a shellbursting behind him was lost in the gale of wind inhis ears. The light grew swiftly larger and the outlinesof the battlements became distinct. “TheFrench Government——” the world ended in acrash of blistering whiteness.

“He was pointed directly at the magazine,” saidAbdul, the gunner. “If the shell from the Frenchcruiser had not struck him we should all by now havebeen with Allah.”

LOYALTY

By Clarence Herbert New

They had been playing “cut-in” Bridge untilthe Charltons went home, at midnight. Insteadof following them Norris returned to the librarywith Steuler and his wife. In the old days BarclayNorris had asked Barbara to marry him; but Steuler’simpetuous love-making appealed to her imagination,and Norris had remained their loyal friend. Inthe library, Steuler yawned—without apology. Extractinga suit-case from the coat-closet, he startedfor the stairs.

“You and Barbara may sit up all night, my friend;but me—I haf been travelling, I cannot keep my eyesopen! Good-night!”

Norris stopped him with a slight motion of thehead, nodded to a chair by the table, lighted a cigarrather deliberately, and sat down.

“There’s a matter I want to discuss with you,Max—now.... Don’t go away, Bab. It concernsyou—rather deeply.” He inspected his cigarcritically during a few moments of silence. “Max,you may have heard that my law practice broughtme occasionally in touch with the Government, butyou didn’t know I was officially connected with theSecret Service. When we were drawn into this waryour probable sympathies were considered. Butyou enlisted for the Spanish War, though you nevergot farther than Chattanooga. You took the oath ofallegiance. We considered your loyalty had beendemonstrated, so we trusted you. We’ve had aconstant fight against treachery, however, in the mostundreamed-of places. You were again suspected.Is it necessary for me to say more? LieutenantSchmidt was arrested ten minutes after you left himthis morning. I saw you receive from him specificationsfor the Wright Multiplane, the Maxim ChlorineShell, and the perfected ‘Lake’ Submarine. I alsoknow you have a copy of the State Department’scode-book.”

Barbara Steuler had remained standing at the endof the table, her eyes dilating with an expression ofincredulous, outraged amazement.

“Barclay! Are you insane? Are you accusingMax of these horrible things? My husband?”

Norris spoke gently but firmly.

“I’m stating facts, Bab—not accusing. BecauseI’ve been your friend, and his, I’m giving him thischance to return the papers and code before it’stoo late. At this moment I’m the only one whor*ally knows. He meant to sail on Grunwald’syacht for Christiania at sunrise. There’s still timefor him to get aboard and escape. I’m personallyanswerable for the unknown man I’ve been followingto-day!”

She whirled upon her husband, saw, with horror,that he was making no denial, that he was looking attheir old friend with a gleam of hatred in his eyes.Presently he pulled open a drawer in the table,thrusting one hand into the back part of it.

“So! You efen suspect where I put the codebook?Yess? Well, it iss the fortune of war, I suppose.You think I will not arrested be, if I reachthe yacht before morning? Nein? You are theonly one who knows—yet? Und suppose I nefercome back? My wife I mus’ leave with the man whoalways haf lofed——” There was a flash, a stunningreport. Norris staggered up from his chair andpitched headlong upon the floor.

“Max! Max! A traitor! A murderer! MyGod!”

He took a canvas-bound book from the drawer,thrusting it hastily into the suit-case, then fetchedovercoat and hat from the closet. In his hurry heoverlooked the automatic pistol which lay upon thetable. So intent was he upon escaping with whathe had that he seemed to have forgotten her entirely.But a low, gasping voice made him whirl about atthe door.

“Another step—and I’ll—kill you!” The pistolsteadily covered his heart. (He’d seen her shoot.)

“Put that book on the table.” He hesitated,meditating a spring through the doorway. “WhenI count three! One!...” With a mutteredcurse he took the code from the suit-case.

“Empty your pockets!”

There was no mistaking the expression in her eyes.He emptied his pockets.

“Now—go! Without the suit-case!”

“Barbara! You would haf me leave you! Likethis!” Her face was colourless, in her eyes a broodinghorror, a dazed consciousness of that motionlessbody on the floor behind the table.

“My people fought at Lexington and Concord—forprinciples dearer than life to them. You sworeallegiance to those principles, to their flag. Andyou are—this! You’ve murdered our loyal friend—whenhe was giving a traitor a chance, at great personalrisk! Go! Quickly!”

As the front door slammed she ran to the window,watched him down the block. A man who did suchthings might return later, catch her unarmed, securethe papers. Her brain worked automatically. Therewas no safe place to conceal them. They must bedestroyed at once! Tearing the book to pieces, shepiled the leaves upon the andirons in the fireplacewith the other papers, then lighted the heap. Whenthey were entirely destroyed a patter of footstepsechoed from the stairs; a little figure in pajamascame peeking around the portière. (A thrill ofpassionate thankfulness ran through her that heresembled her people, with no trace of the alienblood.)

“Mo-ther! What was that big noise?”

“Possibly some one’s automobile, dear—a blowoutor a back-fire, you know.” She forced herself tospeak quietly, standing so that he couldn’t look behindthe table.

“Mo-ther, who was down here wiv you?”

“Uncle Barclay, sweetheart. But—oh, God!—he’sgone now.” (Norris’s love had been the truer,deeper affection; she’d known it for some time.)“Run along back to beddy, darling. Mother willcome up presently.”

She had a feeling of suffocation as the boy huggedher impetuously and padded softly upstairs. As shelistened to his careful progress another sound, afaint rustling from behind the table made her heartstop beating for a second. With trembling limbsshe leaned across the table and looked. The deadman lay in a slightly different position; there wasa barely perceptible movement of the chest. Shereached breathlessly for the telephone.

“Give me Bryant 9702, please!... Yes!Doctor Marvin’s house! Quickly!”

MOSES COMES TO BURNING BUSH

By W. T. Larned

Melting snow in the spring and cloud-burstingrains in the fall poured their floods from thefoothills, through the arroyo, and were licked upand lost in the arid lands below. The Mormonscame, dammed the outlet in the ridge—and, lo!there was a lake. Thus Burning Bush, CortezCounty, New Mexico, was created, on the edge ofgreen alfalfa fields. And because there was coalthe railroad ran a spur to collect it; and because therewas a railroad cowmen came in with their beeves andsheepmen with their mutton and wool.

In the terms of a now-discarded census classification,the “souls” composing Cortez County’s populationwere officially designated as “white men, Mormons,and Mexicans.” Also, there were Indians,who could not vote and did not count. Finally,there was Ah Sin.

Ah Sin was no common coolie. He had been,indeed, the prize pupil at the Chinese mission on theCoast. He could speak and read English, do sumswith his head in American arithmetic, and recitewhole passages from the Bible. With a cash capitalaccumulated in ten years of dogged domestic service,he had come to Burning Bush and opened a generalstore. It was the only one in town, and it paid.

Ah Sin—smiling, courteous, honest—worked fifteenhours a day, and put his profits in the bank.In time he would go back to China a rich man.Then Moses came.

That Moses should come to Burning Bush wasinevitable. Burning Bush had begun to boom.The odour of its prosperity had been wafted afar, andthe nostrils of the Israelite knew it.

The new store, lavishly painted in greens and yellows,was the most noticeable thing in town. WhenMoses had moved in, even the Montezuma hotelseemed to shrink. It had two show windows of pureplate glass—their contents tagged with legends proclaimingcut prices. Across the full width of its imposingfalse-front elevation there appeared this sign:

With such simple lures are the simple enticed.Burning Bush stopped, looked—and listened tomaneuvering Moses. It is the new thing thatcatches the eye and fills the ear. Ah Sin had forgottento beat his gong. Custom fell off, and foundits way to the newcomer. In a month or so theCelestial hardly held his own.

Ah Sin, losing trade, was troubled. Meeting thecut in prices did not bring back his customers. WithOriental taste he organized a novel window display—invain. Something was the matter. But what?

Ah Sin’s guileless mind could not grasp it. Thrownon his own mental resources, he grappled as best hecould with the problem. The Bible teachers hadtaught him that the Jews were a race dispersed andpaying the penalty of their transgressions. Ah Sinbelieved this to be literally the truth. Yet he, aChristian, seemed about to be overcome by the competitionof an Israelite.

“Velly funny,” said Ah Sin to himself. “Heblewmake good. Chlistian catchee hell.”

He strolled out into the street, his shop beingempty for the time, and contemplated long andearnestly the place of his competitor across the way.Something about the sign seemed to puzzle him andto make him think. He shook his head. Then hebacked off and looked critically at his own shop,with its modest device: “Ah Sin—General Store.”Presently his impassive face lighted up; and thatnight his sleep was shortened by an hour devoted toa search of the Scriptures. Had not his teacherstold him to turn to the Bible in time of doubt andtrial? They were not here to counsel him, but hehad a clew.

He awoke next morning clothed and girded withstrength. And all that day, when business permitted,he laboured on a canvas sign, which he lettered himself,with brush and India ink, smiling contentedlythe while.

It was Curly Bob, foreman of the Frying Pan outfiton Sun Creek, who saw it first. Coming intotown at a lope, in quest of cut plug, his roving eyewas arrested by the new announcement of Ah Sin.By temperament and training Curly was unemotional,but, seeing Ah Sin’s handiwork, he pulled sosuddenly on his spade bit that the cayuse fell backon its haunches. For there, in the eyelids of themorning, Ah Sin, seeking an everlasting sign, hadflung forth a banner that prevailed against the Jew.In black, bold letters a foot high, it beckoned to thetrade of Burning Bush:

Whereupon Curly Bob, swearing softly in admiration,blew himself to tobacco for the whole outfit.

BUSINESS AND ETHICS

By Redfield Ingalls

In the dingy office of A. Slivowitz & Co., manufacturersof dyes, things were humming. Everyclerk was bent over his desk, hard and cheerfullyat work, and there was a general air of bustle andefficiency.

That was because A. Slivowitz stood in the doorwayof his private office looking on.

The portly head of the firm watched the scenecomplacently for a few minutes. Then, catching theeye of his young but efficient private secretary, hebeckoned him with an air of mystery to the innersanctum.

The secretary, who was sharp of eye and alert ofmanner, rose at once and followed, though it was notthe custom of A. Slivowitz to summon him thus.His employer sank ponderously into his swivel chairand motioned to the secretary to shut the door andtake a seat. Then for a minute or so he was silent,playing with his massive gold watch chain and studyingthe young man through puckered lids. But ifthe secretary was perturbed he did not show it.

“Mr. Sloane,” began Slivowitz, at length, in hisheavy voice, “you been with the firm now how long—sixor five months, ain’t it?”

“Nearly six,” the dapper young man confirmedbriskly.

“You’re a smart feller, Mr. Sloane,” his employercontinued, examining the huge diamond on his lefthand. “Already you picked it up a lot about dyeing.A fine dyer you should make. Now, Mr. Sloane,I’m going to fire you.”

The secretary’s eyebrows went up a trifle, butotherwise he showed no great perturbation. Perhapsa certain elephantine playfulness in the big man’stone reassured him.

“By me business is good,” Slivowitz went on, witha fat chuckle. “I’m a business man, Mr. Sloane,first and last, and nobody don’t never put nothingover by me.”

Knowing something of his employer’s businessmethods, Sloane could have amplified. What hesaid was: “Thanks to your royal purple, Mr.Slivowitz. You’ve about cornered the trade.”

“They can’t none of ’em touch it, that purple;posi-tive-ly,” agreed the dyer, with much satisfaction.“But”—and he became confidential—“betweenme and you strictly, this here now DomesticDye Works, they got it a mauve what gives me apain.”

He hitched his chair closer and laid a pudgy handon Sloane’s knee. “I’m going to fire you,” he repeated,with a wink. “I want you should go by theDomestic Dye Works and get it a job. Find outabout the formula for their mauve—you understandme—and come back mit it, and you get back yourjob and a hundred or seventy-five dollars.”

Sloane started. For a moment he stared at hisemployer, his face going red and pale again; then herose to his feet.

“Sorry, Mr. Slivowitz, but I can’t consider it,”he said.

“Oh, come now, Mr. Sloane!” protested the dyer,with a laugh, leaning back in his chair. He produceda thick cigar and bit off the end. “These herescruples does you credit, Mr. Sloane, but business isbusiness; and, take it from me, Mr. Sloane, you can’tmix business up mit ethics. Them things is allright, but you gotta skin the other guy before heskins you first, ain’t it?”

“That may be——” began the secretary, as hemoved toward the door.

“May be? Ain’t I just told you it is?” Slivowitzpaused in the act of striking a match to glare. “Youneedn’t to be scared they’ll find it out where youcome from and fire you, neither, Mr. Sloane,” headded, more quietly and with a cunning expression.“I got brains, I have. A little thing like recommendsto a smart man like me——” The match broke.He flung it into the cuspidor and selected another.

Sloane paused with his hand on the doorknob.“Mr. Slivowitz——” he began again.

“Of course,” continued his employer, “I couldmake it—well, a hundred fifteen, Mr. Sloane. But,believe me, not a cent more, posi-tive-ly.”

The secretary shook his head decidedly.

“What?” roared Slivowitz. “Y’ mean to tell mey’ ain’t goin’ to do it? All right; you’re fired anyhow,you understand me.” Then with an evilglitter in his eyes, “And if you don’t bring by methat formula, you get fired from the Domestic DyeWorks; and you don’t get it no job nowheres else, too!Now, you take your choice.” This time the matchlighted successfully.

Sloane smiled. “Quite impossible,” he said. “Iwas going to resign in a day or two, anyway.”

“Eh?” exclaimed the head of the firm, his jawdropping and his florid face paling a little. In theface of a number of possibilities he forgot the matchin his fingers.

“Yes. You see—you’ll know it sooner or later—theDomestic Dye Works sent me here to learn theformula for your royal purple.”

And the door slammed shut behind A. Slivowitz’sprivate secretary.

NORTH OF FIFTY-THREE

By Mary Woodbury Caswell

The short winter day of Alaska was brighteningas Gertrude pushed her chair back from thebreakfast table and announced that she proposedto go at once for her constitutional. Her brotherplacidly assented, but Keith interposed with a worriedlook.

“Hadn’t you better go with her, Bob? I supposeI’ve grown to be an old granny, but since Jacquestold us of that outlaw who threatened to kidnap awhite girl for his wife, I don’t like to have Gertrudeget out of sight.”

The girl bent over him caressingly.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “Jacques hadbeen drinking hard when he told you of this mythicalexile. Besides, I am no Helen of Troy to be abductedfor my beauty. I’d really much rather have Bob staywith you.”

And she kissed him, put on warm wraps, tookher snowshoes and started for the daily tramp thathad kept her fit ever since she had come up on thelast boat, hastily summoned by a cable from Bobwhen her fiancé had his shoulder crushed, and itwould be impossible for the young men to return tothe States with their stake. She and Bob hadnursed him into convalescence, but it had been a hardwinter for him, and she did not wonder that he haddeveloped some nervousness, though she consideredhis fear for her wholly unnecessary, as, indeed, didBob.

When she was a half-mile from the cabin and aslight rise of ground hid it from her, she saw a dogteam approaching, and smiled, thinking that Keithwould surely consider that danger was near. As itmet her the driver touched his cap, and she had aswift impression of a very different type than she hadrecently met, and one that made Jacques’s fantastictale seem less absurd. As she involuntarily glancedback she saw, and now with alarm, that the strangerhad turned and was coming toward her. He stoppedthe dogs close to her and inquired courteously, andwith a foreign accent:

“Can you tell me, mademoiselle, how near I amto some residence?”

“Our cabin is over the hill,” she replied quietly,though with growing terror, which was justified, ashe sprang toward her, swathing her in a blanket,so that she could neither speak nor struggle, andplacing her on the sled.

She could not have told whether it was hours orminutes before she was lifted, carried into a cabin,and the blanket unfolded from her, while a savage-lookinghusky dog growled a greeting. Her captorshook off his heavy outer coat, removed his cap, andwith exaggerated deference said:

“Mademoiselle, pray remove your parka and permitthat I relieve you of your snowshoes. I domyself the honour, mademoiselle, to offer you marriage.”

Resolutely conquering her fear, Gertrude lookedsteadily at him. The man evidently was, or hadbeen, a gentleman; but what must his life have beento bring him to this! As composedly as she couldshe answered:

“I must decline your offer. Pray permit me toreturn home.”

“Ah, no, mademoiselle. I fear I cannot allow that.As for marriage—as you please, but in any case youmust remain here.”

“Not alive,” she said.

“Ah, but, mademoiselle, how not?” he asked, inmockery of courtesy more pronounced. “It is notso easy to die”—with a sudden bitter sadness.

“There are many ways,” she replied. “Here isone.”

And, seizing a dog whip lying near, she struck thehusky a sharp blow and, as he furiously leaped to hisfeet, flung herself upon the floor before him. Hefastened his teeth in her arm as his master graspedhis throat, and the struggle shook the cabin. Atlast the man broke the dog’s hold and dragged himto the door. Gertrude’s heavy clothing had savedher arm from anything but a superficial wound, butas he bound it up she said:

“The dog will not forget, and if he fails me I canfind another way.”

His face, which had paled, flushed a dark red as hehastily spoke.

“For God’s sake do not think—but why shouldyou not? You are free, mademoiselle. Such courageshows me I am not quite the brute I fancied Ihad become, and also that there is one woman in theworld whose ‘no’ assuredly does not mean ‘yes.’ Iwill take you home at once, on the faith of a Marovitch.”

She stared at him incredulously and said slowly:

“Is it possible—are you Count Boris Marovitch?”

“Yes”—in deep wonder—“that is my name, buthow could you know?”

“This letter should interest you,” she said. “Itis from Varinka. I was at a convent school in Pariswith her.” And she watched him excitedly as heread aloud the passage she indicated.

“Do you remember my telling you of my cousinBoris, who was sent to Siberia for killing Prince ——in a duel? It was supposed that he was shot whiletrying to escape, but the guard has confessed that hewas bribed to assist him, and he may be living. TheCzar would gladly pardon him if he would return,his homicidal tendencies being valuable in the presentwar crisis. And Olga has steadfastly refused tomarry any one else, so——”

A sharply drawn breath interrupted the reading,and the letter fell to the floor from his shaking handsas he looked at her, his face white and drawn.

“Mademoiselle, it is too much,” he gasped. “Yourcourage—your generosity—I insult you unforgivablyand you give me back honour, love, life—I cannotsay——” And he sank into a chair and coveredhis face with his hands.

She went over to him and laid her hand gently onhis shoulder.

“I am glad you are happy, Count,” she said, “andI am sure we shall be very good friends. Pleasetake me home now.”

They met Bob halfway, striding along with ananxious face, his rifle over his shoulder. “This ismy brother, Mr. Stacey,” said Gertrude. “Bob,this is Count Marovitch, of whom Varinka wrote.He starts to-morrow by dog train to the States onhis way to Russia.”

THE OLD THINGS

By Jessie Anderson Chase

Like Sir Roger’s neighbours peering over thehedge, I had daily observed, over my stonewall, a very old gentleman in his shirt sleeves, whopleasantly gave me the rôle of Spectator. A New-Englanderof the elder type, with the heavy bent headof the thinker; but, particularly, with the piercingyet so kindly humorous blue eye that loses none ofits colour with age, but seems to grow more vivid andvital with the same years that steal from the hair itshue of life and from the walnut cheek its glowing red.

Such an eye, to a lawyer like myself, accustomedto look for a human document in every human face,seemed the very epitome of eighty years: a carefreeboyhood among contemporaries—in house furnishings,in barn and pigsty, orchard and gardens; ayouth that sees already a new generation in most ofthese companions of his earthly pilgrimage; a middleage, forced out of the romantic sense of companionshipon the road, into the persistent and finallytriumphant view of using environment for ends of itsown; and then old age, free to return and lavishforgotten endearments upon the “old things!” This orthe other “landmark,” dear, and familiar from life’sbeginnings. These periods, all slipping unnoticedinto their successors, yet each possessing a distinctand tangible outline and colour, had all had their turnat my neighbour’s blue eyes. And the look that comesonly at the end, when the life has been prodigal ofresponse and of an unswerving fidelity in the storingup of values—that was the look that I valued as athing of price.

It was a day of late summer that brought me moredirectly face to face with its beauty and gravity.The old gentleman appeared, in his shirt sleeves,but with plenty of ceremony in his quiet demeanour,at the door of my little “portable” law office, at theedge of the orchard.

“I am told, sir,” he began, “that you are anattorney at law.”

I bowed, and offered him a chair but he continuedstanding.

“I have come,” he said, “to request your servicesin drawing up my last will and testament—that is,”he serenely emended, “in case your vacation time issubject to such interruption.”

While I was formulating my assent he continued:

“You have no doubt, since coming into this rathercommunicative neighbourhood, been informed thatmy son owns the homestead.”

The kind, keen old eyes took on a look of whatGeorge Eliot names “an enormous patience with theway of the world.”

“Everything belongs to John and Mary. Butthere are one or two little old things that they don’tcare about. They’re up in the lean-to. The oldmirror that, as a lad, I used to see my face in over mymother’s shoulder, it’s still holding for me the pictureof my mother smiling up at me. And the old ladder-backchair that she used to sit in and cuddle me;and switch, me, too—and maybe that took the mostlove of all. That’s all. John and Mary don’twant them. They’re only old things, like myself.It’s natural, perfectly natural. At their age I mostprobably felt just so.”

He paused and looked through the lattice, wherethe reddened vine-leaves were beginning to fall.

“The young leaf-buds pushing off the old leaves.It’s nature.”

Before sunset—for the old man was strangely impatient—Ihad his “will” signed, witnessed, andsealed. The old mirror and chair were to go to a wee,odd little old lady, called in the neighbourhood “MissTabby” Titcomb because of her forty-odd cats, exceptfor which she lived alone.

“Little Ellen,” he called her, as he fondly spoke oftheir school days together. “Mother would havebeen well content if we’d hit it off together, Ellen andI. But a boy is as apt as not, when urged oneway, to fly off in another; and I was at the skittishage.

“I’ve never said this before to any man, sir, but I’dhave been a better husband to Ellen. Mary was afaithful wife, and better than I deserved. But shewas not just aware, like Ellen, of where to bear onhard and where to go a little easy. That’s what aman needs in a woman, sir. Ellen always knewjust when and where.”

The next morning, which was Saturday, I wasriding down Bare Hill Road—as it chanced, rightpast Miss Tabby’s—when my horse shied; and thattiny old lady, with an enormous gray cat beside her,rose up from behind the lilac bushes. Bigger peoplethan “little Ellen” have been frightened by Prince’santics, but she quietly put her hand on his restiveneck as if he were only a little larger kitten, and thenspoke to me in a soft little purr of a voice:

“I’ve heard—and you’ll excuse me—that you’rea lawyer, Mr. Alden; and I’ve a small matter I don’twish to entrust to any one here, being private. It’sa letter for Mr. Thomas Sewall, to be delivered uponmy demise, which I feel is about to take place.”She spoke with a little note of relief, as if from somelong strain.

I took the small envelope.

“It’s just the cats,” she was moved to confidefurther; “the little ones and the smart ones will allfind friends. But the two old ones! Mr. Sewall hasa notion for the old things. And”—here she hesitatedlong, while I breathlessly assured her of mybest care for the letter—“there’s—somewhat in thenote besides the cats,” she brought out bravely.“You’ll make sure it doesn’t fall into John and Mary’shands?”

This was Saturday morning. Sunday, as I listenedabsent-mindedly to the slow toll of the meeting-house bell,my houskeeper remarked, on bringingin my coffee:

“Did you notice, sir? It was eighty-six. There’san old man and an old woman, both just the sameage, in the village, died in the night.”

The old chair, upon which—when they were youngtogether—the little Tom had been spanked and comforted;and the mirror, still treasuring the picture ofthe round, saucy phiz over his mother’s shoulder,were offered at auction and bid in for a trifle by me.I would have paid gold sovereigns for them, but notinto the hands of John and Mary! The cats, likewise,sit by the hearth, on which was burned toashes the letter “not entirely” about their disposal.

And the “Old Things” that cherished these earthlycompanions? The minister—himself a rare “oldthing”—preached a funeral sermon for the two sostrangely united by death; and his thin voice, likethe tone of an old, cracked violin, still hauntsme:

“Their youth is renewed like the eagle’s....And they shall run and not be weary, they shall walkand not faint.”

THE FORCED MARCH

By Hornell Hart

Intermittently, when the snow ceasedfalling for a moment, Wojak could see theregiments ahead, black against the white fields, crawlinginterminably over the hilltop under the dull sky.Wojak was a burly, bearded fellow. These winterdays pleased him. He liked the tingle that camewith marching in the cold air. He liked the dull,rhythmic “scruff” of the hundreds of feet as theregiment swung along, welded by its months ofmarching into a living unity.

This was his own country they were marchingthrough. His homestead lay not twenty miles away,near this very road. As he trudged along thoughts ofSophy and little Stephan kept slipping into his mind.

At the crest of the hill the regiment came to ahalt. Back from the road, half hidden in trees thatwere cut sharp and black against the snow and thesky, stood the ruin of a house.

“Just so stands my house,” thought Wojak.“Behind, among the trees, should be the pigsty tothe left, the stable to the right.”

He turned and waded through the newly fallensnow toward the dwelling. Charred beams at oneend showed where a fire had been checked by thesnowfall. In the yard beneath the fluffy new snowthe old layer had evidently been tramped. Behindthe house he found the pigsty and the stable.

“But the stable is bigger than mine,” he murmured.

He looked in. A pile of hay was in the corner,and on it lay some rags. The stable was so darkthat Wojak thought he saw a child lying there.He went over to the corner. On the hay was a yellowhead, the round cheeks streaked with tears. Thechild was sleeping, but its breath came in little sobs.With clumsy gentleness the soldier picked the babyup.

“Stephan had curls like that,” he whispered.

As he stepped out into the light the child awoke.A chubby arm slipped about the burly neck, and theblue eyes looked at him with the beginning of a smile.But in a moment the fact that this was not father, buta strange man, came over the baby, and he began tosob, not angrily, but with a worn anguish that grippedWojak’s heart.

The company was falling in after the halt when hecame to the road. The curly head lay close to hisbearded face, and a great clumsy hand protected thelittle body.

“Where did you get that, Wojak?” growled thelieutenant, staring blankly at the sorrowful littlebundle. “Leave the kid and fall in,” he commanded.“There’s no time for nonsense on this march.”

Wojak started to protest, but the habit of obediencewas too strong. Sullenly he stood the baby inthe snow and took his place in the ranks. The child’ssobs turned to a heartbroken wail.

“Forward, march!” commanded the officer, andthe company moved away down the road. Wojaklooked back and saw the tiny arms stretched outafter him while snowflakes settled on the yellowhead. Long after the hilltop was hidden in swirlingsnow he seemed to see them and to hear the wail ofthe orphaned baby.

The sun was setting when the army bivouackedfour miles from Wojak’s farm. The orders were thatno leaves of absence should be granted; but he knewthe sentinel on guard, and home was too near to beleft unseen for another four months.

The stars were glittering from an all but clearsky when he slipped silently through the lines andstarted down the familiar roads toward Sophy andStephan. Four months was a terrible length oftime. The passage of armies had marked the country.The great tree by the cottage of Ivanovicz hadbeen shattered by a shell and had crashed through theroof. Jablonowski’s barns had been burned. Thewindows of the church at the corners were shatteredand a great hole had been shot in the steeple. Wojakwalked faster, and a twinge of anxiety came over himas he entered the lane that led up to his barnyard.His heart stopped: the thatch of the stable had beenburned and only the walls were standing. His eyesstrained for a glimpse of the house. It was notthere. A few charred beams marked the place wherehis home had stood.

He ran nearer. Snow had covered everything.Beside the place where the door had been was awhite mound with a stick standing in the earth atit* head. To the stick was nailed a little shoe.Wojak seized it with shaking hands.

“Stephan!” he choked. “My little Stephan!”

After a while he looked up. Looming above himwas a man on horseback who had ridden up unheardthrough the muffling snow.

“You are under arrest,” said the voice of thelieutenant.

APPROXIMATING THE ULTIMATE WITH AUNT SARAH

By Charles Earl Gaymon

Aunt Sarah was sixty-three years old. UncleJohn was sixty-four years old.

If you spoke to Aunt Sarah about any new fringeon the tapestry of the intellectual loom she would say:

“Oh, yes, we ’proximated that line of thought in1893. It is near, but not quite the ultimate.”

If you spoke to Uncle John about Schopenhauerhe would reply:

“I don’t take much stock in them new-fangledcultivators.”

Uncle John and Aunt Sarah had lived together inthe old homestead for thirty-eight years.

Aunt Sarah always had intellectual curiosity: shehad left the old Baptist church in her girlhood tojoin a joy cult; she had followed with her mentaltelescope the scintillating trajectory of WilliamJames’s flight through the philosophic heavens ofAmerica; she had known about eugenics long beforethe newspapers had made the subject popular knowledge,and she had played in the musty, rickety garretof occultism at a time when the most daring mindsin science were sitting tight in the seats of the scornful.But there was a shadow in the sunlight of Aunt Sarah’smental advancement, an opaque spot in the crystal ofher mysticism, an unresolved seventh in the harmonyof her simple life in the Wisconsin backwoods—

She was married.

She was married to Uncle John!

At six o’clock in the evening of June 1, 1915, AuntSarah glanced up from reading Bennett’s “Folk Waysand Mores” as Uncle John entered the kitchen door.Uncle John had just come from performing the vespertimechores.

“Pa, we shall have to get a divorce!” said AuntSarah, shutting Bennett with determination. “Marriageis a worn-out convention; it is only one of thethousand foolish folk ways that hinder the advancementof science among the masses.”

“Very well, ma.”

“We will get a divorce.”

“I quite agree, ma.”

“Don’t attempt logic with me, John. I said thatwe would get a divorce.”

Uncle John shook his head. “When will it be?”he asked.

“To-morrow.”

Uncle John smiled, dropped his armful of kindlinginto the wood box behind the kitchen range, andbegan to lay the Brobdingnagian bandana handkerchiefthat served them for a tablecloth.

Aunt Sarah finished the preparation of the baconand onions and set the coffee pot back when it beganto boil.

After supper Uncle John read the seed catalogueand Aunt Sarah resumed her Bennett.

The following afternoon Judge Thompson, wholived in the biggest and best house in the little countyseat, was surprised to see from his chair in the bigbay window an antiquated carriage drawn by aretired farm horse draw up before his cast-iron negrohitching post. In the carriage were Aunt Sarah andUncle John.

Judge Thompson was on the porch in time toreceive his guests.

“We’ve come to get a divorce,” said Aunt Sarah,with a direct gaze; then she added, with the sangfroid of one who is wise, “What’ll it cost?”

The judge motioned them to seats in the wickerchairs on the porch, and then replied:

“But you must have grounds——”

“Everybody knows it. Incompatibility of temperament.”

And the judge, smiling, humoured Aunt Sarah, forhe knew her and the community in which she lived.“It will cost you just ten dollars,” he said.

“Make out the paper,” Aunt Sarah replied.

One hour later Uncle John and Aunt Sarah leftthe judge’s house together, separated for life.

Moses, their horse, looked at them out of the cornerof his good eye as they approached the carriage.

Uncle John paused, but Aunt Sarah stepped firmlyinto the vehicle.

Uncle John followed her and took up the reins.

Moses knew the way home by a clairvoyant sense,and he took that way at his own pace of prophet-likedignity.

At the door of the old homestead Uncle Johnhanded Aunt Sarah down from her seat in silence.Then he put Moses into his stall. And when hereturned to the house he found Aunt Sarah beamingupon him through her gold-rimmed spectacles fromher place at the table, which was loaded with a suppersuch as she alone could cook.

Aunt Sarah was jubilant. She was living at lastwith a man to whom she was not married; no longerwas there a blot on the scutcheon of her intellectualprogress; no longer did a black beetle mar the pellucidamber of her simple life of Advanced Ideas;no longer could the acolytes, in off moments whenthey were not engaged in trundling the spheresthrough the macrocosm, gaze sternly down upon herthrough interstellar space and say:

“Aunt Sarah is nearly, but not quite, an intellectual.”

THE HORSE HEAVER

By Lyman Bryson

“For why should you be tired?” demanded hiswife, splashing her arms viciously in the sudsas she finished the day’s rinsing. “You’ve nothingto do but shovel dirt all day and rest when your bossain’t looking.”

“Gwan, I’m a hard-working man,” said Kallaher.“And, what’s more, I can kick about it whenever Iwant to without any remarks from yourself. I’mtired. When’s supper?”

“Supper is any time when I can get my arms dryand get a good breath.” Mrs. Kallaher began belligerentlyto get his supper.

Kallaher stretched his short legs out in front ofhim and leaned back in his chair. “It was a hardday,” he said gently. “As if it wasn’t enough tohave me breaking my back with the shovel and all,a fool drove his horse too close to the ditch, and thedumb beast fell in on top of me.”

“That’s likely—now, ain’t it?—and you beinghere to tell about it!”

“Believe it or not, it happened.” Kallaher foldedhis hands across the place where he didn’t wear abelt and sighed. “But I put him out again andwent on with my work without taking a rest ornothing.”

Mrs. Kallaher might have tried again to expressher incredulity, but just then old Mother Coogan,next-door neighbour, thrust a red excited face throughthe kitchen door.

“Mary Kallaher, is your man home?”

“Why shouldn’t he be?”

Mrs. Coogan entered and stood, one hand clutchinga newspaper, the other pointing dramatically atKallaher. “It may be so, but he don’t look it,”she said.

Before they could question her she began readingfrom the paper: “Mike Kallaher, a ditch digger onthe new Twelfth Street sewer, is a small man but amighty. A horse, driven too near the ditch to-day,fell in. ‘Begorra,’ said Mike, ‘can’t a man work inpeace?’ He laid down his shovel, spat on his hands,and heaved the horse back into the street. Theforeman thought he had been hurt when the horsefell in, but he wasn’t, and he was not in the leastbothered by having to throw him back out again.He went back to his digging.”

“Let me see that paper.” Kallaher rose and tookit from her hand. Slowly he went over the story—whichthe reporter who wrote it had thought exceedingclever. “Yeh,” he said finally, “that’s me, allright.”

Mrs. Coogan looked upon him with respect. “Inever thought much of you before, Mike Kallaher,but you’re the only man I know that could pick upa horse.” She turned to his wife. “It’s no wonderyou’re a meek woman, Mary, but you ought to beproud of a man like that, sure.”

“Are you coming on with supper now?” askedKallaher in a mighty voice of the speechless Mrs.Kallaher. “Be quick now, or I’ll give you what’sneeding.”

Never before had he dared make a threat as ifhe meant it. His wife was struck with sudden awe.She gasped and hurried silently with the setting on ofsupper. She trembled and dropped a dish.

“You poor clumsy dub!” roared her husband,towering to the height of five-feet-two. “Are you soweak you can’t hold a pot, now?”

“Excuse me, Michael,” she murmured. “Excuseme, man. I was excited.”

Mrs. Coogan saw with approval that Kallaherwas bullying his wife, and went down the street totell the neighbourhood.

In Mike Kallaher’s kitchen—for it had suddenlybecome his own, after belonging for fifteen years tohis wife—a poor, meek, unhappy-looking Irishwomanwas obeying orders. She jumped when he yelled ather, which he did every two minutes to see her jump,begged his pardon, brought his pipe, and looked onin silence when he deliberately knocked out theashes on the newly scrubbed floor. A man who couldthrow a horse out of a ditch would stop at nothing.

As the new monarch sat in his chair lookingcontemptuously away from his slave, who wastentatively watching him, there was a knock at thedoor. Mike’s chest had begun to get tired from beingswelled out so far, and he let out his breath with asigh.

A suave young man was admitted. After ascertainingthat Mike Kallaher really lived in this placehe asked Mike how he was feeling.

“Good,” was the truculent answer.

“No injuries from your little adventure this afternoon?”

“Injured, is it? Not a bit—not a bit.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’m assistant manager ofthe Burke Construction Company. We heard oneof our horses fell on you to-day, so I came down tohelp out if you were hurt. We thought we couldafford to pay a few hundred dollars on doctor bills.”The young man smiled pleasantly. “But since you’renot hurt and are so willing to admit it, we won’thave that pleasure. Good-bye.” He got up andwent.

Kallaher had forgotten to swell out his chest again.He sat drooping in his chair. His wife was no longertentative.

“Horse heaver, is it?” She advanced, menacing.“Horse heaver? You poor mick! There goes yourchance to be a cripple for life and die rich.”

She pulled his face up by the front hair and slappedhim like a mother.

“Horse heaver, is it? Take that, now!”

And Kallaher took it.

THE EGO OF THE METROPOLIS

By Thomas T. Hoyne

“You couldn’t get her picture?” sneered the cityeditor contemptuously. “Come, Johnson, getinto the game. You’re not in Chicago or St. Louisnow. This is New York.”

Johnson was eating his bread in the sweat of hisbrow, but he wanted to continue eating. Thereforehe said nothing, but lounged off into the local room,empty during the dead afternoon hours.

He was lucky to be working at all. During thecouple of weeks he had been wearing out shoe leatherchasing pictures for the greatest of all metropolitanmorning newspapers he had been told his good fortunea hundred times. He, a perfect stranger inNew York, had walked right into a job.

The job should have been tempting only to therawest cub, but Johnson, a crackerjack reporter,snapped at it. He knew that some of the best newspapermen in New York, crackerjack reporters, werecarrying the banner along Park Row.

The afternoon newspapers were boiling over witheditions, black type and red crying out that onehundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars had disappearedfrom a vault of the soundest bank in WallStreet and that the cashier was missing. To be assignedto this bank story, to get the chance to showwhat he really could do, Johnson would have given afinger from his right hand.

He sat on a corner of a typewriter desk, swingingone leg, while he raged inwardly at the insolent cityeditor. Bread or no bread, he could not work himselfinto spasms of enthusiasm over a near societywoman’s photograph for a cheap story. He was tooold in the game for such child’s play.

The noisy opening of the door between the managingeditor’s room and the office of the city editorroused him. He heard the managing editor’s voice.

“Got any line on that bank cashier?”

“Not yet, sir,” replied the city editor, “but everylive man on the staff is out on the story.”

Johnson flushed as if he had been insulted publicly.How would the old guard in Chicago or Cincinnatiretort to such an insinuation against a man who hadcampaigned up and down the country and hadlearned the newspaper game as a soldier learns war—inaction? He recalled winning out in California,notwithstanding “Native Sons.” But to win againstthe esoteric self-sufficiency of New Yorkers demandedhigher fortitude.

“Where can I find the owner of this newspaper?”

Johnson came out of his dream abruptly to answerthe insignificant little man who had rambled into thelocal room.

“He isn’t in the building just now,” said hepatiently.

Owners of newspapers do not receive callerscasually. When cranks get through the outer doorsnow and again it is the duty of some employee toact as buffer.

The visitor lifted a trembling hand to his forehead,shook his head uncertainly, and began to mumble ameandering, inconsequent tale. Amid the aimlesswords one sentence unexpectedly shaped itself thatset the reporter’s nerves atingle.

Johnson glanced fearfully toward the city editor’soffice.

“You want to see the owner of the paper?” heasked softly, the sudden thumping of his heartsounding in his voice. “Come with me.”

He grasped the visitor’s arm and hurried him outof the local room into the hall, and thence into anelevator.

“This way,” he coaxed, when they reached thestreet level. He led the man out into the crowdedthoroughfare, cleverly sheering away from points ofdanger, as a battleship might convoy a treasurebark.

In the empty local room time dragged. The cityeditor busied himself in his little office, glaring at hisassignment book, studying clippings from afternoonnewspapers, and answering calls on his telephone.Once he was interrupted by a woman who laid twotickets for a church fair on his desk and asked tohave a paragraph about the entertainment published.

“Johnson!” shouted the city editor arrogantly.His voice merely lost itself in the hollow local room.He rose from his chair irritably and peered throughthe door of his office, but there was no Johnson onwhom to break his wrath.

As evening came on reporters and copy readersstraggled in. No one brought startling news in thebank story. The cashier was still missing and therewas no trace of him.

The local room burst into nervous life, emphasizedby erratic volleys from pounding typewriters andhoarse yells for copy-boys. More than once as thenight wore away the city editor stepped from hisoffice to look toward the corner where Johnson usuallysat. Each time a vacant chair aggravated his anger.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when the ringing telephonebell called his attention from the proof beforehim. He jerked the receiver from its hook.

“Johnson, eh? I wanted you half a dozen timesthis afternoon and evening, but now you needn’tcome in at all. You’re through.”

He jammed the receiver back with a glow of satisfactionin having good reason to discharge an incompetent.

The telephone bell rang again. This time the cityeditor listened.

“You’ve got the cashier locked up in your room!”he fairly yelled. “All right! All right!”

Shaking with excitement he wheeled from thetelephone.

“Brail! Jack! Fredericks!”

He roared the names into the local room in sharpsuccession.

Like soldiers at a bugle call men sprang from deskswhere they were working or idling.

“You, Jack, get on the ’phone and take a storyfrom Johnson! He’s got the biggest beat that everwas pulled off in the city of New York.”

The rewrite man settled himself at the wire.

At the other end of it Johnson, in his room at thecheap hotel where he lived, struggled to be calm inthis moment of triumph. He began to dictate.

Near him, well within range of vision, sat his willingprisoner. Not once since they left the newspaperoffice together had the cashier been out of Johnson’ssight. Helpless, hopeless, but with a conscience nolonger heavily burdened, the unfortunate man listenednow just as he had listened while the reporter,without betraying his source of information, craftilyverified by telephone the wandering confession.

Clear and without interruption the stream ofdictation poured over the wire. The story was writtenas a newspaper story should be written, and whenit was told it ended.

“That’s all,” sighed Johnson proudly. “I’ll holdhim here till two o’clock to make the beat an absolutecinch. Then I’ll ’phone the police.”

In the newspaper office the rewrite man hadhardly drummed out the last line of copy before thesheet of paper was snatched from his typewriter andrushed in the wake of former scudding sheets to thecomposing room, just in time for the first edition.

“There never was a beat like it,” cried the exultantcity editor. “I don’t see how he landed it.”

“It’s a great piece of newspaper work,” agreedthe managing editor. “No man in the country couldhave done better. Who is Johnson?”

“A new man, but I’ve taught him the game already.He didn’t wait for any assignment—just went rightout and dug that cashier up.” The city editor’svoice cracked with enthusiasm. “That’s the kindof newspaper men we turn out in little old New York.”

THE GAY DECEIVER

By Howard P. Stephenson

The only other passenger thumbed his tobaccointo a melancholy pipe-bowl.

“What’s your line?” he asked.

“Soap and Christmas candles,” I said, and heldout my cigar for his light.

“Married?”

“Yes, you?”

“Um-m-m-m.” And he stretched his legs, drewup his elbows and looked worried.

“When I was making this territory about thistime last year,” he began, “I met a pretty, wifelylittle girl, and we were married before I left town.Tarascon wasn’t on my regular trip then, but now Ihave to strike home once a month.

“You see, I was raised in a family of sisters—allolder than I, all unmarried. I could never bring myselfto tell them about Edyth. They don’t know ityet. Live in Cranford, on the Vandalia. My wifethinks I haven’t any folks.”

“Well?”

He blushed. “There—it—we—I’m going to be afather.” Then he did blush.

I laughed, sympathetic. “You can’t bear not tolet your sisters know?” I ventured.

He nodded and gulped.

“Tarascon,” called the brakeman. “Tarascon.”

I was on the hot veranda of the Croxton House, atCroxton, some two weeks later, when I felt a modesthand on my shoulder.

“Boy or girl?” were my first words, with a grin.

“Girl,” announced the father with pride. “SophroniaJudith Rose. Named for my sisters.”

He seated himself, fished in his pocket for hispipe, and smiled nervously.

“They knew it when I got home,” he said. “I’dleft Edyth’s letter in my room. I believe they hadbeen suspecting all along. Well, they never said athing at supper, but when I went upstairs I saw astring of baby ribbon sticking out of my sample case.The girls had packed it full of things from their hopeboxes. Baby things, they were.

“I tried to bluff it out, but I—I couldn’t do it, andI’d told them all about it five minutes after I camedownstairs.

“We all took the train for Tarascon the next day.Edyth was tickled—said she’d suspected I had sisters.She hadn’t, though, of course.

“So I had to name the baby for them. Weighedeleven pounds, too.

“My, I’ve got to catch that 9:32 for Tarascon!”

He pulled out his watch, then turned the dial tome sheepishly. Under the crystal was a tiny slipof narrow ribbon, baby blue.

“So long,” he said. “Mayn’t see you again. Thisis my last trip. The firm’s giving me a city job,where I can be with the family.”

IN COLD BLOOD

By Joseph Hall

With the door of her room locked Viola Perrinopened the letter which she had taken fromher husband’s office table. It was not very securelyglued, and she succeeded in loosening the flap withoutmarring the envelope.

When she had read it she dropped the thing uponher dressing table and stared with dry, unseeing eyesinto the mirror. Her world had crumbled. Shedid not burst into tears. She was one of thosewomen who cannot weep. The thing that had happenedto her left her racked, writhing, tearless.

Suddenly the horror of the thing struck her withfull force. St. John was untrue. He was intriguingwith another woman even while he was being thesame courteous, attentive husband to her that he hadalways been. She rose and clenched her handsfiercely. She caught her lower lip cruelly betweenher teeth. For the first time in her life she wantedto scream.

In an instant she was hot with anger and hurtpride. She rose quickly and dressed for the street.She hurried. She must get away. She had no rightin this room, in this house, in the house of a man whodid not love her.

Outside she walked to the street car. She had noplan. She did not intend to go to his office. She wassimply getting away from his home.

She went into a department store and idly lookedat some things without knowing what they were.It was a sale day, and the crowd in the store was immense.She came to herself when a sharp crysounded at her right and the throng surged in thatdirection.

A woman had fainted, one of the saleswomen.She was a tall woman, thin and not bad looking.She had been waiting on Viola the moment before,and she had simply crumpled behind the counterwithout a word. The cry had come from a cash-girlwho happened to see her fall. They lifted the womanand carried her limp and pitiful to the elevator,a policeman keeping back the crowd.

She left the store and wandered again aimlesslyabout the streets. The sidewalks were crowded,mostly with women. It was getting warm, and thewomen all looked tired and wilted. Lines of themdisappeared into certain doors, and Viola, looking in,saw that these doors were entrances to cheap restaurants.It was the lunch hour, and these women weretaking their short recess.

The display in the window of one of these placesattracted her attention. It contained meats invarious stages of preparation and dressing and a wildassortment of vegetables. Some flies had gotteninside the glass and hovered about the viands. Sheturned away in disgust.

She thought of her own lunch. When she wasdowntown St. John always took her to lunch withhim at one of the hotels. The white napery, the softlights, the stealthy-footed waiters, the music, thesilver sprang into her mind in vivid contrast to thecheap display she had just turned from. She shuddered.

In the palm room of the Brinton with the cool,shadowed comfort about her and an ice before her,the thought of her tragedy returned. She had beenevading it all day, putting it away from her, shunning it.But it was always with her, reminding herthat her world, the life she had lived, was shattered.

What then? She must go away. It would bebetter to go quietly, without giving any reason,simply leave. Of course St. John would understand,as would Myrtle Weiss, but their guilt would sealtheir tongues.

Disappear? And then what? How would shelive? What could she do? She was incompetent toteach. She knew nothing about office work. Ofcourse, she could clerk in a store.

Suddenly a vision of what that life would mean toher passed deadeningly before her. She rememberedthe thin, tall woman who had fainted behind thecounter without a word. The lines of wilted workers,hastening in their worn clothes to their cheap lunches,rose before her. She shivered.

For seven years she had lived in the lap of luxury.Nothing had been denied her. She had the best ofclothes, the best of service, the choicest of food, thepromptest of attention of every kind. Her homewas one of the handsomest houses in the most restrictedand stylish residence district of the city.

Another thought came to her. No one knew thatshe had found the letter.

The clock in the palm room showed the time to beone-thirty. St. John, she knew, was out of town.

She rose quickly and left the room. At the officeMiss Johnson, the stenographer, had just returnedfrom the dairy lunch across the street. She waspowdering her rather unattractive nose. Mrs. Perinsmiled at her as she entered her husband’s room.Vaguely she envied this homely creature.

The table was undisturbed, exactly as she had leftit.

She sealed the letter carefully and replaced it on thetop of the little pile of mail upon the blotter.

HOUSEWORK—AND THE MAN

By Freeman Tilden

“And you live here—all alone?” she said.

“It looks it, doesn’t it?” replied Archer,with a little embarrassed grin. “I have a womancome in once a week to clean up. I do the rest—whenit gets done. I suppose it looks pretty bad—toyou.”

She ran her finger appraisingly along the table andheld it up. It was covered with dust. She laughed.“Men can’t keep house,” she said.

She rummaged around until she found a rag thatwould serve as a duster.

“Now, please don’t bother, Miss——” he began.

“I’m married,” she corrected soberly. “Mrs.Kincaid.”

“Well, Mrs. Kincaid, please don’t bother to dothat. Really, I’m afraid I enjoy dirt.”

“Nobody enjoys dirt,” was her severe reply. “Notif they can be clean.”

He sat and watched her. He couldn’t help laughing.With deft hands she seemed to fathom everyhiding-place of dust. And he noticed that hercheeks, which had been pale enough when she camein, were becoming radiant.

Pretty soon she turned her attention to the bed.“Well, of all the messes I ever saw!” she exclaimed.“Who ever showed you how to make up a bed?”

“You just watch me,” she told him. “Like this—andthen like this—then you smooth it out—see?”

“It sure does look better,” he admitted. “Butplease don’t poke around in the kitchen. At leastspare me that mortification.”

She didn’t heed his plea. “I thought so!” sheexclaimed. “Not a dish washed!”

“I was going to wash them this afternoon,” saidArcher humbly.

“Huh! don’t you know it’s twice as hard after youlet them stand? Where’s the dishcloth?”

“Oh, come now, really, I won’t have you——”

She paid no attention to him. “What prettydishes!” she said, as the hot water began to run.

“Five-and-ten cent store,” Archer laughed.

“Really? And they look much prettier than mine.Do you know, I think this is a dear little place.”

“Dishwashing is the worst part of it,” said theyoung man.

“Listen,” she told him. “Whenever the disheshave egg on them, don’t put the hot water on first.Watch me....”

She even insisted on rearranging his little closetof dishes. She cleaned the top of the gas range.Archer vainly tried to prevent her. She was singingnow, as she worked. She straightened the pictureson the wall. She averred that she couldn’t be happytill she had swept the place from end to end.

After it was all over they sat down facing eachother. There was a pink flush of satisfaction on hercheeks.

“And I never knew who lived up here,” she began.“I must say you’re quiet. These apartment housesare just like a lot of cigar boxes. You know ourflat is right underneath.”

“It’s so decent of you,” began Arthur.

“Listen,” she interrupted. “I’ve had a perfectlysplendid time. I suppose I must be going now. It’sfive o’clock, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

At the door she stopped and said, “I’ve often seenyou down at the street door, and wondered whetheryou’d speak some time. You don’t think—becauseI came in here——”

“I think nothing,” he said.

“I knew you were that kind of a fellow,” she whispered,and fled downstairs.

Kincaid came in at 6:10.

“Supper ready?” he asked.

She threw down the magazine she was reading.“I guess you won’t starve! It’s nothing but cook,cook all the time, anyway. I’m getting tired of it.”

Kincaid said nothing. His fingers were resting onthe dining-table. When he took them away therewere little patches of varnish showing through thedust.

She went out into the kitchen and wearily put ona torn apron. The sink was full of unwashed dishes.He saw them and was unwise enough to commenton what he saw.

She turned upon him like a flash.

“If you don’t like to see them, wash them yourself,”she said. “I’m sick of housework, anyway.”

HER MEMORY

By Dwight M. Wiley

Warrington had really no right to be angry.

He was not engaged to Virginia, merely engagedwith her in a somewhat tempestuous summerflirtation. Down in his heart he knew it for justthat. But he was angry no less, for she had alloweda “hulking ass” newly arrived at the Inn to “hogher whole program and make him look a fool beforeevery one.”

“Ah ha!” cried the still small voice, “so it’s Pridenot Heart.” And that made him more angry than ever.

So he went away from the ball-room, out onto thedim veranda, and strode up and down mutteringthings better left unmuttered. Presently he stoppedat the far shadowed end, lit a cigarette, snapped hiscase viciously, and said “damn.”

A demure voice just behind him said “shocking!”and he turned to confront a small figure in a big chairbacked up against the wall.

“I repeat, shocking,” said the voice—a very nicevoice. And giggled—a very ripply little gurgly littlegiggle.

His anger went away.

“Mysterious lady of the shadows,” he said (hewas very good at that sort of thing),“does my righteouswrath amuse you?”

He came nearer. He had thought he knew everygirl at the Hotel. Here was a strange one, andpretty. Very. He decided that monopolizing Virginiahad been a mistake.

“It’s not a night for wrath, righteous or otherwise.See!” and she stretched out her arms to the greatmoon hanging low over the golf links beyond.

He hunted for a chair. This was bully. Andwhen he had drawn one up, quite close:

“Whence do you come, all silvery with the moon,to chide me for my sins, moon maid?”

Without doubt he was outdoing himself.

She laughed softly and leaned toward him, elfin inthe pale shimmer of light. “I am Romance,” shebreathed, “and this is my night. The night, themoon, and I conspire to make magic.”

He secured a slim hand. The pace was telling.His voice was a little husky.

“Your charms are very potent, moon maid,” hesaid, “it is magic, isn’t it? It—it doesn’t happenlike this—really.”

Their eyes met—clung.

“You—you take my breath,” he stammered.“Does your heart mean what your eyes are saying?Don’t—don’t look at me like that unless you do—meanit.”

She didn’t answer in words. She, too, was breathingquickly.

He released her hand, and sprang up—half turnedaway. Then he dropped to the arm of her chair.Swiftly he took her face in his two hands. Thethrobbing of her throat intoxicated him. “I—I—loveme,” he stammered.

Her lips moved. A sob more poignant than words.They kissed for a long time.

There were footsteps down the veranda. She drewaway. She recognized her mother’s voice and MissNeilson’s. She was thinking very quickly. Shouldshe send him away or end it now—end it all now?

“You darling—you darling. I—I love you,” hewas saying.

She leaned to him. “Kiss me. Kiss me—quickly.”

The voices were quite close now.

“Mother,” she called, “here I am.” She laughed.“But I guess you know I wouldn’t run away.Mother, this is Mr.—ah—Brown, and we have beendiscussing—doctors. Mr. Brown has an uncle inexactly my condition. Hopelessly paralyzed.”

She said it calmly. The world reeled. His brainwas numb. She was being wheeled away by thenurse. A wheeled chair—God!

“Good-night,” she called.

A cripple. He had kissed her. Horrible! Hemade for the bar.

In her room while the nurse was making her readyfor bed, the mother said, “How strange you look,dear. And how—how beautiful.”

She flung her arms wide in an intoxication oftriumph. “Mother,” she half sobbed, “all my lifeto now I’ve been just—just a thing. A cripple.Now—now—I am a woman.”

“Oh, God!” she cried, her eyes starry. “Life isgood—good. For now—now I have—a Memory.”

HIS JOURNEY’S END.

By Ruth Sterry

Fog enfolded the city in a drenching white veil.

It clung to the windows of the Palace Hoteland shut out the light from the bedroom in whicha man sat earnestly penning a letter. It seemed tomake an effort at entrance as though it would blotfrom the paper the words he wrote.

“Palace Hotel,
Wednesday morning.

“Dear Miss Arliss,

“It seems strange to call you that when I am aboutto ask you to be my wife. Yet what can I do whenI have seen you only once?

“You surely remember, do you not, that one daywhen you and I met and were held prisoners by thetrain wreck in the San Joaquin Valley, you said Imight call on you when I returned to San Franciscoafter my trip to the Orient? But you could not havedreamed what your permission meant to the lonely,business-bound coffee merchant who long ago, in thepoisonous lands of South America, had shut his heartto women’s smiles, and had turned deaf ears to themusic of their voices.

“Nor can I ever hope to make you understand whatit meant during the long journeying that followed thewreck. The memory of you with your cheeriness,your undaunted smile in all the hardship of thatwreck, has brought new life to me.

“For eight months I have dreamed of you day andnight. During that time I have not once lost thepicture of heated desert waste, the ugly wreckage ofthe train, the groaning, weeping people—and you,a girl with tender eyes, a smile of sympathy for theunluckiest devil, and ready resourcefulness to easepain that would have done credit to an army nurse.I have dreamed of you in my home—awaiting mycoming with your radiant smile.

“And so, unable to come to you in simple friendship,I thought it best to write first and explain. Iwanted to come with your permission granted afteryou knew that I love you—I love you. I like to writethe words, I want you for my wife.

“I stopped on my way from the station to buy allthe flowers I could find to send with this note. Ichose spring blossoms because they are so muchlike you.

“I am waiting with mad impatience for your answer.Do not regard my love lightly. It springsfrom the unspent passions, the unfulfilled ideals ofa lifetime. Oh, my dear, speed your answer backto me. Say I may come to you—now.

“Yours to eternity,

“John Marble.”

It was three o’clock in the afternoon before thefog lifted. It vanished before the piercing rays ofthe bright spring sun. At the windows of the PalaceHotel little rays of sunlight struck aslant the glassas though merrily demanding admission. Theypoured through the windows of John Marble’s roomand illumined his face as he, with trembling fingers,opened a note a messenger had brought. A singlesunbeam fell on the paper, blurring the lines so thathe shifted it to read:

“600 Pacific Avenue,
Wednesday afternoon.

“Mr. John Marble,

“Dear Sir:

“We put your flowers on her coffin to-day. Shewas like the spring blossoms which she loved. Theyhold your letter to her buried in the depths of theirbloom. She had made my life a heaven for fivebright months. I am trying to bear God’s will.

“Her husband,

“Morrison Grey.”

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

By Harriet Lummis Smith

Forbes had bribed his way past the gatemanand stood on the station platform at the footof the stairs, his manner drearily resigned. He hadcome to meet a girl and he did not fancy the job.

“Hang it, man,” he had protested, when KeithChandler, his partner, summoned to New York by atelegram, had deputed Forbes to meet the four o’clocktrain, and incidentally, his sister-in-law. “I shouldn’tknow the girl.”

“I’ve never seen her myself,” his friend remindedhim. “She was in Japan when Agnes and I weremarried, studying decorative art. Cabled she’dcome home for the wedding if we’d postpone it threemonths.” Chandler indulged himself in a smile ofreminiscent scorn.

“If Mrs. Chandler would accompany me,” saidForbes, brightening. He really liked his partner’swife, partly because her devotion to her husbandmade unnecessary those defenses he was accustomedto erect about himself in the society of women undersixty. Chandler’s answer shattered his hopes.

“If Agnes could leave the baby it wouldn’t be necessaryto trouble you. But the little thing’s under theweather. Nothing serious, but you couldn’t bribeAgnes out of the house till the child’s herself again.And you won’t have any trouble picking Dianthaout of the crowd. She looks like Agnes,” Chandlerended complacently. “There won’t be two of thatkind on any one train, my boy.”

Forbes, immaculate in his gray business suit,frowningly scanned the crowd hurrying past, therabble of men with suit-cases on ahead, the womenfollowing more deliberately. Heavens, what a swarmof women! Forbes saw himself addressing the wronggirl and snubbed for his pains.

Then all in a moment a figure took on distinction,a girl splendidly tall, who carried herself as if proudof every inch, who walked the station platform in afashion suggesting that she could dance all night,and go horseback riding in the morning. Yes, shewas like Mrs. Chandler, only larger, handsomer, morestunning in a word. Hat in hand he approachedher.

“Miss Byrd, I believe.”

The girl halted, facing him squarely. He had notime for explanations. A well-shaped, perfectlygloved hand rested lightly on either shoulder. Hehad a bewildering impression of a tall figure swayingtoward him, of a fragrance too elusive to be calledperfume, of gray eyes flecked with violet. Then herlips touched his.

“Miss Byrd, indeed!” She was laughing in hisface. “You are my first and only brother, youngman, and I warn you I shall make you live up to thepart.” One hand slipped from his shoulder andthrough his arm. He found himself walking besideher, following the porter who carried her satchels,and listening mechanically to a flow of words whichfortunately required no reply.

The affair was a hideous nightmare. Mistakinghim for Chandler, whom she had never seen, thisunsuspecting girl had kissed him before a hundredwitnesses. Most appalling of all, an explanationseemed an unthinkable brutality. When once sheknew, she could never look him in the face again. Itwas essential to keep her in ignorance of her blundertill he left her at Chandler’s door.

Not till they were seated in a taxicab did she aska direct question. This was fortunate, as Forbeshad been incapable of an intelligent reply.

“How’s the baby, Keith?”

“The baby—oh, yes, the little thing has beenslightly under the weather.” As he repeated the informationimparted by Chandler earlier in the day,Forbes blushed to his ears.

“Little darling!” murmured the girl. “How manyteeth has she?”

“Teeth! Oh—I—the usual number, I believe.”

“I’m awfully ignorant, Keith. I ought to beashamed to confess it, but I really don’t know whatis the usual number for a child of six months.”

Vainly she waited for enlightenment. Forbes’answer was a tortured smile. His agonized prayerthat she might change the subject was granted all toosoon.

“How’s Reggie?”

“I beg pardon.” Forbes’ jaw dropped. HisChristian name was Reginald.

“Mr. Forbes. I prefer to call him Reggie. Doyou admire him as extravagantly as Agnes does?Then I see I shall be forced to conceal my prejudiceto keep peace in the family.”

“Prejudice? You are prejudiced against him?”

“Of course. Such a bundle of perfection.”

“Oh, no.” Forbes spoke with generous earnestness.“He’s not that at all. Just an ordinary good sort.”

“Then you think I shall like him?”

The innocent question stabbed him. “No,”Forbes said after a long pause. “You won’t likehim.” In his heart he felt he was understating thecase. She would regard him with abhorrence.Every moment this deception continued, eventhough practised to spare her feelings, added to herrighteous grievance. The pain in his voice as hespoke was a surprise to himself.

“He must be a singular person,” mused the girl.“Agnes vows he is perfection. You reassure me byacknowledging him human, and yet you are certainI won’t like him. Or is that because I am so unreasonable?”

“Really, Miss Byrd——”

He thought she was going to kiss him again, sheleaned toward him so swiftly. His heart stood stillthough his mood could be hardly characterized asshrinking. But she confined herself to beating atattoo against his arm with a little clenched fist.

“I won’t be Miss Byrd to my only brother, Iwon’t! Say Diantha.”

“Di-an-tha.”

“You say it as if it were Keren-Happuch. Try itagain.”

He stammered out the three melodious syllables.He was thinking less of her name than of her eyes.There were golden mischievous lights swimming likemotes in the blue, and her drooping lashes madeblack shadows. She turned her head and the curveof her neck was distracting.

“Why, he’s stopping,” Diantha cried. “Are wethere?”

Incredible as it seemed, they were at Chandler’sdoor. “Wait,” Forbes said to the driver, his voicehoarse. He took Diantha’s arm to assist her up thesteps and she looked at him wonderingly.

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“Not just now.” Forbes forced a smile. It waspossible that they would never meet again, and ifthey did, her friendliness would have been transformedinto implacable enmity. He extended hishand. “Good-bye,” he whispered.

“Au revoir.” His agreeable doubt whether herideals of sisterliness would lead her to somethingmore affectionate than a handclasp was merged indisappointment. The door swung open and she disappeared.Forbes went back to the cab in a dejectiononly partially dissipated by Mrs. Chandler’snote next day.

“Dear Mr. Forbes:

“Can’t you dine with us Friday? We have allenjoyed a good laugh over Diantha’s absurd mistake.

“Cordially yours,

“Agnes Byrd Chandler.”

Forbes’ uncertainty as to how far Mrs. Chandlerwas in her sister’s confidence was unenlightened threeweeks later when he asked Diantha to marry him.He had waited three weeks, not from choice, butbecause he had been unable to induce that elusiveyoung woman to listen to him earlier.

She looked past him, her changeful eyes sombreand sad like the sea under clouds. “I can’t say yes,”she murmured plaintively, “without owning up.And if I own up, you’ll want me to say no.”

“Diantha!” he faltered. Used as he was to feminineextravagance in speech, her words chilled him.

She turned her tragic gaze on him. “I knew itwas you all the time.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That day at the train. Agnes had sent me akodak picture of Keith and yourself taken on afishing trip and I recognized you instantly. I had alittle prejudice against you to start with, Agnespraised you so preposterously, and then when I sawyou looking so bored and superior—oh, I know it wasimmodest and unwomanly and perfectly horrid, butI just had an intuition of the way you’d gone throughlife holding women at arm’s length, and I made upmy mind to give you something to think about.”

The confession ended in a half sob. A tear clungfor an instant to her curving lashes then fell to hercheek. Forbes leaned closer, murmuring somethingneither an assurance of forgiveness nor altogetherentreaty, but a mixture of both. If it was furtherfood for thought for which he pleaded, he did not askin vain.

HOPE

By Edward Thomas Noonan

“Here’s a pathetic case of chronic melancholia,”the doctor continued, as we walked among theinmates. “That white-haired woman has beenhere twenty-six years. She is entirely tractablewith one obsession. Every Sunday she writes thisletter:

“‘Sunday.

“‘Dear John:

“‘I am sorry we quarreled when you were goingaway out West. It was all my fault. I hope youwill forgive and write.

“‘Your loving,

“‘Esther.’

“Every Monday she asks for a letter, and, thoughreceiving none, becomes radiant with hope and says:‘It will come to-morrow.’ The last of the week sheis depressed. Sunday she again writes her letter.That has been her life for twenty-six years. Heryouthful face is due to her mental inactivity. Aimlesslyshe does whatever is suggested. The yearsroll on and her emotions alternate between silentgrief and fervid hope.

“This is the male ward. That tall man has beenhere twenty years. His history sheet says fromalcoholism. He went to Alaska, struck gold, andreturned home to marry the girl he left behind. Hefound her insane and began drinking, lost his fortuneand then his reason, and became a ward of the State,always talking about his girl and events that happenedlong ago.

“He is the ‘John’ to whom ‘Esther’ writes herletter.

“They meet every day.

“They will never know each other.”

COLLUSION

By Lincoln Steffens

The sacred door of the Judge’s chambers boltedopen and he beheld the light, lovely figure ofa woman trembling before him; brave, afraid.

“Oh, Judge,” she panted, but she turned andclosing the door securely, put her back against it tohold it shut. And so at bay, she called to him:

“Judge, Judge, can’t I tell you the truth? Can’tI? My lawyer says I mustn’t. He says perjury isthe only way. And I—I have done perjury, Judge.So has my husband. And I’ll swear to it all in courtwhen we are under oath. But here where we are allalone, you and I, unsworn, with no one to hear,can’t I tell you the truth?

“I must. I can’t stand the lies. Yes, yes, Iknow they are merely forms, legal forms. Mylawyer has explained that, and that we must respectthe law and comply with its requirements. Andwe’ll do that, Judge; we have, and I’ll go throughwith it, if—I mean that it would help me if I couldknow that you were not deceived by the lies; if Icould know that you knew the truth.

“And the truth is so much truer and more beautifulthan the lies. Ours is. I loved him, Judge. Ilove him now. And he loved me. And it wasn’this fault that he fell in love with her. And shedidn’t mean to—to hurt me so. She was my friend.I brought them together. I was happy when Ibrought them together, her, my old chum, and him,my lover; and when I saw that they took to eachother, I was glad. I never thought of their loving.I didn’t think of that till, by and by, I found thatthey were avoiding each other. I couldn’t get themto meet any more. That made me think—it wasterrible what I thought.

“I thought—Judge, I knew that they had agreednot to meet any more because they had discoveredthat they loved each other. He admitted it, whenI asked him, finally. So did she, later, when uponmy demand, we all three met to speak what was inour hearts.

“That was when I refused to have it so. Iwouldn’t keep a man who loved another woman. Icouldn’t, could I? And so I said I would go awayand get the divorce and let them be together and,by and by—marry.

“It was all to be clean and honourable and fine,Judge. We didn’t know then the requirements of thelaw. We didn’t know we shouldn’t have an honestunderstanding like that. And I—I didn’t know thatI had to make charges against him that are not true,and that he had to write me letters to prove he hadrefused to support me; false letters; and coarse. He?Coarse? Judge, he——

“But I’m not complaining. We copied, my husbandand I, the letters the lawyer wrote out for us tosign and date back and show to you. We have doneour part. I have lived here, in this terrible place,among these other—people. I have been here therequired length of time for the ‘residence.’ I havewithstood the looks we get from men—and women.We have obeyed the law, yes, and I will come to yourcourt and swear—I will swear falsely, Judge, to allyou ask. I must, mustn’t I? I can’t go on thisway loving a man who doesn’t love me. And Ican’t keep two lovers apart, can I? When love is sobeautiful, so right, so good. Don’t I know? Andit must be pure.

“So I will do my duty, just as my lawyer does his,and as you do yours. Oh, I know; I know how conscientiousyou all are, and especially you, Judge.My lawyer has told me, again and again, that youknow it’s all perjury. Every time I wanted tocome to you and tell you the truth, he has saidthat you understood. He forbade me to come; hedoesn’t know I am here now. But I had to come.I think I might not be able to go through with it if Ihad not told you the truth myself: How we threehave agreed perfectly, he and I and she; how we areto pay each a third of the costs. They were sogenerous about it, begging to pay all. And I wantyou to be sure we are all perfectly reconciled to thechange; all of us; I, too; perfectly.

“And, Judge, he, my husband, he couldn’t, hesimply could not have written letters like that. Oh,I’ll swear to them; I’ll swear to anything, I’ll doanything, almost, if—if only you, Judge——”

The Judge rose.

“If,” he finished for her, “if only I will understand.Well, I will.”

And he went to the door, opened it wide and, asshe passed, he bowed to the woman with the respectwhich, till that day, he had paid only to the Law.

FAITHFUL TO THE END

By Clair W. Perry

Embarkation of the 10th London Reservistsfor France was the occasion of a demonstrationin the city such as had not been seen since theCanadian contingent crossed the Channel. The callfor these fresh troops had a sinister significance. Itmeant the long-awaited “general advance” fromCalais to Belfort was impending. At the quay,where the dingy transports were swallowing up fileafter file of England’s youth, were hundreds ofwomen and girls come to bid a bitter-sweet farewellto their lads, whose vigorous bodies were to becrammed into the hungry maw of war.

Lieutenant Topham, Wing Commander of theaerial division with the 10th, stood apart at the farend of the quay. He had just finished superintendingthe loading of his machines. He was watching thetroops file aboard, hungrily absorbed in the dramaticscenes that passed, one after the other like cinemascenes, when wife, mother, sweetheart, sister, kissedloved ones good-bye. He moved nearer the slopinggangway where were enacted these hasty tender farewells,swift embraces at the foot of the passage, soswift the progress of the tramping files was scarcelyhalted, each woman, for an instant, giving up her soulin an embrace—and the next instant giving up herson, brother, or mate to his Maker—or his destroyer.

Topham was deeply moved by the scenes. But itwas a selfish emotion. There was no one to bid himfarewell. For the first time in his careless life hefelt the lack. He had no mother, no sister, no sweetheart.His men friends, even, were not there; theyhad gone on before.

As he moved nearer the ship on which he was totake passage for France, and the wild dash in air forwhich he had been detailed, to shell the recentlyestablished German Zeppelin base near “Hill 60,”there came over him a premonition of death and ayearning emotion. He wanted some human beingto bid him farewell, some one who placed his lifeabove all else, a woman who cared.

In his abstracted progress he almost ran into thefigure of a girl. She was standing close to the movingfile, and in her searching eyes, as Topham looked insilent apology, he saw a fire that thrilled him. Henoted, too, beauty, and a band of mourning on hersleeve. Her gaze pierced Topham with compellingappeal. The bugle was giving its piercing call,“All hands on.” With a sudden impulse Tophamstepped close to the girl.

“Are you sending—some one away?” he queried.

She shook her head and touched the band on herarm.

“My father—a month ago—at Ypres,” she replied.

“I am going—over there,” eagerly explained Topham,“and I have no one. I feel that I—shall neverreturn. I wonder if you—— Will you kiss me good-bye?I promise you I shall never kiss another woman—thatI will be faithful—until the end,” he finishedwith wistful whimsicality.

Her smile was like a soft flame. Without a wordshe stepped close to him and, as he doffed his cap andbent, she clasped him about the neck, drew his close-croppedhead down, and kissed him on the lips.

There was no time for words. Topham had tospring for the moving gang-plank. The bugle hadsounded its last call for stragglers such as he. Thegirl who had given him his sweet farewell was swallowedup in the crowd.

Halfway across the Channel Topham found hecould not even recall the girl’s features, the colour ofher eyes or hair. All that remained to him was adim expression of sweet, yearning womanliness, anabstract conception.

At the transfer hospital, a week later, Topham’sshattered, helpless form was laid for a few moments ona cot. His fall from a great height after a desperateduel with a German Taube left him victor and herobut with the shadow of death hovering over him.Numbness mercifully stilled the pain that had grippedhim and he lay passive. It was not until he feltthe touch of a hand softer than that of the hurryingsurgeon who had given hasty “first aid” examinationthat he opened his eyes. A woman nurse, the onlyone he had seen so near the lines, was bending overhim. He could see only dimly. A mist was overhis eyes from the explosion of his engine. Her touch,however, seemed to give him a thrill of vitality.When she moved on he sank into semi-coma, withthe feeling of chill. Death bearing down on him. Shemoved again to his side and he moaned. The grimgrip was tightening. Like a boy he was afraid. Inthe world there was only himself, this woman, andapproaching death.

“I am going,” he muttered swiftly, as the nursebent near. “Will you kiss me good-bye? I canpromise you—I will be faithful—until the end.”His smile was a pitiful effort at humour. He felt herwarm lips on his—and then oblivion.

Topham came to himself—save for the memoryof a delirium of travel in motor-ambulance and boat—ina clean white bed in a large, lofty room. Whenhis senses cleared he knew he was in England. White-cladnurses moved about the room in which weremany other beds containing huddled or stretched-outfigures. At his first movement one of the nursescame to his bedside. Her keen glance, under hersignificant cap, spoke efficiency and warm humansympathy. A few deft touches, a spoon of medicine,a pat of the pillow, and she was gone.

Topham awoke again in the dark small hourswhen man’s vitality is at its lowest ebb; awoke withthat familiar depression, as of a chill hand grippinghis heart—squeezing his very soul. It was Death,again, groping for him. Only his brain seemed clear.He tinkled, with a supreme effort, the bell at hisbedside. A nurse came, her face indistinct in thedim light, and bent over him in an attitude of solicitation.

“What is it?” she asked, and her voice seemed thatof an angel from Heaven.

“I—I am almost gone,” gasped Topham. “Myheart is stopping. I—I am not afraid—but—it isso lonely. I have no one. Could you—kiss me—good-bye?”

He was halted by a swift movement. She hadraised his head and he swallowed a draft of somethingthat sent a liquid thrill through him. In a tricehis feeling changed from that of a sinking, suffocatingsoul to that of a man whose life is rushing back intohim. The nurse was smiling into his eyes.

“You were going to say,” she murmured musically,“that you will be faithful to the end.”

Topham opened his eyes wider. That face—theripe lips—the clear, burning eyes! They were thoseof the girl at the quay—of the nurse at the transferhospital—no, of the nurse who had bent over himwhen he first regained consciousness here—yes, of allthree. A deep flush overspread his pallid face.

“You said you would be faithful to the end,” sherepeated roguishly. He groped for an answer.

“In my mind,” he confessed, “I did not know you.But in my heart I must have known you all the time.”

Then she kissed him again.

ARLETTA

By Margaret Ade

It was on a Monday morning in August thatMiss Backbay climbed the brownstone stepsto the rooming-house conducted by Mrs. EdwardSouthend in Massachusetts Avenue, Boston. MissBackbay was short, stout, and sixty, and her facewas flushed and scowling.

“I wish to speak with Mrs. Southend,” she snappedat the woman who opened the door. The woman,a middle-aged, quiet-looking little woman, glancedat the card and said: “I am Mrs. Southend, MissBackbay; come this way please.”

In the parlour Miss Backbay and Mrs. Southendlooked into each other’s eyes for a few moments andexchanged a silent challenge; then Miss Backbayleaned forward in her chair and said: “I have come,Mrs. Southend, to talk with you concerning this—thisaffair between your son and my niece. MissArletta Backbay. I have, as you know, broughther up, and I love her as if she were my own daughter.She is the last of the Backbays—the Backbays ofBackbay. Our family lived on Beacon Hill whenBoston Common was a farming district. The Backbaysare direct—direct descendants of William I,King of England—William the Conqueror.”

Miss Backbay drew a long, deep breath.

Mrs. Southend was silent.

“I have devoted years of my life,” Miss Backbaycontinued, “to the education of my niece. Nothinghas been spared to prepare her for the high socialposition to which, by her ancestry alone, she isentitled. I am going into this bit of family historyso you will understand—so you will see this affairfrom my viewpoint. I have been exceedingly carefulin the selection of her teachers, her associates, andher servants. Your son came to us well recommendedby his pastor and by his former employer.I have no fault to find with him as—as a chauffeur,but as a suitor for the hand of my niece he—he isimpossible. Absolutely! The thing is absurd. I—Ihave done what I could to break up this affair.I have discharged him. But my niece has defied me.She assures me that she loves him and—and willmarry him in spite of everything. She is headstrong,self-willed, and—and completely bewitched. She haslost all pride—pride in her ancient lineage. Now Ihave come to you to beseech you to use your influencewith your son. Induce him to leave the city—hemust leave the city, if only for a year. I—I shallpay——”

“Pardon me, just a moment, Miss Backbay.”Mrs. Southend left the room, and in a few minutesshe returned carrying a large volume, her fingers betweenthe pages.

“As I listened to you, Miss Backbay, the thoughtcame to me very forcibly that it is a pity—a greatpity—that you could not have selected your ancestorsas you do your servants—from the better class ofrespectable working people. But, of course, youcould not. You could, however, try to live themdown—forget them—some of them, anyway. Listento this biographical sketch of your most famousancestor. It is from page 659 of the ‘EncyclopædiaBritannica’: ‘William I, King of England—Williamthe Conqueror, born 1027 or 1028. He was thebastard son of Robert the Devil, Duke of Normandy,by Arletta, the daughter of a tanner.’”

Mrs. Southend closed the book with a bang.

“Not much to boast about, is it? We all haveancestors, Miss Backbay, but the less said about someof them the better. And now, if my son wants togo out of his class and mix it up with Robert theDevil and Arletta—why, that’s his—his funeral.You’ll excuse me now, Miss Backbay. I have myhusband’s dinner to prepare.”

WHICH?

By Joseph Hall

They were two women, one young, radiant,the other gently, beautifully old.

“But, Auntie, it’s such fun.”

The older rose.

“Wait.”

In a moment she had returned. Two faded yellowletters lay upon the young girl’s lap.

“Read them.”

Wonderingly the girl obeyed. The first read:

“Dearest:

“I leave you to John. It is plain you care for him.I love you. Just now it seems that life without youis impossible. But I can no longer doubt. If youcared, there would be no doubt. John is my friend.I would rather see you his than any others, sinceyou cannot be mine. God bless you.

“Will.”

The other:

“Beloved:

“I am leaving you to the better man. For methere can never be another love. But it is best—itis the right thing—and I am, yes, I am glad that it isWill you love instead of me. You cannot be anythingbut happy with him. With me—but that is adream I must learn to forget.

“As ever and ever,

“John.”

WHAT THE VANDALS LEAVE

By Herbert Riley Howe

The war was over, and he was back in his nativecity that had been retaken from the Vandals.He was walking rapidly through a dimly lit quarter.A woman touched his arm and accosted him infuddled accents.

“Where are you going, M’sieu? With me, hein?”

He laughed.

“No, not with you, old girl. I’m going to find mysweetheart.”

He looked down at her. They were near a streetlamp. She screamed. He seized her by the shouldersand dragged her closer to the light. His fingers dugher flesh, and his eyes gleamed.

“Joan!” he gasped.

BEN T. ALLEN, ATTY., VS. HIMSELF

By William H. Hamby

“Lawyers always get theirs.” The hardwaredealer on the north side spoke with some bitternessand entire literalness. The check for onehundred and seventy-five dollars just wrenched fromits stub bore “Ben T. Allen, Atty.,” in the middle,and “Peter Shaw Hardware Co.,” at the bottom.

Peter, by the aid and advice of counsel, had beenresisting the payment of a merchant’s tax of fivedollars a year which the alleged city of Clayton Centerhad insisted on collecting. The case had now beenin the supreme court two years. This check wasmerely “on account.”

The check had occasioned the remark, but thebitterness back of it was engendered by another case,in which Peter had been prosecuting his claims forthe affection of Betty Lane, court stenographer.Attorney Allen appeared against him this time insteadof for him, and in both cases Peter seemed to begetting the worst of it.

But that, of course, is all in the viewpoint. Atthat moment Attorney Allen stood by the frontwindow of his offices, his thick hair tangled like thefleece of a black sheep after a restless night, hissoul splashing in a vat of gloom. Betty Lane hadjust passed through the courthouse yard on her wayto work. Nature had made Betty very attractive,but her job had made her independent.

The lawyer was bitterly despondent. Law practicein Clayton Center was no longer lucrative.Although Allen was very dextrous in twisting three-plybandages around the eyes of the Lady with theScales, the Lady with the Pencil at the right of theJudge was not so blind. The citizens of ClaytonCenter had developed a spineless, milksop tendencyto settle even their constitutional rights out of court.Besides Betty’s seven dollars a day Allen’s incomelooked as ill-fed as a dromedary in an elephantparade.

The young lawyer’s heart was so heavy over hislight matrimonial prospects that he went out thatnight with some of the boys and got drunk. In returningat one A. M., singing “It Was at Aunt Dinah’sQuilting Party—I was seeing Nellie home,” he felloff the board sidewalk and broke the establishedprecedent that a drunken man cannot hurt himselfby a fall.

The breaking of one leg was the most fortunateaccident upon which a distressed barrister ever fell.It gave him two legs on which to stand in court.

He sued the city immediately for ten thousanddollars’ damages on account of the defective sidewalk.His three companions swore positively thatthere was not only one hole in the walk, but two,and not only two loose boards, but six.

Moreover, it was not a plain fracture of the limb.Allen proved by a liver specialist that the jolt hadpermanently deranged his liver; a spine specialisttestified the jar had injured the fourteenth vertebra;a nerve specialist swore that the shock of the fall andsubsequent anguish of mind in seeing his law practicedrop away would probably result in a totalbreakdown.

The jury gave him four thousand dollars’ damages—twicewhat he hoped. And the city attorney,having a fraternal feeling for fractured legal legs,advised the city to pay instead of appeal.

One bright morning, fully recovered and adornedin a natty spring suit, Ben T. Allen went to the courthouseto get an order from the court to the city treasurerfor his four thousand dollars’ damages.

There was a click of a typewriter in an anteroom.Betty Lane, the court stenographer, was down earlyworking out some notes.

Ben T. Allen went in, laid his hat debonairly on astack of notebooks, sat on the edge of her desk, andlocked his hands around his knees and smiled possessively.

“Why, good morning, Mr. Allen.” Betty lookedup and nodded. “Allow me to congratulate you.”

“For what?”

“Why, haven’t you seen the supreme court’sdecision in this morning’s paper? You won yourcase. Peter Shaw does not have to pay his annualfive-dollar merchant tax.”

“Good!” exclaimed Allen. “No, I had not seenit.”

“Yes,” nodded Betty, with something not quitetransparent in her smile, “the judge who handeddown the decision sustained your contention, thatas the notices of election, at which the town wasincorporated thirty-eight years ago, were posted onlynineteen days instead of twenty, as the law requires,the articles of incorporation were illegally adopted.Therefore, the town is non-existent. Its officershave no right to levy or collect taxes, to sue or tobe sued, to receive or pay out moneys.”

“Good heavens!” Allen felt himself slowly collapsingon the table, sick in every organ described bythe specialists.

“Sometimes,” smiled Betty, as she glanced out ofthe window toward the hardware store—“sometimesa lawyer gets his.”

THE JOKE ON PRESTON

By Lewis Allen

“Has the prisoner secured counsel?”

“No, your honour,” responded District AttorneyMasters.

Judge Horton looked over the tops of his steel-rimmedspectacles, first at the unkempt prisoner,and then around the courtroom.

“The court will provide counsel for your defense.Have you any choice?” he asked the prisoner.

The prisoner had not. He didn’t know one manfrom another in the courtroom. A faint suspicionof a smile showed on District Attorney Master’sface. He winked slyly at several of his brother attorneys,and even smiled rather knowingly at thejudge when he made the suggestion that the courtappoint Mr. Preston attorney for the defense. Atitter went around the courtroom at this, and youngJohn Preston flushed to the roots of his yellow hair ashe arose and went forward to consult with his client.

“Honest to God, are you a lawyer?” asked theprisoner, in a voice that carried. It took nearly twominutes to restore decorum.

In spite of his embarrassment young Prestonthanked the court and asked for a day’s postponementin order to acquaint himself with his client’scase. This was granted, and after adjournment theDistrict Attorney took young Preston aside, put hishand patronizingly on his shoulder, and said:

“Great Scott, Johnnie, give the poor devil a squaredeal! The only thing in the world for him is a pleaof guilty and a request for leniency.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Preston rather stiffly, “butI at least want to know something of my client’scase.”

“Now, now, Johnnie, you must learn to take thingsin the proper spirit. Every young lawyer must havehis first case, and he must expect a certain amount ofgood-natured raillery over it, and, believe me, itisn’t every man fresh from law school who gets amurder case for the very first thing. Be sensibleabout it, boy. I’m advising you for your father’ssake. We were partners, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” answered Preston.

“Oh, don’t be stubborn, Johnnie! Why, dash itall, the prisoner has confessed!”

“A great many innocent men have confessed underthe third degree,” and young Preston bowed rathertoo formally and turned on his heel.

“He’ll get the chair if you fight the case,” snappedthe District Attorney.

“He’ll get the chair—or liberty, sir,” was all youngPreston replied, and he hurried over to the jail,where he was secluded in the cell with his client, theprisoner.

It wasn’t much of a story the prisoner told. Hesaid his name was Farral, that he was a plain hobo,and that with another hobo he had got into a fightwith a freight brakeman who wouldn’t let them jumpthe train. Both picked up lumps of coal to defendthemselves, and in the mix-up the poor brakeman’sskull was crushed. He managed to shoot and killthe other hobo, but he died before they got him tothe hospital.

Young Preston said nothing, for five minutes.Farral became nervous. Finally he said:

“Say, kid, I ain’t blamin’ you any. You gotterhave your first case some time, and so they wishedyou on me. The only thing to do is to plead guiltyto self-defense——”

“Never do,” said young Preston. “There isn’ta juryman in the county who would agree to justifiablehomicide.”

“But I confessed, kid; I confessed. Whatchergoin’ to do about it now?”

“Just what did you say? Give me the exactwords.”

“I says to the captain, ‘Don’t put me through nothird degree. I killed him!’”

“What made you say that?”

“They’d put it on me anyway. I thought it wouldhelp me.”

“What was the name of the man with you?”

“I don’t know. I never saw him before.”

“His name was Ichabod Jones,” said Prestonimpressively, “and don’t you ever forget it. Remember,you have known this man for a long while andthat he went under the name of ‘Black Ike.’”

Preston talked a half-hour longer with the man anddrilled him over and over before he left him.

When the case came up the prosecution introducedwitnesses sufficient to prove that the brakeman hadbeen killed and then introduced the confession.

“We rest the case there, your honour,” said DistrictAttorney Masters, with somewhat of a flourish.

Young Preston put his client on the stand withoutdelay and had him tell his story of the fight, whichwas to the effect that it was not he, but the other man,who killed the brakeman.

“What was the other man’s name?” asked Preston.

“Ichabod Jones,” replied the prisoner; “at least,that’s what he told me.”

“How did you always address him?”

“I always called him Ike.”

“You may tell the court just what you said inthis alleged confession.”

“I didn’t make no confession. I said to thecaptain, ‘Don’t put me through no third degree.Ike killed him.’”

And, for all that the prosecuting attorney couldprove to the contrary, Ike did.

THE IDYL

By Joseph F. Whelan

The Poet handed it to the Girl, with rather aquizzical smile. They did not know eachother. He had seen her walking along one of thepark paths, and the loneliness of her face stoppedhim. She read the verse, then gazed at him a fewseconds, half amused, half annoyed, then whollyjoyous. He read compliance in her eyes.

“Rather rude, isn’t it?” he asked. “But thedesperation of loneliness is heavy on my soul.”

They sauntered to the gates and boarded a streetcar, which whirled them, with twenty other peopleequally though unconsciously lonely, toward themountain. She did not speak until they were zig-zaggingalong a bridle path up the mountainside.Then she unfolded the verse and said musingly:

“A day of idyl! A year ago I thought that everyday would be an idyl.” And the sweet mouthsoured in the churn of memory.

“My dear lady,” he said, “memories have noplace in a day of idyl. Oh, let me teach you how tolive, live, live, if only for an hour! Let’s sing thesong of nature which is happiness—dance the danceof winds which is joy—think the thought of butterflieswhich is nothing! Oh, there is happiness everywhere,everywhere—even for you and me!”

They reached a little hillock where a clump ofbushes cast a tempting shadow.

“Let’s sit down a while,” she said, pouring wateron a rocket.

For a few minutes they sat in silence. The idylhad not yet begun. From behind them came voices,and a woman’s laugh startled the air and the Poet.Nearer came the voices, and the Girl gripped thegrasses at her sides. The couple swung jauntilypast without noticing them and settled down in thelong grass at the foot of the hillock.

The Poet and the Girl were statues. Their faceswere averted. From the long grass came the noiseof kisses.

The sun slipped away. The air was hot and heavyand all around was the silence of premonition. Abird piped fretfully, and a peevish breeze shook theleaves. The amorous couple in the long grass rose.

“Say,” said the man, looking at his watch, “ifwe’re goin’ to see that show we’ve got to hustle.”

And they hurried away.

The Girl rose, walked a few yards, then stoodgazing on the far horizon of departed time. Thenshe returned.

“That was my husband,” she said.

The Poet sprang to his feet as though released by aspring. His face was gray as the sky.

“God help us both!” he cried. “The woman wasmy wife.”

WITHHELD

By Ella B. Argo

Every time he had tried to propose to herthey had been interrupted.

There was the moonlight night on the beach whena sudden storm sent them scurrying to shelter. Onceit was in her mother’s drawing-room and callers wereannounced. He had almost reached the interrogationpoint while dancing when a colliding couplemade them slip, and for weeks a broken ankle madeher inaccessible. He might have put the momentousquestion in writing, but that did not appeal to hissense of fitness.

Lately she felt like Evangeline, since businessalways took him out of New York the day before shearrived, and twice illness called her home when hewas to have met her at some resort. The Evangelinefeeling was strong to-night, because he had inexplicablyfailed to keep his Miami appointment to accompanyher mother and herself home, and at thelast moment they had decided to come by sea.

Then suddenly off Norfolk she came face to facewith him on the deck. She was excitedly responsiveto his white-faced, trembling-voiced rapture at seeingher, and they both forgot to make explanations.

It was late, but they paced the deck for an hour,and every moment of that hour she expected him tospeak, although one passenger walked disconcertinglynear them.

His love had taken on a new humility, for whereonce he had been masterful, impetuous, he nowseemed afraid and looked at her adoringly but despairingly,as though at some inaccessible heaven.She fought between modesty and a desire to encouragehim. The hours flew, and he had not evensought a secluded corner. She sent away the maidwho came with her mother’s summons and lingeredanother moment for the words she felt were tremblingon the lips beneath the love-agonized eyes. He acceptedher proud good-night without remonstrance,although he clung to her hand as though he wouldnever let it go.

“This must be good-bye,” he said. “The shipwill dock before you are up, and I have to make adash for the train.”

No word of future meeting.

Almost all the passengers had landed and hermother and the maid were far ahead in the crowdwhen she remembered a silver cup she had left inthe stateroom. Her way back was barred first by alaughing and weeping reunited Cuban family, andthen by a group of men excitedly discussing the quickcapture of a murderer who had claimed self-defensein a political quarrel but had run. It seemed theman was prominent, and it sounded interesting, buther mother would worry if she stopped.

The emotional Cuban family was again in her way.The cup was knocked from her hand, and it rolleddown the deck. She picked it up and turned to seehim framed in a door opened by the restless passengerof the night before.

Then her sun went down in eternal blackness. Hewas handcuffed.

UP AND DOWN

By Bertha Lowry Gwynne

Rhyolite Rose kept always her curiouslyunfeminine sense of humour. Standing in thedoorway of the Bodega where nightly she accompaniedherself on a battered piano, and sang indecoroussongs with the voice of a seraph, she listened,vastly diverted, to the crap dealer’s flights of fancy.

“Get your money down, boys; six, eight, field orcome—play a favourite. Here comes the lucky man!He throwed nine, Long Liz, the ham and egg gal.”

Rhyolite was booming, and Rhyolite was fortune-mad.It was Saturday night. Outside on GoldenStreet crowds surged up and down. There wereminers, promoters, engineers, cooks, crooks, tinhorns and wildcatters; good women, bad women, andboarding-house keepers. Adventurers all; each confidentthat to-morrow would bring him fortune.

The Bodega overflowed with a good-humouredcrowd that stood four deep at the bar. Around thecrap table was a restless throng, drawn by the dealer’srecitative, a curious chant detailing the fortunes ofBig Dick from Boston, Little Joe, Miss Phoebe, andmany more of the fanciful folk that indicate the fall ofthe dice.

Mining booms a-plenty Rose had seen. For fiveyears she had followed them since she had first appearedin the Klondike a young girl with a lovelyface, a gentle voice, and a consuming passion forScotch whiskey. Each year since then had takensome of the innocence from her face, and set deepershadows in her eyes; each year found her growingsadder till evening came, and then very gay, indeed;for by night Rose’s sorrow, whatever it was, had beendrowned in a square bottle.

The pasty-faced crap dealer droned on: “Nowand then I earn a small one,” he was saying. “MissAda, yore maw wants you——”

He faltered, and came to a pause. A shot hadsounded on the street outside, and almost instantlythe saloon was emptied.

Following the crowd, and still smiling, went RhyoliteRose. She gathered from snatches of agitatedconversation that “Sidewinder,” the camp’s badman, in shooting at an unbearable acquaintance, hadkilled a stranger.

Not dead, but desperately wounded, the man layon the boardwalk. Rose pushed her way to his side.As she looked down upon him her face blanched, thered of her cheeks standing out in odd relief.

“He’s a friend of mine,” she said to the men aroundher. “Take him to my cabin, and send for thedoctor.”

Rose darted into the saloon, and snatching a decanterof whiskey, saturated her handkerchief withit. As she ran she rubbed the rouge from her face.She passed the little procession, and reaching hercabin made preparations for the man’s coming. Thatdone, she dug into a trunk, taking from it a much-crumpleddress. Hastily she put it on.

The unconscious man was laid on the bed, and in afew minutes the doctor came. He gazed at Roseastounded. She was garbed in the habit of a novitiateof a nursing sisterhood.

“What the——” he began. She interrupted him,and underneath her flippancy the man saw realmisery.

“It’s Sister Rose now,” the woman said. “I shedmy sins with my scenery. Get me?”

The doctor nodded. Carefully he tended thewounded man.

“There is nothing we can do,” he said at length.“He is dying.”

“Suits me, Doc,” said Rose.

He left, and the woman sat quietly by the bed, herface set, her body tense, waiting. In a little whilethe man opened his eyes, and she saw that he knewher. She leaned over and lifted him into her arms.His head rested on her thin bosom.

“Little Sister, is it true?” he said in a whisper.“I dream so much. Every night and every night Idream that I have found you. I have hunted for youso long, Little Sister; everywhere; up and down thewhole world.” His voice died out.

When he spoke again it was with an effort. “Theother woman ... she didn’t count. When youleft I went mad.” He raised himself with a burstof strength, his face distorted. “It was the uncertainty,the uncertainty! You were so little,” hemuttered. “I have looked for you,” he repeated,drearily, “everywhere up and down the whole world.”

“Never mind.” Rose spoke serenely. Subtly,indefinably she had become again a gentlewoman.“Oh, my dearest, yes, I forgive you. God haswatched over me, honey. There is a typhoid epidemichere. The sisters sent me.”

The man gave a long sigh. “My little girl, unhurt.”

She laid him down, and he drowsed awhile. Justbefore dawn he stirred.

“Sing, Little Sister,” he whispered.

“I am far frae my hame
I am weary aften whiles——”

Rose sang a song of her childhood. Her voice hadwithstood the ravages of cigarette smoke, whiskey,and overstrain. It rose clear and true,

“Like a bairn to its mither,
A wee——”

“Little Sister!” She bent to hear him.

“I have looked for you everywhere; up anddown——” he was dead.

Tearless, Rose sat by the bed a long time. Shecame to herself with a sudden start.

In the dead man’s hands she placed a crucifix; and,kneeling, with little lapses of memory, she recitedthe prayer for the dead.

Then, as if moved by some force without herself,with eyes staring, she rose from her knees and hurriedto the kitchen. She took down from a shelf a bottleof Scotch whiskey. With fingers that trembled shepoured herself out a long drink.

“Now and then I earn a small one,” said RhyoliteRose.

THE ANSWER

By Harry Stillwell Edwards

The dim lights of the old pawnbroker’s shopflickered violently as the street door opened,letting in a gust of icy wind. The man who camewith the wind closed the door with difficulty, approachedthe low desk, took off his thin coat, shookthe sleet from it and laid it on the counter.

“As much as ye can,” he said crisply. “’Tis melast!”

The broker measured the garment with a carelessglance and tossed fifty cents on the counter.

“Come wanst more, me friend! ’Tis not enoughfor the illegant coat.”

Pathos did not appeal often to the old dealer, butthis time it did. A vibration in the voice exactlyfitted the mystery of something buried deep in thesubconsciousness. He questioned the other with aswift glance, hesitated, and by the coin laid anotherlike it. The man nodded.

“’Tis little enough, but ’twill do.”

He took a pencil from the desk and with mucheffort wrote a few lines on a bit of wrapping paper.Straightening, he fixed a steady gaze on the old faceturned, not unkindly, to his.

“We have known aiche ither more’n a bit. Yeknow I’m not th’ drunkard nor th’ loafer. I knowye aire a har-r-d man—ye have to be in this trade,har-r-d but square. I am off for good and all;’tis for the sake of the gyrul and the little man.She’ll not go home till I lave her. Sind th’ moneyand the line to the place it spells; ’twill pay her wayhome—they’ll take her, without me; they have saidit. Will ye do it?”

The old man looked away from him and was silent.

“Yes!” he said, at length.

They waited and then shook hands, for no reason,after the fashion of men.

“What have you been doing of late?” a voice brokein that was clear-cut, sharp, and almost offensivelyauthoritative. It came from a third man standingnear, unnoticed. The coatless stranger regarded himsteadily, his face hardening. He saw a short, rotundfigure, almost swallowed up in a fur coat now thrownopen, a heavy chain across the prominent paunch,an enormous diamond above, a prominent curvednose and sweeping black moustache. An elbow on thecounter supported a jewelled hand that poised a fatblack cigar with an ash half an inch long.

The eyes of the two men met, Celt and Hebrew.A moment of strained silence and something passed.What? Eternity’s messages travel many channels.The Irishman’s resentment faded; his lips framed aslow, sardonic grin.

“Me? Sure, I been searchin’ for the Christ! Doye mind that ye saw Him along the way ye came?”

“No,” said the other simply. “He does not livein New York! You spoke of going for good. Where—withouta coat—by the bridge route?”

“An’ is’t your business?” The Irish blood flared.

“Perhaps,” replied the Hebrew, coolly flicking theash. And then:

“Wouldn’t you rather put it off and take a job?”

The red faded from the face in front of him, thepale lips parted in silence, and one hand caught thecounter.

“If you would, come to my place, The Star Pooland Billiard Palace, four blocks above the Bridge,and I’ll start you at twelve and a half a week. Oneof my men skipped with forty dollars’ worth ofbilliard balls yesterday—I am looking for them now.You can have his job. A man who will pawn hiscoat a night like this for his wife and baby and don’tget drunk won’t steal billiard balls. It’s a businessproposition.”

He drew from his pocket a fat roll of bills and peeledoff a five.

“Take this on account,” he concluded, studiouslyavoiding the other’s gaze. “It will loosen up thingsat home until to-morrow. Here, take your coatalong.”

From the door the Irishman rushed back, seized thegarment, extended his hand, but suddenly withdrewit.

“Not now, sor,” he stammered brokenly. “Sure,I can’t say it! I’ll say it ivery day I work for ye.”

“Good! You’re all right! Now hustle, my boy!”

The woman in the room sat prone on the floor,her thin shawl sheltering herself and wailing infant.Not an article of furniture remained, not even herlittle charcoal burner—it had been the last to go.The firm, quick footsteps in the hallway carried amessage that brought her face up and drew her eagergaze to the door. The man who stepped withincarried an armful of packages. With her eyesriveted on these, her own arms tightened around theemaciated form she held.

“Maery!” said the newcomer gently. “Ye havebeen telling me I’d be finding the Christ Child if Itried hard—I do remember ye said He always came tothe pooer an’ sick first; to the honest an’ thrue!Ye knew, Maery, me girl! Sure, it’s in the holy nameof ye—the faith. Well, I found Him to-night!”

He stood silent, his lips twitching and his facedrawn against an emotion that shamed him.

A wordless cry came from the woman. Shestruggled to her knees and leaned toward him, hereyes shining with the light that ever is on land andsea where angels pass.

“Mike! Where?”

The packages slipped from Mike’s arms to thefloor, and his lifted face blanched with the wonder ofsome far-away scene, and a revelation undreamed ofin his hard, narrow life. And then with a twinkle inhis Irish eyes:

“In the heart of a Jew,” he whispered.

PATCHES

By Francis E. Norris

Van Gilder, although worth an easy millionin his own name, was proud to be able towrite M. D. after it. He had a practice, to be sure,but it was mostly upon poor dumb beasts made sickor otherwise to suit his passing purpose. This engrossedmost of his time and attention. “It was sofascinating.” This pastime was called research, and,being a man of means, he could devote himself atwill to it.

And so it happened that one day when on his wayto the laboratories he chanced to see the very specimenhe “needed” for the day’s investigation. Itwas indeed a poor, wretched beast by the side of astill more wretched human who was on the cornerbegging. This was luck. Van Gilder usually waslucky.

He stopped his electric alongside the curb and approachedthe pair.

“Mister, would y’ be kind enough——”

“Yes, surely, I can help you. Here’s ten dollarsfor your dog.”

“Ten dollars? For Patches? Oh, no.”

“Well, then, make it twenty-five. You need themoney, and the dog will be out of your way.”

“Patches? Sell him for twenty-five? To get himout of the way?” The wretched, shrivelled soulseemed dazed. “Why, sir, not for a thousand couldyou have that dog.”

It was now Van Gilder’s turn to be puzzled. Nay,more; he was interested. Here was a man wretched,destitute, in the clutches of poverty, yet he said thatnot for a thousand dollars would he part with a mereuseless dog. Could he mean it? Could a dog meanthat much to any one? Or was he merely speakingin hyperbole? The question held Van Gilder. Athousand dollars. What would he do if actuallyoffered a thousand dollars? This was research alonga new line, but Van Gilder was determined to findout. A trip to the bank, and he returned with tenone-hundred-dollar bills.

“You say you wouldn’t sell that cur for a thousanddollars?”

“Not for a thousand dollars—would I, Patches?”

“Y’ sure? Here’s a thousand dollars. Can Itake the dog?”

The sad, drawn face looked at the ten crisp goldenbills as if in a trance, but never for a moment did theowner waver.

“No, not for a thousand. Patches and I haveseen better days, comrades we’ve been for years; heis as loyal to me to-day as ever, and we’ll not part tilldeath does it. I could not sell my best friend, couldI, Patches? All the rest have left me, but you havenever once complained, have you, old fellow? No,my friend, I’m pretty low, but I’ll never be as low asthat. I thank you for the offer, but I can’t accept.”

Van Gilder, a puzzled, thoughtful man, got intohis car and drove off. But not to the laboratories.Like Saul on the road to Damascus, a new light hadburst upon him.

THE ARM AT GRAVELOTTE

By William Almon Wolff

He was an old man, with snow-white hair and apatriarch’s beard. One sleeve of his coat wasempty. He had lived in the village for many years—sincefive years after the great war, men said. Hehad prospered; when the new war of 1914 broke outhe was the largest landholder for miles around.

It was not far from the French border, this villageof which Hans Schmidt was patriarch. It had norailway station, but a line of rail came to it and endedin long platforms in open fields. Twice, of late years,trains had rolled up beside those platforms, dischargingsoldiers of the Fatherland, engaged in manœuvres.Now, in the first week of August, there wasreal use for the platforms. For three days trainsrolled up in a never-ending procession, dischargingtheir living freight of men in a misty, gray-greenuniform that melted into the background of grassand shrubs at a hundred paces, with even the spikesof their helmets covered with cloth.

Westward moved the soldiers, like a swarm of locusts.But they left something behind, an integralpart of themselves, their collective brain. About thehouse of Hans Schmidt sentries were posted. Mechanics,working quietly, swiftly, as if they hadknown long since what they must do, laid wires intohis modest parlour, connected it by telephone andtelegraph with Berlin, with the ever-moving forcesto the west. In Hans Schmidt’s bed slept a corpscommander; the whole house was given up to thestaff. He himself was allowed a cot in the kitchen.His house was chosen for headquarters.

From the parlour the general ordered the movementsof forty thousand men, playing their part, likea piece in a game of chess, in the plan of invasion ofthe Great Headquarters Staff. Vastly importantwere these movements; each corps must coördinateabsolutely with every other. Confusion here mightruin the whole great plan.

The high-born general was very busy. But on thesecond day he deigned to notice Hans Schmidt, whohad drawn back, his one arm raised in the salute,as the general passed him.

“Ach!” said the general. “You have lost an arm!An old soldier, nicht wahr?”

“Yes, my general. I left my arm at Gravelotte.”

“So! I was in that business, too. I got my companythat day, when Steinmetz lost half his corps.Ach! This time we shall finish them even morequickly! Von Kluck is halfway through Belgium;the Crown Prince is hammering at Verdun! We shallbe in Paris within the month!”

Hans Schmidt listened respectfully, as became him.The general went to his desk. Hans Schmidt, in hisgarden, looked at the western sky. Flying low, nearby,was an aeroplane, blunt, snub-nosed. He knewit for a Taube, though no monoplanes had circledover Gravelotte. It turned, and flew eastward, outof sight. Still he peered into the west. High in theair something flashed gold in the rays of the sun, shiningupward from behind a cloud. Hans Schmidtwent slowly into the kitchen.

There a hot, smokeless fire of hard coal burned toroast two suckling pigs for the dinner of the generaland the high-born officers of the staff. He sent out amaid whose duty it was to watch the pigs. HansSchmidt took a bag from his pocket, emptied it intothe fire, added a pile of kindling wood. He wentback into the garden. Thoughtfully he looked atthe chimney, from which there rose suddenly a thickcolumn of oily black smoke. Straight up it went,higher and higher.

“In Berlin you would be fined for that,” said ayoung staff officer, coming up beside him.

“The maids are careless,” answered the patriot.

The officer gaped at the smoke. Hans Schmidtlooked to the west. Again he caught the gleam ofthe sun on metal. From the west a monoplane wascoming, flying like a hawk. It took shape. A mileaway a gun spoke; another, and another. Above,below the monoplane, hung three fleecy balls of whitesmoke, where shells had burst. Followed a volley.Other officers came from the house to stare upward.On came the monoplane.

“A French flyer!” cried one.

It was overhead. It paused in its flight, circled.A tiny black thing hurtled down. The side wall ofHans Schmidt’s house vanished. In a moment morethere was no house—only a heap of smoking ruins.Amid fused wires a thing that had been a man, in theuniform of a general, dragged itself, shrieking, till itdied.

“The smoke!” cried an officer. “It was a signal!Headquarters was betrayed!”

“Fools!” cried Hans Schmidt, as they turned onhim. “The arm I left at Gravelotte carried a Frenchchassepôt! Vive la France! Vive Alsace—jamaisplus Elsass! Vive la rep——”

A revolver spat in his face. But as he lay hisstaring eyes were turned to the west, to a monoplanethat was flying home to France.

THE BAD MAN

By Harry C. Goodwin

“Prisoner to the bar,” called the Clerk of theCourt.

The prisoner came forward, closely followed by adog, which, because it had been evidence during thetrial, had become known as Exhibit A. In one handthe man held what might have been a hat when new.The other hand hung at his side so the dog could reachup and give it an affectionate lick now and then—whenthe man needed sympathy and encouragement.

In answer to questions put, the prisoner said he wasJohn Brent, twenty-seven years old, and his mother’sname was Mary.

“And your father’s name?” asked the clerk, thinkingBrent had overlooked this detail.

“Never had none.”

The judge looked up, glanced in sympathy at theprisoner, then looked down again.

The famous Von Betz, who had caused Brent’sarrest and trial, sneered.

Some women present, attracted by the high socialand professional standing of the great Von Betz,looked shocked.

Possibly they were shocked.

Exhibit A moved closer and gave the hand of hismaster two or three encouraging licks and waggedhis tail joyfully in recognition of the prisoner’sfriendly smile.

“The jury,” said the judge, “has found you guiltyof assault, with intent to kill, on the person of Dr.Enrich Von Betz. You have had a fair trial. Theevidence seems to justify the verdict. Have youanything to say why sentence should not be passed?”

“I would like to say something, judge, ’cause Igot a hunch you’ll understand. I got a feelin’ you’ddone the same thing I did. I never had a father,and the world seems to blame me. But it wasn’tmy fault, and I’ve never blamed my mother, neither.She was a good girl. I’ve had a pretty tough time—nobodybut my mother, the dog, and God has givenme a square deal. Sometimes God forgot, I guess.”

The judge leaned forward, interested. The doglicked the prisoner’s hand and wagged his tail.Thus encouraged, Brent continued:

“There ain’t been a day since my mother died thatsome one ain’t come along and made me feel in theway. Every time I’d get a new start some one wouldsay I didn’t have a father, an’ back I’d go.

“I got to thinkin’ I must be a pretty bad man untilYip, the dog, fell in with me three years ago. Guesshe saw somethin’ in me others didn’t. He didn’task if I had a father. He’s stuck by me, he’s starvedfer me, an I’ve starved fer him. Just see how helooks at me, judge. A dog don’t look at a man likethat unless he sees some good in all the bad.

“I pulled Yip out from under a trolley car andwent under myself. They took me to the hospitaland sent Yip to the pound. I was in for a long time,and on the day I left I did this thing I’m going upfor.

“I was passing a building on the grounds when Iheard a dog yelp. It was Yip. I don’t know how Igot in, but I did. I don’t know exactly what I didwhen I got in. I guess I did come near killing thedoctor.

“But judge,” and his voice grew thick from anger,“when I got in I saw Yip stretched out on his back.They had straps pulling his legs one way and his headanother way so he couldn’t move. All he could dowas cry—cry just like a baby that knows he’s beinghurt but don’t know why.

“And the doctor, judge, was standing over Yipand the knife in his hand was all bloody.”

“Go on,” said the judge.

“I ain’t got anything more to say, except that Iwant you to send Yip along when you send me away.If you don’t, judge, and the doctor gets Yip and killshim, I’ll kill the doctor when I gets out, because I’vegot just as much right fer killin’ the doctor as he’sgot to kill Yip. That’s all I got to say, judge.”

“I know how you feel, Brent,” said the judge, in arather husky voice. “I’ve got a dog at home—adog like Yip. And—and—but duty compels me tosentence you to ten years at hard labour, and I imposea similar sentence on the dog Yip——”

“Thanks, judge, thanks, fer sending Yip along.You know, judge. You got a heart, you got feelings,just like Yip and your dog has. You——”

“But in view of the circ*mstances that provokedthe assault,” interrupted the judge, “I’ll suspendyour sentence during good behaviour.”

“But Yip,” begged the man without a father.

“I’ll suspend Yip’s sentence, too,” smiled the judge.

NEMESIS

By Mary Clark

The Little White Mare stirred uneasily in thenarrow stall, and shifted her weight from onethree-legged balance to another. There was noroom to lie down, and the warm stench of ankle-deepmanure could not rise as far as the small openingwhere, occasionally, penetrated a flickering beamfrom the arc light at the corner.

The day’s work had been hard, and supper inadequate;in her dreams there came the taste of a carrot,succulent, crunchy, tender, but solid, a carrot such asthe little boy used to give her—the little boy wholived on the long street of the hard pavement and themany car-tracks. That was in the days when Estevanand she had carried fruit and vegetables in the oldcart, and pleasantly, had stopped before many houses,often three and four times in a block. By her associationmemory (the only memory psychologists allowher kind) she recognized that street whenever shecrossed it in her journeys—the Street of the Carrots.

But, latterly, they carried other things in the cart,heavy, jangly things, queer, knobby sacks that Estevangathered hastily, a few at a time, at strangehours, in quiet places. In night journeys to darkalleys and courtyards the loads were transferred toother Mexicans, who counted small jingling piecesinto Estevan’s ready palm. Nowadays there wereno carrots, no rest under spreading cottonwoods andchinaberries. With Estevan there never had beenanything to associate but work and blows. Such islife—far too little dirty water from a dirty pail;roughage for food, with, now and then, a grudgingheap of cheapest grain; a galling harness; a filthystall; work—never-ending work; a child and a carrotthe only memory of a kindness!

El Paso she knew, not as you know it—its mountainvistas, its blocks of substantial homes andpleasant bungalows, but as her half-starved, ricketyold frame knew it: hard-paved streets that hurt herfeet; dreadful, unpaved ones where she stumbled inthe ruts and mud or choked with dust; the mountainwinds of winter; the wicked summer gusts thatgather up adjacent Mexico and blow it to the Mesa,only, a few days later, to resume the burden and withit madly assail Mt. Franklin; the cruel summer heatwhen, afternoon long, Estevan dozed in the cool ’dobewhile she stood in the pitiless glare, harnessed andhelpless, envious of the paltry, flapping shadowcast by the red rag that floated over the abarroteria,telling, though she neither knew nor cared, that carne,fresh carne, was for sale that day. And heat, glare,red rag, dreadful streets of Chihuahuita, their memoryassociation was—flies, millions, billions, black,busy, buzzing, biting flies.

Now, even in her sleep, she heard them.

Disturbed in their myriad sleep, the flies buzzedmightily. Estevan’s heavy slap fell on her shoulder,and in the starry darkness he hustled her out of thestall and into harness. Past dark rows of ’dobes andone-storied shops—jog—jog; jolt—jolt over roughtracks where the shrieking engines run; a smothered“’Spero” brought the Little White Mare to an obedienthalt in the black shadow of a freight-car.

Men waited there for Estevan, there were signsand whispers. What business of hers! She loweredher head to nose a pile of sacks; one was torn; cautiouslyshe smelled, then licked it. Heavenly! asubstance rough like salt, that turned magically onone’s tongue to smooth, slippery, ineffable sweetness!Sugar it was, a carload, sent from dangerousMexico to the safety of these United States. In thedeep shadow the thieves skilfully shifted the sacksfrom the car to Estevan, who swung them into hiscart.

Something amiss! The men muttered to eachother, crouched, dropped from cart to car, disappearedin the black beyond. Industriously theLittle White Mare nuzzled the torn burlap into whosefolds the delightful fodder was receding.

Dazzling light—big men—men different fromEstevan—everywhere—in the cart—around it at herhead.

“Vamoosed! Hell take it!” was the verdict.

“And will you look who’s here,” cried the biggest,turning his torch on the laden cart. “Lord loveyou, it’s a haul for a Packard truck! They sure gotthis old bonebag anchored! Must be a ton or twoon that wagon. Well, men, shift most of this to thepatrol, seal the car, and run in this outfit as evidence.”

The Little White Mare stood at ease, contented,warm and sleepy, while the big man at her head rubbedback of her ear in a delightful and unaccustomedway.

The patrol whirled away.

“All right, Bourke,” they called, “you can escortthe corpse.”

“Look out for the speed-cop, bo. It’s four blocksto the boneyard.”

Bourke swung into the driver’s seat, clucked comfortably,and always obedient, the Little White Mareturned from the freight yard into the dusty road.

A strange creature, this man with the big, softhands—no sharp, jerking rein, the whip, forgotten;maybe he slept; when Estevan slept he awoke with,always, a crueler lash.

For all animals Bourke had a tender friendliness,and the sight of the scarred, decrepit back patientlyjogging between the shafts irritated him, as did thenervous wince the old mare gave when he joggled thewhip-handle in the broken socket. The idea grewin grim delectability that she might, of her own habit,deliver her tormentor to the law.

“Now’s your chance to get even, old girl,” hemuttered; then louder, “take me to him—casa—sigecasa!”

Reins flat on her back, a full stomach and an easymind, that strange association memory said to theLittle White Mare that it was time to be at home, inthe dirty stall, with the empty manger and thesleeping flies.

Jog, jog, past the sleeping ’dobes, past the shops,into the familiar alley—home, at last!

Bourke was gone; from the house beyond the stablepartition came Estevan’s voice, high, whining, pleading.

A shrill whistle outside; other voices; the whir ofthe patrol speeding townward; silence; sleep.

The Little White Mare was avenged.

THE BLACK DOOR

By Gordon Seagrove

“Lieutenant Townley,” said CaptainVon Dee sharply, “as a spy you will be executedin two hours. Pursuant to my custom youwill be given a choice in the matter. Either you mayelect to be shot in the customary manner, or you maypass through the Black Door which you see behindme. State your choice when the hour comes.”

Von Dee—“Von Dee the whimsical” they calledhim in the trenches—turned to his reports whileLieutenant Townley was led back to the cell. A greathopelessness fell upon the latter. So this was theend then? All his hopes, his plans with regard tomarriage to Cecile were to be swept away. It wasdifficult to realize that in another hour he would beseparated by an unfathomable void from the womanwhom he loved like life itself and trusted like no manhad ever trusted woman before.

“Shot ... or the Black Door....”Von Dee’s words came back to him. What horriblefate—which legend held was worse than death—metthose who passed beyond the Black Door? He knewthat not one of death prisoners had dared to passbeyond it. Each had chosen death at the hands ofthe firing squad.

A half hour passed. Then, suddenly, a scrap ofpaper fluttered into his hands. He opened it andread:

“Choose the Black Door. I know.” It wassigned Cecile.

Now the hour for the execution could not come soonenough. Cecile had remembered! Cecile had savedhim. Perhaps behind the Black Door he wouldonly be maimed or crippled and could go back toCecile. As the guards led him into Von Dee’squarters his heart pounded gladly. In the gloom ofthe room he could see Von Dee and a stranger talking.In another moment he would tell Captain Von Deethat he, Lieutenant Townley, elected to pass throughthe Black Door.

He waited. Apparently his presence was notnoted. He could hear scraps of conversation:“I’ve always maintained,” Von Dee was saying,“that, no matter how brave a man, he will choosea known form of death rather than an unknown....”

There was a lull, and then the other voice said:“And you are the only one who knows what liesbeyond the Black Door?”

“No,” Von Dee answered his brother. “A womanknows.” Then he added with a light laugh: “Shewas a former mistress of mine!”

Lieutenant Townley heard, trembled, turnedwhite, then stiffened. Von Dee was before him,talking. “Well, Lieutenant,” he said, “do you electthe Black Door?”

“I do not!” the prisoner answered. Von Deenodded to the guards who led Lieutenant Townleyaway. A moment later came the report of the firingsquad on the drill grounds.

“What did I tell you!” cried Von Dee to hisbrother. “Lieutenant Townley, one of the bravest,couldn’t face the unknown. He went the usual way.”For several moments he puffed his cigar silently,then: “Birwitz,” he asked suddenly, “do you knowwhat lies beyond the Black Door?”

The younger Von Dee shook his head.

“Freedom,” said Captain Von Dee. “And I’venever met a man brave enough to take it!”

THE MAN WHO TOLD

By John Cutler

Toward midnight in the smoking-room of thetrans-Atlantic liner Howard, the author, heldforth on realism and romance. In one of his pausesanother of the company broke in:

“Realism,” said the interrupter, “is but the wordwith which those who can see nothing but the ordinaryand humdrum in life try to excuse their blindnessto the romances that unfold themselves all about usevery day. The last time I heard the doctrine ofrealism preached was in the home of a wealthy NewYorker who declared that in his life there had neverbeen the least tinge of the unusual or the romantic.He had never fallen in love and never had any adventures.Three days later in the morning he was foundseated in a chair on the piazza of his summer homedead from a stab wound through the heart. Threehundred thousand dollars in cash which he had receivedfrom the sale of a block of bonds was missingfrom his office safe where he had placed it the precedinglate afternoon because his bank was closed. Theonly clue found to the murderer was a blood-stainedstiletto which was discovered between the Old andthe New Testaments in a big family Bible on a highshelf in the library of the murdered man’s summerhome. The mystery of the murder was neversolved.”

“The plot of a very interesting story,” commentedHoward and went on with his monologue. A littlelater the party broke up. On his way to his stateroomWinton, who had been one of them, dropped inat the wireless room and sent a message.

Three days later at the New York pier the manwho had interrupted Howard was arrested for murdercommitted four years before. “I was once a memberof the force,” explained Winton to Howard; “thatstiletto was never found until he told where to lookfor it that night in the smoking-room.”

THE UNANSWERED CALL

By Thomas T. Hoyne

Six months of married life had not staled thetwo great adventures in each week day ofDelia Hetherington’s placid existence—the morningleavetaking and the evening return of her husband.His departure was a climax of lingering kisses, admonitions,and exhortations; his return a triumph.Did he not put all to the touch with Fortune atevery parting and go forth to strive all day, a dauntlesshero, ’mid motor juggernauts and rushing trolleycars, ’neath dangling safes and dropping tiles, besidetreacherous pitfalls and yawning manholes? Butever he bore a charmed life and returned to his lovein the dark of the evening with thrilling tales of hissalesmanship and of repartee to his boss.

Delia hummed a plaintive, childish melody as sheset the little, round dining-table for two persons. Asis the habit of brides, she laid the places side by sideinstead of opposite each other. A light shadow ofcuriosity flickered across her mind, and she carefullylaid a saucer on the table to note the effect of a thirdplace. She snatched it up again, blushing, althoughthere was no one else in all the length and breadthof the four-room apartment where she and Fred,upheld by the installment plan, had built their nest.She resumed her singing, bird-like in its thin simplicity.Such a song, one could imagine, Mrs. co*ckRobin sang while awaiting the home-coming of hermate.

A soft knocking at the back door drew Delia fromhappy contemplation of the glistening forks that laybeside the two plates on the dining-room table. Shehurried into the kitchen, wisely remembering Fred’sinsistence that she must never unlock the screen doorto a stranger before she discovered his design. Nowell-dressed youth seeking to pay his way throughcollege by getting subscriptions for “The Woman’sLife and Fashion Bazaar” could find in his patterthe countersign to win him admittance; no grizzledgypsy with shining tins to barter for old shoes knewthe magic word to make the hook fly up under Delia’scautious hand.

But the man who stood on the narrow porch,panting like a Marathon runner, was none of these.

“The steps,” he gasped, pressing one hand overhis heart, “too much for me.”

To climb the four flights of stairs to the Hetheringtonapartment at the top of the building was a testfor a strong man. He who knocked at the screendoor was slight in build and looked ill.

With quick sympathy Delia unhooked the doorand pushed it open.

“Come in and sit down a minute,” she said gently.

The man staggered across the threshold anddropped into the chair she offered him. The screendoor shut with a slam.

He shivered as if a draft of icy air had struck him.

“Close the inside door—quick,” he panted; andDelia, under the spell of her sympathy, obeyedwithout thought.

“It’s too bad to trouble you,” he said nervously,“but I’m not a well man.”

Delia handed him a glass of water. He sipped atit between gasps.

“Don’t light the gas,” he cried sharply.

Delia had scratched a match, for night was fallingrapidly. She snapped out the little flame and lookedat him half afraid.

“Just let me rest a moment,” he said. “There’sno harm in me. I couldn’t hurt a baby if I wantedto.”

He almost whimpered as he looked curiously aroundthe room.

“You’re all alone, eh? I’m glad you weren’tafraid to let me in. Some women would have leftme standing out there.”

“What would I be afraid of?” she asked simply,feeling uneasy nevertheless.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered irritably. “Onlymost people seem to be afraid of a sick man. Theydon’t want him around. They won’t give him achance.”

“That can’t be so,” said Delia. “Every onenaturally feels sorry for a sick person.”

“No, they don’t,” he contradicted roughly. “Doyou know what would happen if I fainted in thestreet? Do you think any one would help me?Not much. I could lie there like a dog while thecrowd went by. The men would laugh; the womenwould say, ‘Disgusting.’ I know. It has happenedto me.”

He coughed slightly and finished the glass of water.

A faint sound outdoors caught his ear. He steppedquickly to the window and peered out. Starved andunkempt he looked, but a quaint neatness about hisclothing hinted at the regular habits of a workingman.

He turned to Delia suddenly.

“I’ve got to tell you,” he whispered swiftly.“They’re coming up here. You’ve got some sympathyfor a man and you ain’t afraid.”

She looked at him and began to understand.

“I’m a thief,” he said bluntly, and gulped on theword. “I stole a few dollars and the police are afterme.”

“A thief!” she cried, staring at him. “I have nomoney.”

“I know, I know,” he mumbled in desperate hurry.“I don’t want to rob you. I want to get away. Iwas forced to do it.”

“Forced!”

“We were starving. I’m married, the same asyou are. Wouldn’t your husband steal for you?”

He stopped short and listened. Loud knockingsounded somewhere below.

“All I want you to do is to let me out the frontdoor; and don’t tell. Say you didn’t see me.”

Already he had shuffled through the dining-room,Delia following him into the narrow, short, darkhall.

“If any one knocks don’t answer,” he whispered.“Don’t light any lights.”

He opened the front door cautiously.

“They’ll think no one’s here.” He turned andlooked at her. “It’ll give me a chance—just achance is all I want. You’ll never be sorry.”

He closed the door softly behind him.

Delia stood listening, breathless.

Voices questioned and answered on the porch below,but she could not distinguish the words. She felt asif she herself were guilty of some crime.

Suddenly the telephone bell on the wall beside herrang with startling abruptness.

She did not move. Heavy feet were mounting thestairs to the back porch.

Again the telephone rang out against the stillnessin the little apartment.

She dared not move, but stood pressed against thewall. Through the darkness she could see the doorwayinto the lighter kitchen like a black frame.

The telephone rang again, long and insistently.

Heavy knocking shook the back door, but it gotno response from Delia. There was a pause of silenceand then a voice cried out with the rapidity ofexcitement:

“No one’s home, Jim. He couldn’t get throughhere.”

This was what she had been listening for.

The noise of descending footsteps died away.

Delia sprang to the telephone and waited eagerly.But the bell did not ring again.

“Any trace of him, Jim?” asked the desk sergeant,as the big patrolman entered the police station.

“Naw. Anybody identify the body?”

“He had cards on him that gave his name andaddress. The poor guy never knew what hit him.He didn’t get the chance to give up his dough;one white-livered sneak croaked him from behindwith a piece of lead pipe. We called up his home,but couldn’t raise anybody.”

THE WOMEN IN THE CASE

By Mary Sams Cooke

Jack Burroughs’ dog broke from him andmade a sudden dive down the first opening.The usual clear whistle made no impression. “Jim”was off. Jack quickly followed, and to his relief sawa big Irishman patting “Jim’s” head; “Jim,” withunmistakable signs of delight, jumping up and downand rubbing against the man.

That started the strange friendship between JackBurroughs, lawyer, sportsman, and Dennis O’Sullivan.

Dennis lived in the last house on “GrasshopperHill.” It was a little less ramshackle, a little moreindependent looking than the rest of the row thatfaced on a small bluff above the railroad tracks, andits garden bloomed like a rose. Dennis himself waslarge, burly, rather red of face, but with the twinklingblue eyes and the genial courtesy of the true son ofErin.

Later Dennis brought out to the almost palatialsuburban home of Jack Burroughs rare bulbs and old-fashionedflowers; Jack got Dennis to help him inmaking his own garden beautiful.

As the war dragged its fearful way along they,strange to say, never even mentioned it, until oneday in June suddenly Jack said: “Dennis, I havewritten to a cousin in England to know if it’s possiblefor me to get a commission in the English army.”

Dennis looked up from the border he was workingand demanded:

“For why and I would like to know?”

“Well, Dennis, you see, my great-grandfather wasan Irish patriot, and came over here during Emmet’srebellion; but now Ireland needs me, and I’m going.”

“From what part of the ould country was yer grandfather?”

“Oh, from near Lough Neagh.”

“Are ye maning County Antrim, Misther Burroughs?”

“Sure, Dennis.”

“Thin I’m yer boy, and will go with ye.”

Jack was rather startled, but on second thoughthe decided to take the risk.

“Dennis, will you sign the pledge if I take you?”

Dennis’ blue eyes twinkled, and with a comicalsmile he lifted his cap from his fiery head and said,“Shure, yer honour.”

Both gardens bloomed gayly in the June sunshine;both men talked and worked and planned in secretfor their swift going. At last the letter came.

Jack, as gay as a boy, went first to Dennis. “Comeout to the house to-night, Dennis, and we will makeour final arrangements.”

“Ye can count on me, and I will be that gratefulto ye for the whole o’ me life.”

With this letter held high, Jack, with “Jim” athis heels, gayly waved it to a sweet girl that he caughta glimpse of on a neighbouring porch.

“Can I come in, Eleanor?” he called.

The blue eyes gave him welcome. He sat on thelower step and, leaning against the post, looked upat the girl.

“Eleanor, I am off to the war!”

The smile froze on the sweet lips, the slender, stronghands clenched, but the girl’s voice was quiet as sheanswered:

“I hardly understand, Jack.”

Then he eagerly explained how his cousins inEngland, with the same strain of Irish blood in theirveins, were fighting—nay, some dying—on thebattlefields in France, and call had come to him, andhe must go.

He stood tall and straight, his gray eyes flashing—thoseeyes she so loved—his head thrown back. Ah!The girl felt he would lead his men even unto death.He gave his warm, merry smile; surely she wouldunderstand.

“Sit down, Jack dear. Yes, I understand,” shesmiled into those eager eyes; “but you do not understand.No, wait, please—you are an American,Jack, first, last, and all the time; and now soon, onlytoo soon, your country might need all such men asyou. You cannot desert your country now! Youcannot, cannot, Jack, dear!”

And Jack understood.

How to tell Dennis, how to break the news to him;what was he to say?

As later he saw the big man walking slowly up thepath Dennis touched his cap to Jack.

“Will ye pardon me pipe, Misther Burroughs, beingthat low in me mind I kinnot spake without it?”

Jack smiled.

“I am a bit low meself, Dennis.”

“Well, I had best out with it like a man, MistherBurroughs. I went to spake to me Nora and shesaid, ‘Dennis O’Sullivan, have ye lost the little bitso’ wits ye be blessed with? Not one foot do ye stirfrom your own country. Did ye not become anAmerican citizen this five years back?’ And, shure,Misther Burroughs, ’twas true the word she spake!”

THE CAT CAME BACK

By Virginia West

Leonard Raymond was temperamentallya naturalist. Had circ*mstances not compelledhim to make a living he would no doubt havebeen an Audubon, or a Gray. He spent his sparemoments studying the habits of the living thingsabout town, English sparrows, pigeons, stray cats,homeless dogs, and so forth. Old man Peterkin,whose wife kept the boarding-house at which Raymondwas getting his meals, who did nothing butcollect the board bills, grow fat, and hold the positionof church deacon, had told him that the crows inthe cupola of the Eutaw Place synagogue had beennesting there for eleven years. Raymond did notknow whether to regard that as an interesting itemabout crows, or as evidence against Mr. Peterkin’sveracity. However, Mr. Peterkin and the crowshave nothing to do with this story.

In the backyard of the Linden Avenue house inwhich he lived with his married sister Raymond raisedflowers, and on Sundays and holidays he would often goto the country to study the wild flowers and the birds.

One summer evening he sat in the backyard amongthe flowers. He was hot and lonesome, the thermometerbeing close to ninety, the family being out oftown, and no vacation for himself in sight. To-morrow,he reflected, he would return to his post ofteller in the bank, and hand out more money thanhe would ever own in a lifetime; the day after hewould do the same thing——

His melancholy reflections were broken in uponby what seemed to be a ball of fire on top of the tallboard fence. In an instant it disappeared, and hesaw the long black form of a cat slide down the fence,and light in the yard. The beast went to a garbagecan in the corner of the yard, sniffed about it, observedthat the lid was on, and then, turning thegleaming ball upon Raymond, sprang up the fenceand disappeared.

The same thing happened the next evening. Onthe third evening when the cat appeared Raymondadvanced cautiously, and tried to be friendly. Thecat hesitated, but when the man’s hand was almoston him he streaked up, and over the fence.

The following evening when Raymond walked uptownfrom the bank, as he approached Richmondmarket he thought of the cat, and stopping at a stallbought a small portion of meat.

The meat was put on the ground near the fence onwhich at the regular time the cat appeared. The eyegleamed. Raymond was wondering why both eyesdid not gleam when the cat seemed to fall straightdown upon the meat. Raymond sat as still as astone, and heard the meat crunching between thecat’s jaws. The animal was licking its chops whenhe advanced—it met him halfway, and while Raymondrubbed his fur, the cat purred. Sitting downupon a bench, the cat leaped into his lap, curled up,and settled down for a nap. Then it was that hefound about the cat’s neck a small chain with a tagon it.

When he went into the house the cat followed him,and by the gas light he read on the tag a MadisonAvenue address. Also he observed that the cathad but one eye, and forthwith he christened himCyclops. He wondered why a person who thoughtenough of the cat to provide him with a chain andtag should have left him to search for his victualsin alleys and backyards like an ordinary stray.

Cyclops stuck by Raymond like a twin brother.And every evening when Raymond came from businesshe stopped in Richmond market and bought meat forCyclops. One day the man in the stall asked himif he were a family man.

One Sunday morning Raymond strolled acrossEutaw Place and up to the Madison Avenue address.The house was closed for the summer, but the policemanon the post told him who lived there.

Summer was nearly at an end when Raymondhappened to see in the paper that the people at theMadison Avenue house had returned to town. Now,Raymond was an honest man—had he been anythingelse he would not have been allowed to handle thebank’s money, so on Saturday evening with Cyclopsunder his arm, he sadly went up Madison Avenue toreturn the cat to his lawful owner. Boys on thestreet made personal remarks about the man and thecat, and Cyclops’ great eye turned green with wrathas he glared at them.

A coloured woman of the Mammy type answeredhis ring. She looked and gasped. Before Raymondcould explain she thrust her head into the hall andshouted in strident tones:

“Come heah, Miss ’Liza! Bress de Lawd efheah ain’t yo’ cat!”

In a moment appeared the prettiest girl that Raymond’seyes had ever rested upon. She had blueeyes and a mass of golden hair. Though comparativelyyoung, and quite in the eligible class, Raymondwas not a lady’s man. With much embarrassmenthe told the history of the cat.

While she held Cyclops to her bosom, the girlexplained that she had left him with a friend to keepfor her during the summer, and he had run away.She had given him up for lost.

“Dat cat know whut he doin’,” snickered theMammy, who was standing back in the hall. “Datcat kin see further’n you kin ef he ain’t got but oneeye.”

Raymond went off catless. All the way home hewas thinking of a way by which he might call on thebeautiful Miss ’Liza. Sunday afternoon he wentout to the country, to the woods, the flowers, thebirds, and his soul was full of poetry and his mindof thoughts of the girl.

That evening old Cyclops was back on the fence!His great eye had a gleam of mischievousness.Down the fence he slid, and straight to Raymond,who decided that he must take the cat back to hisowner immediately.

While Cyclops prowled about the parlour with tailerect, rubbing against every article of furniture, Raymondtalked to Miss ’Liza.

Every evening Cyclops returned to Raymond, andevery evening he as promptly took him home.Thus time passed from autumn into early winter.

One evening sitting before the little wood fire in herparlour, Raymond said to Miss ’Liza: “I don’t seebut one way to keep our cat in one place!”

Then Miss ’Liza blushed, and said she didn’t seebut one way either!

Then he kissed her!

And old Cyclops rubbed against both of them andpurred to beat the band.

“SOLITAIRE” BILL

By Arthur Felix McEachern

Captain Billy MacDonald was one ofthose dour Highland Scotsmen; deep-watermen; exhaling an unmistakable atmosphere of thesea. Past middle age, taciturn; yet there was thatindescribable glimmer in his gray eyes betraying asense of humor. If indications pointed to a “spellof weather,” Captain Billy habitually retired tohis cabin, leaving orders with the mate to “call meif it breezes up,” and when the first puff of a squallbellied the sails of the Lizzie MacDonald—namedafter his daughter, and second only to her in his affections—heelingthe bark in to her lee scuppers, CaptainBilly would hastily leave his game of solitaireand bound on deck. One glance at the heavenssufficed for his decision. With him decision andaction were synonymous; and when he bellowed theorder, “All hands shorten sail,” every man-Jackjumped to the ratlines, for “Solitaire” Bill, as thecaptain was known to seafaring men from Glasgowto the Horn, was an Absolute Monarch when atsea.

For twenty years the bark Lizzie MacDonaldhad freighted hither and yon about the Atlantic,and was one of the few of her type which had managedto stay in the running against modern steam trampcompetition. She lay in the roads at Kingston,Jamaica, having discharged a cargo of dry fish fromBoston, and was all ready to clear for Liverpool withsugar and molasses. War conditions had boostedfreight rates, and the Lizzie had been paying herowners as never before.

It was 102 degrees in the shade, and at ten o’clockin the forenoon “Solitaire Bill” sat in his cabin at arickety table apparently oblivious to everything exceptthe inevitable solitaire. It was not generally knownthat the captain could more clearly map out a courseor think of foreign subjects to better advantage whenthus engaged than at any other time, and when theYankee mate came aboard in a bum-boat, he coughedapologetically before disturbing the skipper.

“Well,” said Captain Billy, looking up in the actof placing the ten of diamonds on the queen ofspades, “what’s the good word?”

“Nothing stirring,” answered the mate, an angular,weather-beaten man with the unmistakable nasaltwang of the New-Englander. “The cook’s the onlyone of the outfit of them with the spunk of a rabbit.It was as I anticipated. The crew were afraid ofthe German submarines, and they jumped north onthe steam tramp that left for New York this morning.”

“So there’s no chance to get a crew,” ruminatedthe captain. “It is too bad that we are to be delayedat this time when freight rates are so high, but Isuppose it cannot be helped. We can’t sail withoutmen, that’s sure.”

“There ain’t a sailorman without a ship in Kingston,”averred the mate. “If we were steam wecould ship a dozen or so of these nigg*rs, but theywon’t do on a square-rigger. They wouldn’t knowthe main’t’gall’n’s’l halyards from the bobstay,” andthe mate went on deck leaving “Solitaire” Bill pursuingthe pastime which was his hobby.

That afternoon when a slight breeze swept throughthe city from the mountain behind, “Solitaire” Billhad the cook put him ashore. He intended cablinghis agents that he would be indefinitely delayedowing to lack of a crew. Mechanically he walkedthrough the sun-blistered streets past the squatwhite houses with negroes lolling in the doorways, tothe Custom House, where he found a cablegramawaiting him.

As he perused the typewritten sheet a smileflitted over his care-worn features. It was as hehad hoped, although he had made it a point to nevermeddle in his daughter’s affairs. He had scrimpedto give her the education which neither he nor herdead mother had enjoyed, and though he had seenher never more than twice yearly, he had known ofher reciprocation to the love of Douglas MacGillis,and had approved of her choice. He reread the cablegram:“Douglas and I to be married March 30th.He leaves for the front early April. Expect youLiverpool before 30th.”

Since the death of his wife, fifteen years before,his daughter, Lizzie, had been the constant objectof “Solitaire” Bill’s care and affection. She was tomarry a Scotsman; a gentleman; and one who wasgoing to the firing line to “do his bit” for King andcountry. Many a time since the outbreak of warhad Captain Billy wished that he were younger.Gladly would he have donned the khaki to fight forBritain in the trenches. His was the indomitablespirit of the Highlander. But, though vigorousand keen of mind as are the majority of men of halfhis years, he was beyond the active service age limit,so he devoted himself to the equally patriotic taskof bringing supplies to Britain to keep her wheels ofcommerce humming.

“If I had a crew,” he muttered, as he shuffled thedog-eared deck of cards in the solitude of his cabinwhile awaiting the evening meal, “I could makeLiverpool, weather permitting, in time for the wedding.If I could do that—well, that’s all I ask——”

Suddenly Captain “Solitaire” Bill burst into aparoxysm of laughter. “By the Powers, I’ll try it,”he cried, as he bounded up the companionway withboyish light-heartedness.

“Supper’s ready,” called the cook from the doorof the galley.

“Get supper ready for a full crew,” ordered theskipper, “and will you come ashore with me, Mr.Smith?” he said to the mate. “I want you to roundup a crew of those nigg*rs, while I go to the CustomHouse and clear. We sail as soon as you get them.”

The mate looked incredulously. “The nigg*rscan’t box the compass even, and——”

“Never mind about that,” commanded “Solitaire”Bill, “you get them aboard and leave the rest tome.”

“Well, I might as well explain now; it’s too goodto keep a moment longer,” chuckled “Solitaire” Bill,as he ordered the driver of the taxi waiting in front ofthe church to drive to the Liverpool House.

“We are assuredly anxious to learn what you andMr. Smith are laughing about,” chorused Lieut.Douglas MacGillis and his wife in unison. Themate, Mr. Smith, was obviously uncomfortable inwhat he termed his “moonlight clothes,” neverthelesshe laughed immoderately as he indulged inretrospection.

“I’ve always been a fiend for solitaire,” said CaptainBilly, “and after getting your cable I was in aquandary, and sought solace in a game with myself.I wanted to get to this wedding more than anythingelse, but I couldn’t get here without a crew to workthe ship, and sailormen were about as plentiful ashen’s teeth in Kingston. But the cards gave me aninspiration. I shipped a crew of nigg*rs who didnot know one rope from another on a square-riggedship—but they all knew how to play cards. Ifastened a playing card to each of the principalropes and sails, and those nigg*rs were like cats aloft.

“When I shouted, ‘Clew up your ace of spades,’they were after that mizzen-royal in a jiffy. Mr.Smith, the cook, and myself took turns at the wheel.‘Double reef your deuce of diamonds,’ and they madesnug the fores’l to a nicety. All’s well that ends well.I never had a smarter lot of sailors. I know themen all called me ‘Solitaire’ Bill behind my back,but henceforth and hereafter, every fo’c’sle hand andthe cook calls me ‘Solitaire,’ or they don’t sign articleson the trimmest brig that sails the Atlantic.”

JUST A PAL

By Elsie D. Knisely

Jim Doyle—sent to Sing Sing last year—isinnocent. I done the job he was sent up for.I was broke and out of work and Mary, my wife, hadconsumption and needed food and warm clothes andmedicine. I held up a guy with more than he neededthat didn’t come by it any honester than I donewhen I cracked him over the head and took it outof his belt. Then Jim cooked up a scheme to ownhe done it and take my medicine as long as Marylived, so she wouldn’t know and so’s I could be withher and look after her. She died to-day. There’sone hundred and fifty dollars under the mattressalong with the proof that I’m the guilty guy. Burymy wife decent and give the rest to Jim to get on hisfeet after you turn him loose. Get a kind-heartedparson to say a prayer over me and then plant me inPotter’s Field. I’m going the gas route. Jim’sno kin of mine—just a pal. He allowed no one wouldcare a darn if he was in the pen or not. He loved agirl once, but she turned out bad and spoiled Jim’slife. Tell him “God bless him.”

P. S.—I’m sorry I killed that guy, but I just hadto have money for Mary. Mebbe I can square itwith him where I’m going.

WHEN “KULTUR” WAS BEATEN

By Lieutenant X

Knee deep in the mud, the French “Alpines,”the “Blue Devils,” as the Germans calledthem, were watching the shelling of the enemy’spositions. Huge columns of black smoke crownedthe white line of trenches below the thicket of spruce,and at each of the terrific explosions chunks of dirt,sand-bags, and armour plates flew high in the air.

In the expectation of the rush the “Blue Devils”stood leaning on the rifles, some of them laughing andjoking, while others, grave and stern, read once morethe last letters of the beloved ones.

Corporal Dupin sat down, looking at the photographof the wife and baby. When hell broke looseDupin was quietly living in Canada, and he had comeas a man of honour to join the colours, leaving his littlefamily on the safer side of the ocean. The morningmail had just brought him news that wife and babyhad sailed on the Lusitania, to be nearer to him....How his heart beat hard!

... Surely he would come safe out of thisstruggle, though he would bear himself as gallantlyas usual, and perhaps be fortunate enough to gettwenty-four hours’ leave and meet the wife and babysomewhere, perhaps in Belfast or in Nancy. Hecould already imagine that meeting. He was happy.How heartily he went to his duty to-day!...

He caught the voice of the lieutenant.

“Here, boys!” was the brief command. “You’vealways done your duty. To-day you have to do itdoubly, for Germany has added a new crime to thelist. One of her submarines has sunk the Lusitania.There are innocent victims to avenge.”

The Lusitania! Greet her! Eagerly Dupin torethe paper from the officer’s hands. He read andreread the list of rescued. Two seconds later therewas no more room for doubt, and he knew that allhe loved in the world had gone down.

Oh, kill! Kill the murderers and avenge!...Kill and torture!... How long would theshelling last? When would the signal of the stormcome?...

Ah! the welcome starlike rocket! The Frenchguns lengthened their shots, shelled the upper lineof trenches.... A loud shout and a madrush.... The “Blue Devils” were in action.

Ta, ta, ta, ta.... The German machine-guns.Sh! Cirr! Shrapnel burst with a quick flameand little yellow clouds.... Dead men fell.

But the remainder kept on running and bouncinguntil they reached the German works. The “75s”shells had made a mess of the entanglements, andthe main trench was a ruin, spotted with corpses....Bullets whistled, grenades exploded, injuredmen shrieked.

From a black aperture a bullet missed CorporalDupin as he passed, bayonet forward, after a flyingman. He gave that prey off, threw a bomb in theden, and as soon as it had exploded he rushed in.

Covered with blood, a German officer lay down.He menaced Dupin with his empty pistol, when,realizing that everything was over for him, he threwthe gun, with a wild laugh, and defiantly and haughtilylooked at Dupin. The cold, blue eyes of theTeuton did not mistake Dupin’s sentiment. To thecorporal’s dark, glancing eyes they returned hatredfor hatred. Dupin thought that the submarine’scommander must have had the same likeness. Yes,this man would pay dearly for the cold-bloodedmurderer’s debt. The hour of vengeance had come.

Dupin did not strike yet. He found sweet tocontemplate the agony of his enemy.... Hethought of torturing the man.... The fellowmust suffer....

From loss of blood the German officer suddenlyfainted, and Dupin found himself kneeling over theenemy, bathing his wounds, stopping his blood, nursinghim as a brother....

Again shrapnel burst. The German artillery wasalready shelling the conquered trenches. Readyfor a new fight, Dupin, before he left the woundedofficer, wrapped him in a blanket, left him his ownwater bottle. A last time he looked at him with a sadbut proud smile and said:

“No, we are not the same race. We cannot dothe same things.”

And they were his last words, for a bullet wentthrough his heart, and, still smiling, but this timevery sweetly, Dupin went to meet the beloved ones.

The above story was accompanied by the following letter:

Dear Mr. Editor:

Just fancy the shelling of the trenches and a littleFrench officer trying to keep up the morale (excellent,I should say) of his men, to teach them the contemptof death, or, rather, to show that he is not in thatrespect inferior to them.

Fancy that same officer reading your Vive LaFrance Number of Life and translating it to his men,then looking at your contest proposition, and findingvery funny to fill his fountain pen and write on thefirst scraps of paper he can procure a very shortstory.

The author has not the boldness to say that hisstory is very interesting. He knows, too, that as aFrenchman he does not speak nor write very correctEnglish; but he has sent it to you rather because ofthe originality of the thing and to show you that theFrench soldiers appreciate the friendship of America.

At any rate, it is a genuine story of the trenchesand a souvenir of the war.

Yours most sincerely,

M. Constance.

From the Trenches,

June 15, 1915.

PRESUMPTION OF INNOCENCE

By Lyman Bryson

Into the judge’s empty office came the attorneyfor the defense, followed by his client. Theattorney for the defense wore belligerent hair andspectacles. His manner was more upright and simplethan his speech, which was full of guile. His clientwas heavy, of the ugly fatness often characteristic ofward politicians, porcine, grossly genial. They hadcome to escape the gaping crowd. The attorney wasrecovering from his four-hour address to the jury.Sweat stood under his upstanding hair, and he wipedhis wrists with a limp handkerchief.

“Honest John” looked at his lawyer with dulladmiration. “Tom, that was a great speech.”Then, as if this might be too humble praise for apolitician to give his hireling, he added: “Best youever made.”

Tom Jenison made no reply. When he was tiredthere was a quality of frankness in his eyes as if clevernesshad been assumed for business purposes.

“How long will they be out?” asked Honest John,thinking of the twelve who were debating in a nearbyroom on sending him to the penitentiary for stealingpublic money.

“How should I know?” Jenison spoke petulantly.

The politician sat quietly, his fat hands foldedabove the top of his trousers on his negligee shirt.He was thinking that generous public sentimentmight avail little with the twelve men now busy withhis destiny. He sighed tremulously.

“You’re not worried, are you?”

“No—guess not. I’m all right.”

The composure of the politician began to deserthim. He flushed and sighed and slapped at flies.His jaw relaxed and slid down. His hands trembled.

“Tom,” he began, “what are the chances?”

“I don’t know. Scared?”

“I’m a little nervous. That’s all.”

Jenison had loved the fight for its own sake.Spectators supposed he defended Honest John onlyto earn his huge hire, but that had not been all hismotive. It had not occurred to him before that hisclient was not as courageous as himself. He supportedthe “presumption of innocence” and pittedhimself against machinery of prosecutor and court.But if his client was a coward his fight seemed suddenlyunworthy.

Honest John’s puffy eyes filled with tears. “You’vebeen a good friend to me, Tom.”

“Oh, cut that.”

“Yes, you have. I appreciate it.”

Jenison, looking at him, wondered that he couldever have thought this man a friend or worth aneffort to save. The wretched face sickened him.

“You’re the only man who knows how I feel.”His client was trying to explain his collapse. “Ican’t face guilty. I know you’d keep up the fightas long as I kept up the money”—his attorneywinced—“but I couldn’t stand another trial. I’mready for ’em.”

“Ready? How?”

“I’ve got it here.” Honest John tapped his chest,then drew out a narrow pill box.

Contempt came back into Jenison’s eyes. “Whatare you telling me for? Go tell some one who’dcare.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Tom.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You’d never take that stuff.You haven’t the nerve. You’re stalling for sympathy.”

The politician turned to an ice-water stand anddropped two tablets into a glass of water. He saidwith tremulous bravado, “All right—here goes.”

“You might as well drink it,” answered the attorney.“God knows you’re guilty. You’ll pay for itsome time.”

The glass went halfway to Honest John’s lips andthen back to the stand. “I think—I’ll wait.”

“I thought so. You’ll wait until you’re behindbars, and then you’ll wish you’d taken your medicine.”Jenison spoke as if it had been his professional adviceto his client to drink the potion. “It takes a man toquit when the game’s up. I suppose in a way I’mas dishonest as you, but there’s a chance for me toclean up, because I’m not afraid. If I thought thename helping you has given me would stick, I’d beglad to take your poison.”

They heard a shuffling of feet in the courtroom.

“There’s an officer announcing that they’vereached a verdict,” said Jenison. He looked hisclient in the eyes and added, “I hope it’s guilty!”

“Why—I don’t—what’s the matter? I’ll payyou.”

Jenison blazed. “Yes, you’ll pay! It’s all moneyto you! Do you think if I’d known you for a cowardI’d have made this fight? I hate myself now tothink I ever took your money!”

His client looked at him in stupid silence.

“And let me tell you something else. You’re thelast thief I’ll work for. I’m done with keeping yourkind out of jail.” Huge self-disgust overwhelmedhim. “I’ll never take another cent of crook’smoney as long as I live, so help me God!”

They heard the slow procession of the jury filinginto the court to deliver the speedy verdict. Jenisonfelt his soul crawling with shame. A convulsivesigh made him turn. Honest John had raised theglass to his lips. His eyes bulged with fear, and hespilled half the liquid on his shirt. Before Jenisoncould reach him he had swallowed it. Horror heldthe attorney for an instant, then he burst throughthe doorway into the courtroom.

A lank man in the jury box smiled as he entered.That meant “Not guilty.” Without noticing theattorney’s ghastly excitement the judge said, “Ifthe respondent will return the verdict will be delivered.”

Jenison controlled himself and stood straight.

“If your honour please,” he said, “if your honourplease”—he could only point through the doorwayat Honest John’s body straddled in a chair—“therespondent has delivered his own verdict.”

A MEXICAN VIVANDIÈRE

By H. C. Washburn

Night had fallen on the third day at Vera Cruz,and from navy headquarters the commandingofficer, his orders snapping like wireless, was directingthe clean-up of snipers.

“Lawrence,” he said, “you’ll find six machine-guns—buriedin boxes—backyard of No. 17 AvenidaCortes.”

As Lieutenant Lawrence left headquarters withhis squad Ensign McHenry came in and reported.

“McHenry, you’re next. This is Gonzales, whoknows where you can round up Fernando Diaz.Get Diaz to-night.”

McHenry started at once with Gonzales, listeningto his flood of directions. The Mexican smiled inspite of himself at the American’s burst of speed,but kept up with him easily. They turned cornersinto filthy by-streets leading to the market space.

At the entrance to a dark alley Gonzales steppedaside.

“After you, señor.”

When the white uniform entered the shadow of anawning “Gonzales” whipped out his revolver andfired pointblank into the officer’s back. Flingingaway his weapon, he ran to No. 17 Calle de Zamoraand whistled.

“Pava, Pava, ven aca! I have shot an Americanofficer! The marines are hunting for our machine-guns.I said ‘Avenida Cortes,’ but that dog, Vicente,who betrayed us, will lead the Americans here.”

“Let them come,” said La Pava. She bolted thedoor as he stepped in. “What name did you give?”

“Emilio Gonzales.”

“Listen, Fernando. Don’t stay a minute. Letme think. What if I cut your head, a very little,so?” He winced under the knife, and she kissedhim. “See, it bleeds enough on this bandage,which will hide your face. Quick! To the MilitaryHospital! Sleep there, safe among hundreds ofour wounded. Go!”

Meanwhile Vicente, the informer, had followedDiaz. Hearing the shot and finding McHenrywounded, he scurried to headquarters. The newswent to Lawrence, who took his squad “on thedouble” to Calle de Zamora. Rifle butts shatteredthe door, and Lawrence, automatic in hand, led themen in with fixed bayonets.

La Pava, the beautiful Azteca, stood facing thebright steel, a thin wisp of smoke drifting from hercigarette.

“Buenas noches, señor?”

“You have six machine-guns. Where are they?”Lawrence looked at his wrist watch. “I give youthree minutes to answer.”

La Pava had faced death before. A crack shot,riding in advance of Villa’s army, she had drawnthe enemy’s fire, had stolen plans, food, money. Shehad sold herself to the opposing general and learnedhis strategy. She was a scout, a spy, a harlot—apatriot. Now she gazed innocently, admiringly, atthe young lieutenant. His men, fascinated, unconsciouslylowered their rifles.

“Señor,” she pleaded, “you will do me a greatwrong if you shoot, for I have no guns. Some onehas lied. Search and you will see.”

The marines turned the place inside out.

When Lawrence asked La Pava to take him intothe courtyard she showed no hesitation, and his flashlighttold him the ground had not been disturbed.

Stooping over, he caught the gleam of a knife, andin the same breath twisted it out of her fingers.

“You are quick, señor. But some day I will getyou—you who would not take my word.”

The sergeant returned and reported, “I can findnothing, sir.” Then, seeing the knife, he added,“Put her in irons, sir?”

Lawrence knew her breed; she would be flatteredby handcuffs and would consider him a weakling.

“No, sergeant. The lady will walk with me.”

Through the streets to prison, wafting a powerfulscent of perfumed powder, she walked at Lawrence’sside, using her eyes with that dazzling effect knownonly to women of the tropics.

He would confront her with Vicente, Lawrencethought, but as the battlements of Ulloa Castlecame in sight, the “Place of Executions” suggestedanother idea.

“Halt!” He formed a firing platoon and blind-foldedthe prisoner. Thinking of Vicente’s story ofthe guns, he asserted, as if he meant it, “With myown eyes, during the fighting, I saw your gun boxestaken from the arsenal. Where are they now?”

La Pava gave no answer. She folded her armsand held her head proudly.

“Ready!... Aim!...” Lawrence raisedthe muzzle of the sergeant’s gun; the men, followingthis lead, aimed high.

“Squad——”

It was too much even for La Pava. She droppedto her knees.

“Wait, señor! I will tell all, on one so small condition—thatyou spare the life of Emilio Gonzales.If not—you can kill me. On your word as an officersave him, and let me see him, and by the BlessedVirgin I will tell you the truth.”

“Where is this man?”

“He is in the Military Hospital.”

“I will do all I can for Gonzales—I’ll take you tohim. Now, where are the guns?”

“They are buried in the patio—in front of myhouse.”

Even then she smiled.

“Remember,” he warned, removing the blindfold,“if you have lied, you will be shot. Sergeant, lookfor them; report to me at the hospital.”

As the men marched off Vicente, the ubiquitous,who had trailed La Pava, emerged from the shadowof a doorway. La Pava, whom nothing seemed tostartle, sneered at him. Lawrence gripped his automatic,recognized Vicente, and thereupon wiped thesweat from his forehead.

“Señor,” whined the beast, “her lover’s name isnot Gonzales, but Diaz, the traitor.” La Pava glaredat him murderously. “It was Diaz,” Vicente addedwith unction, “who shot the officer in the back.”

“You gave me your word——” she began, turningto Lawrence.

“To save ‘Emilio Gonzales,’” he reminded her.

“True, my captain, alas!” Her black lashesdrooped over a message of love. “But you willset me free?”

“When I see the guns.”

Furious, she sprang at Vicente, who stepped back.Haughtily she faced him and spoke shrilly in anIndian dialect. Despite this, her manner reassuredLawrence. Apparently, she was in a mad rage.In reality, she was telling Vicente to take the undergroundpassage from Ulloa Castle to the hospital andwarn Diaz. “Do this,” she was saying, “and I’llsee no more of Fernando. You will have me—youalone—for life.”

She ended with what seemed a torrent of invective.Vicente played his part—with his heart afire, heseemed to Lawrence merely scornful.

“Hasta la vista, señor.” Vicente, triumphant,sauntered toward the castle.

“Ugh!” said La Pava, with deep loathing. “Heis but carrion. Because I do not give myself tohim he would destroy his rival.” She shrugged hershoulders. “Will you take me to the hospital?”

“We are going there now.”

“I am very tired,” she sighed, leaning againsthim. “I grow faint.”

They walked slowly, Lawrence giving her the supportof his arm. Finally, nearing the hospital,they turned into a plaza where the street lamp hadbeen shot down.

In a flash La Pava swung under his arm, drewhis pistol, wrenched herself away, and covered him.

“Ah! You are not so quick this time. Don’tmove! You Americans say you will shoot, and youdo not shoot.” She fired twice, rapidly, over hishead. “But I have still four shots, and I am aMexican.”

A mounted figure, leading a second horse, whirledup and reined in with a jolt. Fernando Diaz showedhis white teeth, smiling cordially, as he took theautomatic from his mistress and levelled it at Lawrence.

“What say you, querida? I finished Vicente.Shall I do away with this gringo?”

La Pava mounted as Diaz spoke.

“Let him live,” she said, “for he is a brave man.”

“Adios, señor! The machine-guns are safe throughthe lines. Take my advice, teniente, and nevertrust a woman——”

Diaz’s spurs dug deep, and sparks flew from thecobbles.

“—unless,” La Pava laughed back through thedarkness, “unless, señor, she loves you.”

MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY PRESENT

By Carrie Seever

Lizzie was sitting in a corner counting hermoney. “Thirty-five, Kitty, thirty-fivecents.” When Lizzie’s mother was away, washing,she made her kitten her confidant. “Talk aboutmamma’ll be s’prised when she gits this birthdaypresent, My-i! Third one I’m givin’ her—when Iwas five I gave her peanut candy; only she didn’tcome home till the peanuts were picked out. Secondtime I gave her a blue hair ribbon; blue looks niceon my red hair. Now I’m seven—twice seven an’I won’t have these freckles an’ long skirt’ll cover myskinny legs, an’,” she continued, getting up andtrying to stand dignifiedly, “my name’ll be Elizabeth.Then I’ll give mamma a’ album! S’long,Kitty.”

Out of the door she skipped, and down the alleytoward the market. She forgot about the marketwhen she reached the corner of the alley, for therestood a cart loaded with clocks, vases, jewellery,everything to satisfy one’s birthday wish—even analbum.

Lizzie joined the crowd that had gathered to hearwhat the owner of these articles had to say. Shelistened a moment and then danced for joy—theman, who seemed to be all stomach and voice, wasactually inviting them to take a twenty-five dollarwatch for five cents.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the stomachand voice, “any article on this counter for five cents—everypiece o’ chewing gum wins something. Youwant to try, mister? Now, folks, watch him readthe name o’ one o’ these handsome presents from theslip o’ paper ’round that gum. Gold-handledumbreller? Here you are. Who’s goner win theother one? Nothin’ faky. That’s right, try yourluck”—to a man who was edging to the front.“Diamond stud? You’re lucky—only a few morediamond studs left. Next! Any one else? Don’tstop ’cause you won a’ umbreller. That’s it.Watcher got now? Gold bracelet? Five rubies andfour emeralds in it, ladies and gents.”

Lizzie began to realize that she wasn’t dreaming—threeprizes gone already!

“Lady, don’t you want this linen tablecloth?Fifteen dollars retail. Or this album that playsmusic when you’re lookin’ at your loved ones?”

Lizzie gasped—there was only one album. “Iwant to win the album,” she shouted.

“Come right up with your nickel. Here’s a galknows a good thing even if she did swallow twoteeth.”

Had this remark been made about Lizzie’s teethat another time she would have fired a red-headedretort, but now she thought of only the album.

She exchanged her five pennies for the gum, andwith trembling fingers unrolled the tissue paper andlet the stomach and voice read the name from theslip of paper—“Lead pencil,” was announced.

Poor Lizzie’s heart sank, and the stomach andvoice was telling the crowd that there were a fewpencils in the lot, and showed them a box containingfive pencils.

At this Lizzie cheered up—she decided that if noone else won those pencils and she was unlucky fivemore times she would still have five cents left withwhich to win the album.

She won five more pencils, had given a last lookat the last five pennies, unrolled the slip of paperand given it to her nearest neighbour to read—“leadpencil,” was read.

“Since they ain’t no more pencils I’ll take thealbum,” announced Lizzie triumphantly.

“Got more, sissy,” said the stomach and voice,taking a few from his pocket and placing them in thebox, handing one to Lizzie.

The crowd jeered and left. Lizzie was too dazedto go, and, sitting on a soapbox in the alley, staredat the album. She heard the shrill whistle the stomachand voice gave, and a few minutes later sawthe winners appear, returning the articles they hadwon. She wondered why they did this, and, as anew crowd was coming, drew closer to the cart.

She listened again to the same harangue and sawthe umbrella winner take another chance. Shegave a start when he thundered “umbrella”—she sawthrough the performance, and her cheeks glowed withindignation.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she screamed, “this is afake business—that man won a’ umbreller an’brought it back, an’ so did the other man.” Bythis time she was out of reach of the stomach andvoice, who threatened to knock two more teethdown her throat. But Lizzie’s voice was not out ofreach, and the crowd could hear her yelling, “Everybodyelse wins penny lead pencils.” The crowdlaughed and left.

Lizzie waited for the next crowd, and, comingfrom her hiding-place, gave them the same information.

After the crowd had gone the stomach and voicecaught Lizzie, who, while trying to free herself fromhis grasp, bumped her lip, and the blood oozed fromher tender gum.

“P’liceman, p’liceman, help!” she screamed.

Seeing the people in the neighbourhood coming toLizzie’s rescue, the stomach and voice promised toreturn her money if she would keep quiet.

“I’m goner tell ’em all you knocked my teeth out’less you gi’ me the album,” snapped Lizzie.

“A’ right,” meekly answered the stomach andvoice, who had been collared by this time, but wasreleased when the men received Lizzie’s invitationto come up the alley and see her album.

“Good-bye, mister—thanks awfully for the guman’ pencils, too,” and away she ran, the album inher arms.

When in the room, she locked the door for fear thealbum would be taken away.

“Kitty, look! A’ album, and me on’y seven.They’ll just have to call me Elizabeth, freckles an’legs an’ all.”

RED BLOOD OR BLUE

By E. Montgomery

Dear Lou:

“This is the last letter I shall write to you,for to-morrow I begin the final stage of my transition.At four o’clock I shall become a lady. To besure, you and I will know that I am only an imitation,but with an eighteen-carat setting every one elsewill take me for the real thing.

“Lou, I’ve been wondering how many generationsit will take to make a real lady. My daughter perhapswill be one, and if not, then her daughter;but I will always be an imitation.

“My grandmother did day’s work to give mymother a schooling, and my mother helped in theshop so that I could have dancing lessons before Iwas six. I can’t disappoint them, and I can’tshirk my duty toward my children yet to be born.They stretch out their hands to me, asking I know notwhat, so to-morrow I give them a gentleman father.Yes, Lou, he is a little man, not much higher thanmy shoulder, and he is fat and jaded and old; buthe has a name which can unlock the holy of holies inNew York, and I may enter it with him, for I shallbe his wife.

“They tell me I should be proud of my conquest,and I am, for it is not my gold alone which hasensnared him, but myself; and I am beautiful, Lou.It is three years since you have seen me, and I growlovelier every day.

“I am tall, divinely tall; slender of hip and fullof bosom, with all the promise of ripening womanhood.And to-morrow my maidenhood is to besacrificed on the altar of holy (?) matrimony, andthe metamorphosis will be complete. I shall be alady.

“Oh, Lou, why wasn’t your father a gentleman?He might have been a rake, a roué, a gambler—anything,so long as he was a gentleman. But heis only my father’s boyhood friend, and still a villagecarpenter.

“You had to work your way through college, andmy father rolled me through on the almighty dollar.

“And yet I think for all my education there issomething radically wrong with me. I am thathybrid thing, ‘a lady in the making, an imitationlady.’ And what troubles me most is the thoughtthat perhaps I am only an imitation woman also.

“My ancestors had red blood in their veins, andmy descendants’ blood will be blue; but in my veinsthere is nothing but water.

“Listen, Lou; to-day I shut myself in my room andscrubbed the floor of my private bath. Down onmy knees I went with soap and brush and scrubbedfor all there was in me, and when I finished my backached horribly, and still the floor was far from clean;and I the granddaughter of a woman who has scrubbedacres of floors, and could do it yet, though she isalmost eighty.

“Oh, Lou, Lou, I wish I had dared to run awaywith you that last night three years ago. Do youremember—the moon, the gate that creaked, thesmell of the dew on the grass, the chirping of theinsects—a heavenly midsummer night, made forlove—as we were made for love?

“I had to stand on tiptoe when you kissed me.And your dear eyes were filled with anguish when weparted. You told me I would find you there whenI needed you. And, oh! I need you now!

“How many generations of our children’s childrenwould it take to make a lady, Lou?

“Everything is wrong with the world to-night.My head hurts and I can’t think.

“See! Here on my desk I have a time-table, abrave blue time-table, which tells me that I am onlyfour short hours away from you, and that I stillhave ample time to pack and catch the midnighttrain.

“If I join you, you need never see this letter—andif I do not, then you must not see it. I will burn it.

“This is my hour, my future is in my own hands.It is all a question of courage: my ancestors had it,my descendants will have it; but have I?

“Your unhappy

“Ruth.”

The wedding of a steel king’s daughter into one ofNew York’s oldest families is worth a column on thefront page of any paper. Pictures of the happycouple stared out of every edition.

The weary housemaid spread one on the flooras she cleaned the disordered room her young mistresshad left behind.

She gathered a little pile of ashes from the hearthand dumped them on the paper. They completelycovered the smiling faces of the bride and groom—notthat it mattered, for the ashes were cold.

THE IMPULSIVE MR. JIGGS

By Roger Brown

Marathon Jiggs approached the day-clerk.

“Is Mr. George Jones here?” he inquired.

“He is registered here, but he’s out at present,”replied the clerk. “Would you like to leave anymessage?”

“Thank you, I believe I will,” said Jiggs, reachingfor the hotel stationery. He hastily scribbled anote, left it, sans envelope, at the desk, and took hisdeparture.

About an hour later a large, overbearing womanof the superdreadnought type steamed majesticallyto the desk, a small and timid-looking individual inher wake. After taking the mail that had accumulatedin the box she stalked imposingly to theelevator, accompanied by the timid person, who, byhis conduct, appeared to be her husband.

When the couple got to their room Mrs. GeorgeJones sat down and scanned the family mail. As sheread, the colour flooded her expansive face like asunset, then receded, leaving her chalky white withrage. Her unfortunate spouse cowered in a corner.

Rising to her feet in all the majesty of her five-feet-eleven,she thrust a note into Jones’s hand.“Read that!” she commanded hoarsely.

With amazement and fear alternately expressedin his weak countenance, Jones read the following:

“Dear George:

Why don’t you let me know when you get totown? I expected you yesterday. Call me up, thesame old number, and we will have a time to-night.

“Yours as ever,

“Mary.”

“You roué!” stormed Mrs. Jones. “I shallinstitute divorce proceedings immediately. To thinkyou have been leading a double life! You may expecta visit from my lawyer!” The door slammedbehind her as Jones sank dazedly into a chair.

As she flounced out the door of the hotel MarathonJiggs again came to the desk. “Did Mr. Jones getmy note?” he asked.

“No, but his wife did,” replied the clerk.

“His wife?” came in gasp from Jiggs. “Hiswife? Who—let me see the register, please.”

He hastily scanned the list of guests until he cameto Jones’s name. “‘Mr. George K. Jones and wife,Chicago, Illinois,’” he read incredulously, “and Ithought it was George H. Jones of Pittsburg. Whatif his wife—I must see him immediately,” and hehurried to the elevator.

As Jones sat in his room, bewildered at the eventsof the past hour, a knock startled him out of hisreverie. “Come in!” he called uneasily, expectinghis wife’s lawyer to appear. The sight of thehomely but benevolent face of Jiggs was a distinctrelief.

“My name is Jiggs,” stated the caller—“MarathonJiggs, nicknamed ‘Mary’ at the university. I lefta note for a friend of mine whom I thought was stayinghere, named George H. Jones. I understandthat your wife got it by mistake. It is quite possiblethat she read it and misunderstand the matter;therefore I have come to clear it up, if such is thecase, and exonerate you.”

Jones drew up a chair. “Sit down,” he said, “andwe will talk this over. My wife has just gone out tosee a lawyer about a divorce. You have already doneme a favour; now what,” taking out a checkbook,“will you take to keep quiet about the facts?”

TOMASO AND ME

By Graham Clark

I can’t talk good American way. In the carpetfactory where I worked the Polacks, Sheenies,and Wops talked any old way, and I learnt to sayAmerican like them. But maybe I talk good enoughto tell about Tomaso and me.

Tomaso comed from Italy. For that the peoplesin this country calls him a Wop. I comed fromAlbania. Never did my father lets a Wop come toour house, for most Albanese hates the Wops.But first day I seen Tomaso I stopped hating all theWops. He comed to work in the factory, settingpatterns like me. His eyes looked big and soft likeour little dog’s. His voice was like the big stringson my father’s harp when he pulls his fingers overthem gentle like. He was like American fellas—tallwith a nice head. His neck, where the haircomed down black and shiny, was like a young girl’s.

When I first seen Tomaso he was nineteen. Butsome ways I was an old woman, for the hunger thatpulls your waist in tight and the cold that makesyour blood black comed many times toomany times to my bunch, for in our house was manykids, and my father couldn’t makes enough money tobuy plenty of food. So I went to work in the factorybefore the law lets me. The superintendent fixedit so I got the job all right. I said I was older thanI was.

Always I thought about the bunch at home, tillI seen Tomaso. Then I thought in my mind of him—andme. One day, soon after Tomaso comed tothe factory, my mother said to me: “Maria, you’rebig enough to marry. In the old country you wouldhave a husband. Your father will go to Brooklynand tell your aunts to gets you a husband. InBrooklyn there’s plenty of Albanese. You willmarry one of your own peoples.”

I said no word back. In my mind I was thinkingI would marry only Tomaso. On Sunday my fatherwent to Brooklyn to speak with my aunt for a husbandfor me. We lived in New Jersey, in an oldshack like a pig’s. Dirt and bad smell was everywhere.Always I wanted to live American way;but how could we gets clean with nanny-goats andchickens coming in the house like peoples?

Two weeks, and my aunt comed from Brooklynwith a guy. He looked like a rat. His hair was thinlike lace, and you could see the yellow skin in spots,greasy like. He was just as high as my little brotherStephano, fourteen. And he was twenty-five!

“Here’s Dimiter,” my aunt said. “He’s a nicefella. He drives a team for Brooklyn and gets goodmoney. His father has a house in the old country.Each year he’ll send Dimiter wine and oil.”

My father gived Dimiter his hand to kiss. Mymother said he was better than us, Albanese way.I said no word. At dinner my father said: “Maria,you are engage to Dimiter. He will be my son. I’llgive him one hundred dollars and kill the old nanny-goatfor the wedding. All the Albanese and some ofthe Wops and Polacks will come and make presents.”

In my mind I was asking, “Where will you gets thehundred dollars?” I looked at Dimiter. He showedall crooked teeth when he laughed. In my mind Iwas thinking I would likes to spit in his face. Tomy mother I said: “I am too young to marry.Wait a year.”

“A year!” My mother hollered and hit the table.“A fella don’t wants a girl if she’s old. You’llmarry Dimiter now.”

Something inside me got hard like a stone. Ihated my mother. The whole bunch. Why shouldI marry the rat? Why shouldn’t I pick my ownfella, American way?

“When will I come to marry?” Dimiter asked myfather.

My father said: “Sunday we’ll speak to the priest.Next Sunday will be the wedding.”

Up I jumps. Two weeks and me married to therat? What about Tomaso? Two days ago he hadwalked with me from the factory. At the bridge westopped. “You’re my little sweetheart,” Tomasosaid, soft like. His eyes was shiny like dew. Igot red as a pepper and runned away. But in mymind I was thinking I loved Tomaso. Sure, I wouldnot tell my father, for the Albanese hates the Wops.

So I remembered Tomaso’s eyes and voice. AndI said: “I won’t marry this guy.” My father’sshoulders went up high. My mother got mad likediavolo. The rat was yellow like sick. My auntsaid: “Maria’s just a young girl. Give her time forthinking over.”

“No thinking over,” my father hollered. “Igive Dimiter my daughter. Two weeks will be thewedding.”

My mother laughed with her tongue out, Albaneseway. More than ever she looked like our old nanny-goat.I stood higher than her and said to her face:“If I am a little girl I will stay home with the otherkids and my father to feed me. If I am a woman andworks for the bunch I will find my own fella, Americanway.”

My father made to hit me, but I runned upstairsand shut the door hard. My aunt and the rat wentaway. All day I put nothing in my mouth. I saidno word.

Next day I set the patterns wrong. The bosssweared. In the evening Tomaso walked with me.“Why are you to cry?” he asked. His voice was likeall his peoples was dead. I told him about the rat.He put his head high and his eyes looked like twopieces of fire in the dark. His lips got tight over histeeth and I seen him make hard fists.

Then he comed close. His arm was by my arm.In my mind I said I would like to put my head on hisshoulder and my lips to his lips. But Albanese girlsdon’t do that way till they’re married.

“I hates Albanese! I hates Italians! I hates theold country!” said Tomaso. His voice was like aknife. “They makes their girls to marry any old guy.I likes American way—a fella and a girl to love andthen marry, and other peoples stay out of it.”

“I will do American way,” I said. Tomaso’s hairrubbed my cheek; I got warm and happy. OnlyTomaso and me. Just us in the world.

“And I will do American way,” Tomaso said inmy hair. It was dark, but I seen his face, warm likethe sunshine. Before I knowed, Tomaso’s lips heldmine tight. Sure, it was wicked. Don’t the priesttell you so? But how could I help it? Tomaso wasso strong—and we loved together.

“We’ll get married American way,” Tomaso said,soft like. His face was like fur on my face. “I havetwo hundred dollars from my last job. My fatheris not a poor man, and I am his only child. Shallit be that way, my sweetheart?”

Sure, there was a big scrap at our shack next daywhen I runned off with a Wop. But Tomaso andme should worry! We got married American way.I stopped the factory and made my house nice. Onemonth married, and comed my father and mother tosee me.

“Ta, like Americanos!” my mother said. Butshe didn’t laugh with her tongue out. She wantedto be good. I was her first child. My father givedhis hand for me to kiss. “Bless my daughter,” hesaid. Then he gived his hand for Tomaso to kiss,and made tears to run out of his eyes. Then heborrowed ten dollars from Tomaso and everything gotall right.

THICKER THAN WATER

By Ralph Henry Barbour and George Randolph Osborne

Doctor Burroughs, summoned from theoperating room, greeted his friend from thedoorway: “Sorry, Harry, but you’ll have to go onwithout me. I’ve got a case on the table that Ican’t leave. Make my excuses, will you?”

“There’s still an hour,” replied the visitor. “I’mearly and can wait.”

“Then come in with me.” Markham followedto the operating room, white-walled, immaculate,odorous of stale ether and antiseptics. On the tablelay the sheeted form of a young girl. Only the upperportion of the body was visible, and about the neckwet, red-stained bandages were bound. “A queercase,” said the surgeon. “Brought here from asweat-shop two hours ago. A stove-pipe fell andgashed an artery in her neck. She’s bleeding todeath. Blood’s supposed to be thicker than water, buthers isn’t, poor girl. If it would clot she might pullthrough. Or I could save her by transfusion, but wecan’t find any relatives, and there’s mighty little time.”

The attending nurse entered. “The patient’sbrother is here,” she announced, “and is asking tosee her.”

“Her brother!” The surgeon’s face lighted.“What’s he like?”

“About twenty, Doctor; looks strong and healthy.”

“See him, Nurse. Tell him the facts. Say hissister will die unless he’ll give some blood to her.Or wait!” He turned to Markham. “Harry,you do it! Persuasion’s your line. Make believehe’s a jury. But put it strong, old man! Andhurry! Every minute counts!”

The boy was standing stolidly in the waiting-room,only the pallor of his healthy skin and the anxiety ofhis clear eyes hinting the strain. Markham explainedswiftly, concisely.

“Doctor Burroughs says it’s her one chance,” heended.

The boy drew in his breath and paled visibly.

“You mean Nell’ll die if some one don’t swap hisblood for hers?”

“Unless the blood she has lost is replaced——”

“Well, quit beefin’,” interrupted the other roughly.“I’m here, ain’t I?”

When he entered the operating room the boy gavea low cry of pain, bent over the form on the table,and pressed his lips to the white forehead. Whenhe looked up his eyes were filled with tears. Henodded to the surgeon.

Doggedly, almost defiantly, he submitted himself,but when the artery had been severed and the bloodwas pulsing from his veins to the inanimate formbeside him his expression changed to that of abjectresignation. Several times he sighed audibly, butas if from mental rather than bodily anguish. Thesilence became oppressive. To Markham it seemedhours before the surgeon looked up from his vigil andnodded to the nurse. Then:

“You’re a brave lad,” he said cheerfully to the boy.“Your sacrifice has won!”

The boy, pale and weak, tried to smile. “ThankGod!” he muttered. Then, with twitching mouth:“Say, Doc, how soon do I croak?”

“Why, not for a good many years, I hope.” Thesurgeon turned frowningly to Markham. “Didn’tyou explain that there was no danger to him?”

“God! I’m afraid I didn’t!” stammered Markham.“I was so keen to get his consent. Do youmean that he thought——”

The surgeon nodded pityingly and turned to thelad. “You’re not going to die,” he said gently.“You’ll be all right to-morrow. But I’m deeplysorry you’ve suffered as you must have suffered thepast hour. You were braver than any of us suspected!”

“Aw, that’s all right,” muttered the boy. “She’smy sister, ain’t she?”

THE OLD GROVE CROSSING

By Albert H. Coggins

More mother’s tears, and the fourth prisonerdischarged! The judge began to fear permanentsoftening of the heart and therefore took grimsatisfaction when the name Timothy McMenamin,alias “One Eyed Johnny,” was called and thereshambled into the dock a chronic old jail-bird whoseappearance left no remote possibility of the furtherpainful exercise of discretionary powers.

Silence reigned while his Honour scanned the card.From highway robbery and safe cracking the recordof Timothy ran the entire gamut of inspiring action,and by some subtle mental telepathy the crowd knewthat he had indeed been a man of parts. But nowTimothy was in the sere and yellow and had fallenon evil days. The Judge read aloud from the presentindictment, to which Timothy had sullenly pleaded“Guilty.”

“Soliciting alms upon the public thoroughfare andvagrancy.”

Then fraught with deep agrieve, his “Why—Timothy!”caught the levity of the crowded courtroom.

The Judge pursed pondering lips. Then a playfulthought was his.

“Are you represented by counsel, Timothy?”

Timothy was not.

“Mr. Wallace!”

If a room may be said to gasp, that courtroomgasped.

William R. K. Wallace!

The rubber rattle of an impromptu assignment,usually thrown the teething tyro, given to the veryleader of the bar!

His Honour was indeed facetious.

Wallace, engaged in an undertone confab with acourt clerk, looked up, converted the instinctivegesture of impatience into one of good-natured acquiescence,and stepped forward. The crowd’s tributeto supremacy: a hush so distinct as to seem almostaudible.

The Judge assumed due solemnity.

“Mr. Wallace, we have here a knight-errant ofmost distinguished parts. He has sojourned inmany public institutions. A most cosmopolitancitizen and of unquestioned social standing; havingmet some of the best wardens in the country. Sometwenty years ago he committed a little indiscretionup in Montour County, dwelling there subsequentlyfor a period of six months. That being your ownnative heath, Mr. Wallace, would it not be chivalricand neighbourly upon your part to volunteer yourprofessional services!”

The crowd enjoyed the speech and scene. In allhis years at the bar no one had ever seen WilliamR. K. Wallace nonplussed. Now his Honour hadsucceeded in “putting one over” on him. His“Certainly, your Honour,” was but instinctive. Ofthe purport of a possible plea Wallace had no remoteidea. So he turned and indulged in a criticallyprofessional survey of his client.

As he took in the sullen figure, unshaven, unkempt,and hard, the forbidding aspect painfully accentuatedby the patch over one sightless eye—what came of asudden to the attorney? Masterful and adroitthough he was, did he feel the utter futility of it all?It certainly seemed that Wallace—William R. K.Wallace—trembled through an acute second ofactual stage fright, the horrible unnerved instantwhen the mind gropes and finds no substance ofthought. Yes, his Honour had scored.

Then, himself again, he addressed the Court.Quietly, almost conversationally and entirely awayfrom the subject at hand; but this was Wallace, andno one stayed him.

“I was born in Centre County, your Honour, notMontour, but so close to the county line that yourHonour’s impression is to all intents and purposescorrect. So close, in fact, that right down the driveway,scarcely a hundred yards away, one could stepinto Montour County by crossing the railroad tracks,for they were the county line at that corner.”

Then for a few seconds he indulged in memory’svisualization of early days. Still in a desultory wayhe continued:

“We lived there contentedly, your Honour, agood father, a sainted mother, myself a grown boy,and—and a baby sister.... She had comelate.... Perhaps that’s one reason we made somuch of her. Just turned two she was, and a littlebundle of winsomeness.... She gathered toherself all the glinting morning sunlight of the mountaintops.”

People stirred restlessly. This was not like Wallace.True, he sometimes indulged in sentimentbefore a jury and ofttime moved the sturdy yeomanryto free some red-handed rascal regardless of the facts.But to parade his own early rural days and his littlesister—well, it only indicated that he was sorepressed.

But now the discerning could note the least littleshade of resonance and purpose. And, too, he halfturned from time to time toward the man in the dock.

“Through that valley the magnificent Blue DiamondExpress went thundering by, bearing its burdenof the prosperous and contented.... But thenthere were other trains, the long slow freights thatwended their way, laden, down the valley. They, too,carried passengers ... on the couplings ... crampedup underneath ... or smuggled intothe corner of a box car. These were of the underworld—thediscontented and the disinherited. Thetramp, the outcast ... perchance the criminal,making his getaway from city to city.”

He glanced keenly, quickly; his client was beginningto emerge from stolid indifference.

“The Old Grove Crossing, as they called it, wasnot so well guarded twenty years ago as now, yourHonour. And one day this little two-year-old tookit into her baby head to roam. Perhaps childishfancy paints the wild flowers on a distant hill brighter,perhaps some errant butterfly winged its random wayacross the tracks—who knows?

“At all events, the wanderlust seized her tiny feetand she had come just so near Montour Countythat she had but to cross the far track to have completelychanged jurisdiction. And there she stood,for a big, slow-moving train of empties occupied thattrack. Puzzled? Perhaps a little; but still it wasa matter of no moment.... Neither, yourHonour, was the big, thundering Blue Diamond.Why should it be? There existed in all this worldno such thing as either evil or fear.... Andso she waited, transfixed only by wonderment as themonster thing bore down on her.... I’m aware,your Honour, that in every well-appointed melodramathe hero always appears at the proper instant....But in real life sometimes—well, we havetried cases in our courts, the purpose of which wasto determine the dollar value of that for which therecan be no recompense—a baby life crushed out.”

He paused for an impressive second.

“And this was my baby sister.

“Oh, yes, they saw her ... when less thantwo hundred feet away. Along that straightawaythe Montour Valley Railroad Company, in its corporatewisdom, shot its Blue Diamond seventy milesan hour. The engineer was the best man on the line—andhe fainted dead away. That’s what theirbest man did. He had a baby of his own. Instinctmade him throw on the brakes ... as well, achild’s bucket of sand on the tracks! ...Down, down it came, shrieking, crashing, pounding,and swirling from side to side; belching its hell ofdestruction and rasping its million sparks as thebrakes half gripped.... Only one small mercyvouchsafed—by its awful might and momentum—instantdeath!”

Dramatically Wallace passed his hand over hisforehead. The Judge had done the same. So wellhad he played upon their emotions that he sensed toperfection the proper pause duration....

“No, your Honour,” he said quietly, “she did notdie. This little story of real life followed the conventional....Sometimes God is as good asthe dramatist. They told us the meagre details.He didn’t; he had a pressing engagement and slippedaway, resuming, I suppose, his ‘reservations’ on hisBlue Diamond.... He wasn’t very prepossessing,anyway, from all accounts. Any ten-twenty-thirtydramatist could have given us a more presentable,better manicured hero.”

Wallace sauntered a little.

“This object that tumbled from a box car,sprawled, picked himself up, and then jumped like acat, was, as a matter of fact, a nobody, an outcast, acrook——”

Casually, it seemed, his hand rested on the bowedshoulder of the broken old man.

“Just a one-eyed yeggman, making his way——”

He got no further. The courtroom was in an uproarand unrestrained applause ran its riotous course.There was none to check it.

His Honour, savagely surreptitious with hishandkerchief, finally took command of himself andthe situation.

“Mr. Wallace, the Court requires no argument inthis case. We will accept the guarantee of futuregood conduct which you were about to offer, and, ifnecessary, underwrite it ourselves.... Sentencesuspended!”

Then as the Court was adjourned and they crowdedabout the pair of them, counsel and client, a shouldering,demonstrative throng a dozen deep, the Judge,before retiring stilled them for a brief afterword.

“Mr. Wallace, in the matter of the—ah, of certainrefreshments, in which we had rendered a mentalruling incidental to the costs thereof, we would saythat ruling is hereby reversed and the—the refreshments—areon—the Court.”

LOST AND FOUND

By John Kendrick Bangs

I

The week-end was over, and Begbie had returnedto town, restless, and strangely unhappy.There was within him a curious sense of somethinglost, and yet, now and then, the intimation of anothersomething that seemed to be gain wholly wouldflash across the horizon of his reflections like a rayof sunshine attempting to penetrate a possible rift inthe clouds.

He unpacked his suit-case listlessly, and comparedits contents with the catalogue of his week-end needswhich he always kept pasted on the inner side of thecover of his suit-case. Everything was there, fromhair-brush to dinner-coat—and yet that sense ofsomething left behind still oppressed him. Asecond time he went over the list and compared itwith his possessions, to find that nothing was missing;and then on a sudden there flashed acrosshis mind a full realization of what the lost objectwas.

“Ah!” he ejacul*ted with a deep sigh of relief.

“That’s it! I will write at once to my hostess andask her to return it.”

Action followed the resolution, and, seating himselfat his escritoire, Begbie wrote:

“The Mossmere, New York.

“August ——, 19—.

“My Dear Mrs. Shelton:

“Upon my return from the never-to-be-forgottenseries of golden hours at Sea Cliff I find that, afterthe habit of the departing guest, I have left at leastone of my possessions behind me. It is of valueperhaps to nobody but myself, but, poor as it is, Icannot very well do without it. It is my heart.If by some good chance you have found it, and it is ofno use to you, will you be good enough some timesoon, when you have nothing better to do, to returnit to me? Or, if by some good fortune you find itworth retaining, will you please tell me so, that Imay know that it is in your custody and is not lyingsomewhere cold and neglected? It is the only one Ihave, and it has never passed out of my keepingbefore.

“Always devotedly yours,

“Harrison Begbie.”

II

It was on the morning of the second day after themailing of this letter that Begbie found a dainty-huedmissive lying beside his plate at the breakfast-table.It was postmarked Sea Cliff, and addressedin the familiar handwriting of his hostess. Feverishlyhe tore it open, and found the following:

“Sea Cliff, August ——, 19—.

“My Dear Mr. Begbie:

“What careless creatures you men are! I havefound ten such articles as you describe in my houseduring the past ten days, and out of so vast and varieda number I cannot quite decide which one is yours.Some of them are badly cracked; some of them arebattered hopelessly—only one of them is in what Ishould call an A1, first class, condition. I am hopingit is yours, but I do not know. In any event, on receiptof this won’t you come down here at once and wecan run over them together. I will meet you with themotor on the arrival of the 12:15 at Wavecrest Station.

“Meanwhile, my dear Mr. Begbie, knowing howessential a part of the human mechanism a heart trulyis—I send you mine to take the place of the other.You may keep it until your own is returned to you.

“Always sincerely,

“Mary Shelton.”

“P.S.—Telegraph me if you will be on the 12:15.”

III

Ten minutes later the following rush-message spedover the wires:

“New York, Aug. ——, 19—.

“Mrs. Shelton, Sea Cliff, L. I.:

“Haven’t time to wire you of arrival on 12:15.Am rushing to catch the 9:05.

“Harrison.”

YOU CAN NEVER TELL

By “B. MacArthur”

Very dimly shone the lamps of the rickshaws;very faintly came the tap-tap of the sandalspassing to and fro on the Bund. Yokohama wasgoing to sleep, and the great liners in the bay lookeddark and ghost-like against the rising moon. Thethree men sitting on the terrace of the Grand Hotelmet here every ninth week. They were captainsof three of the liners. All were Englishmen. Blackburn,who commanded a ship owned and mannedby Japanese, lit his pipe and gazed out across theharbour, drawing his hand over his brow and hair.

“Same old heat,” he said.

The others nodded.

Bainbridge, a slight little man with fair hair,moved restlessly.

“A week, and we’ll all be at opposite cornersagain,” he said, “none of them much cooler.”

“Not bad at home now,” mused Villiers, broadand silent man, with the gray eyes of a dreamer.He leaned forward, smiling slightly.

“D’ye know, it’s three years next month sinceI’ve seen th’ wife. Devil of a life! And I don’tsee my way to getting back yet, either. No placefor women, the East.”

Bainbridge stared at him uneasily.

“Yes, deuce of a life,” he assented, “but worse forthe women, even in England. Always standing ontheir own legs, as it were, pinching and skimpingfor a chap they only see once in a couple of years.I say, y’know, it’s rotten bad for them, at best.”

“Quite right,” said Villiers, “and it is an experiencethat is bound to have its effect. The strong womanwill be stronger, the weak woman weaker, and thebad woman—will go under.”

Blackburn smiled.

“Then we are three lucky chaps,” he said, and blewa ring of smoke and looked at it rather sentimentally.

Villiers laughed.

“The queer part about it is the faith they’ve got.It’s that which pulls them through. I believe if Iwrote the wife to-night that I’d a Japanese girl inNagasaki she’d never believe me, though she’s quitesophisticated enough to be cognizant of the prevalenceof that sort of thing out here. She takes theattitude that such things might happen—but not toher or hers. It’s rather a potent point of view.”

“It’s an absurd point of view—no offence to you,old chap,” said Bainbridge. “Suppose it was a factand she had to face it—what would be her attitude?”

“It couldn’t be a fact so long as she felt as she doesabout it,” answered Villiers; “it is that which insuresher being quite right in her belief.”

“Oh, rot!” said Bainbridge. “You’re an idealist.”He took a deep drink from his tall glass. “I’llbet you if all three of us wrote home to-night in thelight of remorseful confession every one of us wouldreceive replies, next mail out, to the same effect.”

“There’s just one way to prove that,” said Villiers,“and that’s to write.”

“Done!” said Bainbridge.

“Hold on, old chaps!” Blackburn knocked out theashes from his pipe. “D’ye know you’re about toplay a devilish risky game? Shouldn’t care to enterit myself. Luck to you, however, if you must.But both of you are taking too much for granted.”

“You hold the stakes, then,” said Villiers complacently.“Next trip we meet here, as per schedule,we’ll have our mail first thing and rendezvous at eightfor supper. If we can’t read our letters aloud we canat least describe the attitude taken therein, which isthe point under discussion.”

“Very well,” said Blackburn, “but I warn youit’s a silly affair.”

Nine weeks later Blackburn, tying his tie beforethe mirror in his cabin, felt a curious interest in seeinghis two friends as had been arranged at their previousmeeting. They would have received their mail fromhome even as he had received his, but it was with athrill of satisfaction that he remembered he had notendangered his own or his wife’s happiness in what heconsidered the mad manner of his friends.

Very promptly, then, and most serene, he appearedon the terrace and seated himself at the usualtable to await their arrival.

Bainbridge presently appeared and, after greetingBlackburn, sat down and lit a pipe. They talkedspasmodically. A curious tranquillity seemed tohave enveloped the little man, which so held Blackburn’sattention that he could think of nothing to say.They sat in silence, Blackburn mentally taking stockof his friend. All his nervousness and cynicismseemed to have left him, and his eyes, usually sofurtive, looked very still and deep.

“Wonder why Villiers doesn’t come along,” saidBlackburn at last.

Bainbridge nodded.... “I’ll read you myletter now,” he said, and in a lower voice: “ByJove, old chap, I was quite wrong, d’ye know?Never would have believed it possible any one couldfeel so about a chap like me.”

He laid the letter on the table. “Wonderful thingthat,” he said; and Blackburn took it.

“Are you quite sure you want me to read this?” heasked.

“Quite,” replied Bainbridge, “because—becauseit’s changed things so—for me, you know.”

Blackburn read:

“Dear Lad:

“Something in my heart tells me this horrible thingisn’t true. It can’t be. Such things may happento people, but somehow I can’t feel it has happenedto me and mine. But if it has—and you will beginagain because your best nature still cares for me—won’tyou begin right now, because I love you andwill try to forget. I can’t write more.

“Minnie.”

When Blackburn had finished he folded it verygently and handed it to Bainbridge.

“I congratulate you, old fellow,” he said gravely,and then: “Let’s go up to Villiers’ room and stirhim up. He may be snoozing.”

They rose and climbed the stairs to the room Villierswas wont to occupy during his stay in port. Thedoor was unlocked, and after knocking and receivingno reply they entered. It was so dark at first theycould see nothing. Blackburn, dimly discerning thebureau, shuffled toward it to light the gas. But beforehe reached it his foot struck a soft object, and simultaneouslya nauseous wave of horror swept over him.

“My God! Light a match,” he said.

Bainbridge did so and, stepping over the pronefigure, lit the gas with trembling hands.

Villiers was quite dead. His gun lay by his side,and in a little pool of blood by his right temple acrumpled letter lay, face up.

“Nothing should be touched,” said Blackburn,“until the proper steps have been taken—except——”

Bainbridge stooped and lifted the bloody page.

“Except this,” he said, and, folding it carefully,put it in his wallet.

When, many hours later, Blackburn was aboard hisship, he locked his cabin door, and Bainbridge, whohad accompanied him for the purpose, spread outthe sheet and read it slowly.

“My Dear Frank:

“Your rather extraordinary epistle has reached me,and I assure you it was quite unnecessary. Yousurely do not expect me to have lived all these yearsalone and to have known men as I do without realizingthat I could scarcely expect you to live the life ofa celibate in the ‘Far East.’ In this strange littlegame of life we must take our pleasures as they come,and I have taken mine even as I have not preventedyou from taking yours. Foolish boy! If you expectedme to have hysterics over your self-imposedconfession you may be relieved to know that I merelylaughed at it. We are all in the same boat, we sinners,so why should one of us cavil at another? Cheerup and don’t take life so seriously.

“Sue.”

THE ESCAPE

By A. Leslie Goodwin

The tent flap lifted and dropped. The prisonercould make out the dim outlines of a man’sform.

“To be shot at sunrise, eh?”

The prisoner stirred quickly. That voice wasstrangely familiar to him.

The figure moved nearer. A knife flashed and theprisoner’s bonds fell off.

“Follow me, and not a sound.”

They crept out of the tent, past a dozing sentry,and across a dark field.

“Now,” said the guide, as they straightened up inthe shadow of a hedge, “a proposition, for cousinswill be cousins, even in war.”

He paused, looked warily around, and emitted alow chuckle.

“Six months ago,” he continued, “when I wascaptured by your side and sentenced to be shot yourescued me, as I have you. You showed me ourlines and gave me two minutes to get away. Afterthat two minutes you were to fire, and you——”

He stopped, wheeled like a flash, but too late.A shot rang out, and another.

The two men stiffened, leaned toward each other,gasped, and dropped to the ground.

Around the corner of the hedge stepped the sentry,a smoking automatic in his hand.

“Huh!” he growled, stirring the prostrate figureswith his foot. “Relatives have no business on oppositesides, anyway.”

TWO LETTERS, A TELEGRAM, AND A FINALE

By H. S. Haskins

“New York, September 10.

“Dearest Marian:

“Is it not time to break silence? Threemonths have passed since we quarrelled on the eveof your departure for the mountains. I wrote twiceduring the first week. You did not answer. Prideforbade my risking another rebuff.

“Frequently I have been so desperate that it hasconsoled me to run into needless danger. Often,during the summer, I have swum out beyond thebreakers when there was a heavy undertow. I havetaken automobile tours by myself, speeding at seventymiles an hour over narrow roads along mountainsides.

“These foolhardy adventures were backed by what mustseem to you an unaccountable desire for revenge. Ipictured your face as you read an account of mydeath; gloated over the horror in your eyes when theyscanned the ghastly details.

“I invented such news items as these: ‘Blake’s bodywas cast up on the beach, horribly gashed by therocks’; or, ‘The automobile leaped into a chasm.Blake, clinging to the wheel, was crushed into anunrecognizable mass when the car turned turtle.’

“This desire to punish you for your neglect seems abarbarous instinct or a childish whim, as you choose.But, ashamed of it as I may be, and struggle againstit as I will, such a thought is often with me.

“Take this morning, for instance: alighting from thetrain at Jersey City, I stopped to admire the hugelocomotive which has been lately put on the morningexpress. I laid my hand on one bulky cylinder.‘What if this monster should explode with me standinghere!’ I thought. ‘What if one side of my faceand my right arm were blown off! What wouldshe say, my little Princess of Indifference, far awayin her mountain fastness?’

“I gave imagination its head. It soon seemed as ifthe horrible thing had really happened. They pickedme up, conscious and suffering frightfully. BeforeI slipped into merciful oblivion the awful truth wasapparent to me—my right arm was gone and the rightside of my face was terribly scalded by the blindingsteam.

“Weeks grew into months. The day before thebandages were to be removed from my face I escapedfrom the hospital. I took a night express to Montreal.From Montreal I plunged into the wilderness,anywhere to get away from the sight of man, where,slowly and painfully, with my untrained left arm,I built a hut on the side of a mountain. Besides therough furniture I installed a typewriter and a framedphotograph of you. Just these two things with whichto start life over again.

“Here I learned with difficulty to typewrite withone hand. At first it baffled me to devise some wayof depressing the shift key. Then I attached arough contrivance for working the shift key with myfoot. Finally I became fairly expert, and began tosubmit magazine stories, with some success.

“Often I dreamed of a footstep outside my cabin,of the swish of skirts, of a cry, and somebody rushingacross the floor. Two hands, unmistakably yours,pressed my eyes—my good eye on the good side ofmy face and my useless eye on the useless side of myface. Then I seemed to play a gruesome hide-and-seek,twisting, turning, dodging—ever striving tokeep the undamaged side of my face toward you,concealing the stricken side from your eyes.

“That’s enough of such rubbish. Fancies, mademorbid by your long silence, have run away with me.Forgive me. But have mercy, and write!

“I have stopped running risks in the water. I observethe legal rate of speed in my car. But I havenot given up an equally hazardous adventure—lovingyou.

“Forever and ever yours,

“John.”

“Paul Smith’s, Adirondacks, N. Y.,

September 14.

“My Own Silly John:

“Your letter gave me the shivers. Forgive me.I have been thoughtless and brutal. Your letterwas so graphic, your description of your make-believeaccident in the train-sheds so real, that Icannot get it out of my mind, I love you, love you,love you! I shall leave here two weeks from to-morrow.I’d leave to-night if it were not for Mother,who is not well enough yet to travel. That fictitiouscabin on the mountainside with you blinded andalone frightened me. Be careful, John; be careful,you dear, dear thing!

“Always yours,

“Marian.”

(Telegram)

“Noonday Club, New York,

September 24.

“Marian Blackmar:

“Paul Smith’s, Adirondacks, N. Y.

“The cabin on the mountain was not fictitious.Neither was the explosion of the locomotive, whichhappened three months ago. I gave an assumedname at the hospital. Do not try to find me.There is nothing left worth finding. I want to beremembered as I was when we parted. Good-bye.

“John.”

The Finale

An October moon shone through the scarlet leavesof a Canadian forest. Shadows from the thinningbranches fell across the clearing where John Blake’scabin clung to the side of a mountain. The lightfrom a shaded lamp, within, fell upon a typewriterwith its singular attachment for depressing the shiftkey.

Before the machine John sat, bowed in thought,his right sleeve hanging empty. He was thinkingof the letter which he had written to Marian Blackmar,and which he had enclosed with a note to thesteward of the Noonday Club, to be mailed fromNew York, for the sake of the postmark, of the telegramwhich had been relayed through the sameclub.

The autumn wind coaxed the logs in the fireplace.The responsive flames lighted with a warm glow thephotographed features of the beautiful girl in theoval frame.

There was a footstep outside the cabin, the swishof skirts, a cry, and somebody rushing across thefloor. Two hands, unmistakably hers, were pressedover his eyes, the good eye and the bad eye alike.Two lips, every now and then interrupting themselvesagainst his, wept and laughed and pleaded and made-believescold, and finally persuaded John that nolife can be disfigured where love dwells.

THE INTRUDER

By Reginald Barlow

Midwinter, bitterly cold.

Having entered the house, I drew the blindsand lit the gas-logs, stretched myself in an armchair,and dozed. A strange feeling crept over me; some oneelse was in the room.

I slowly opened my eyes; they stared straight intoa gun-muzzle; my hands flew up.

“Stand up!”

I stood.

The other hand deftly extracted my revolver.

“Sit down!”

I sat.

“Rotten weather!”

I agreed.

“How did you get in?” I asked.

“Basem*nt window. How d’you?”

“Front door, of course.”

He looked quizzically. “Ain’t Richman cominghome to-night?”

“Certainly not; don’t expect him.”

“That’s funny. Where’s the servants?” Thecurtains behind him trembled.

“With the Richmans, Atlantic City,” I informed.“Why not call when he’s home?” I inquired. Agun, hand, and arm divided the curtain.

“Right; feel warmer now; must get to work.”

“Been here before?” I asked, as the newcomer,tall and strong, covered the bullet-head before me.

“Sure. Remember the burglary in this housefive years ago? Well, I was on that job. Anothernight like this. I sneaked up——”

“Biff!” The newcomer landed squarely. “Cordin that drawer,” he said. “Tie him up.”

I obeyed.

“You’re Mr. Jones, I believe!—I’m Mr. Richman,”he continued. “My agent wired that I’dfind you here. Knew I’d be late, so sent you thekey. What’s the matter with our friend?”

Our prisoner had come to, gasping, “You Richman?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Burns, Headquarters. Damn you, I’llpinch you, too——”

He raved on. Richman lifted the ’phone. Foundit out of order. I knew he would.

“Police Station is two blocks south,” he informedme. “Go and notify them. I’ll take care of thisnoisy person.”

“Damn fool! He’s a crook!” bawled the helplessone.

“He thinks you’re as bad as himself,” laughedRichman.

“How did you learn of my danger?” I inquired.

“I borrowed a basem*nt key from the servants.On entering I heard voices up here; crept upstairs,peeped through the curtains, saw your predicament,and nailed the fellow.”

“I’m eternally grateful,” I said warmly.

“Don’t mention it. Now, go for the police, like agood fellow.”

“Surely. Take care of yourself,” I said. Enteringthe hall, I lifted a heavy fur coat as the thudof footsteps approached the front steps. I openedthe door quickly and faced the newcomer, closingit behind me.

“Pardon! Is Mr. Richman in?” he inquired.

“Are you Jones?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Richman is waiting for you. Pardon my haste.Let yourself in. You have a key.”

My bag was very heavy, being full of Richman’ssilver and a few thousand dollars’ worth of jewellery,but I made good time through the snow.

I remembered Richman saying the Police Stationwas two blocks south—which, of course, explainswhy I went north.

MOLTEN METAL

By Hornell Hart

The president of the Canfield Iron Works satat his desk, poring over departmental reports.The hush of Saturday afternoon had settledover the deserted works. Instead of the rumble oftrucks, the tattoo of steam hammers, and the shrill ofsignal whistles, a fly droned at the window screenand birds twittered from the eaves.

It was with a startled feeling that the presidentlooked up and saw, standing at the end of his desk,a tall, dully dressed working girl. Her eyes werecircled with shadow, and her thin lips were set withthe expression of one who forces back tears.

“I came to get five hundred dollars,” said the girl,in a tense voice. He looked up at her in dumb astonishment,and she hurried on. “We just got to haveit, and you owe it to us. Pa, he kept telling the bossthat the big ladle for the melted iron was cracked andit would spill some day, and the boss just laughed.Well, one day, about three months ago, he came uphere to the office to tell you about it, and the fellaout there told him to go on out and mind his business.

“Well, last month—on Thursday, it was—thehandle broke off and spilled the hot iron all over Paand the men in his gang. They brought him home,and his legs were all burned off, and he was dead.John Burczyk his name was.

“I’m the oldest at home, and all the others arelittle. There ain’t one of all six of them that canwork yet. And Ma, she ain’t very strong, and shecan’t earn much, washing. Well, we needed moneyawful bad, and a smart fella from you came to ourhouse and gave Ma ten dollars. Ma’s Slovak, andshe can’t read English, and she didn’t know what itwas she was signing. Well, she found she’d signedaway her rights to sue for money from you, becausedad was killed. Now you’re going to give us thatmoney.” She finished with a harsh peremptorinessand paused. The president started to speak, but shestopped him with a crude, imperative gesture.

“You wait,” she said; “I ain’t through yet. Itwas bad enough that you killed Pa and stole thedamage money from her and the kids. But thatain’t all. You done worse than that. There wasanother man burned with that melted iron. Hisname was Frank Nokovick.” The girl’s voice roseand broke in a sob, but she choked it back harshlyand struggled on.

“Frank—he and I was sweethearts for a year anda half before that, but he couldn’t get the money forthe furniture and things. Well, we was to be marriedon Saturday, but Thursday the ladle broke and theiron burned Frank all down the side. He made ’embring him home, and he sent for the priest. ‘Runfor the priest, Pete,’ he says to my brother. ‘Runlike hell, and make him come quick.’

“Frank, he was groaning terrible, but he justgrabbed hold of my hand and hung onto it, and hekept saying, ‘Our kid’s got to have a father, Mary.Our kid’s got to have a father.’

“Well, the priest came as quick as he could, andhe was going to marry us, but Frank was dead.”

The girl’s voice trailed off into a wail, but shechoked on defiantly.

“Now I lost my job, because they can all see mytrouble. And we got to have the money. You giveme that five hundred dollars! You give it to me!”

The president had turned his back toward her.She fumbled nervously with a queerly shaped thingcovered with a handkerchief in her right hand. Thepresident turned silently and handed her a bundle.Dumbly she counted five one-hundred-dollar bills.At the bottom was a check.

“Pay to the order of Mary Burczyk,” it read,“two thousand dollars.”

Mary sank on the floor in a little heap. “I’drather have shot you,” she sobbed.

THE WINNER’S LOSS

By Elliott Flower

“Bet you fifty!”

“Aw, make it worth while.”

“Two hundred!”

“You’re on. Let Jack hold the stakes.”

“Suits me.”

Four hundred dollars was placed in the hands ofJack Strong by the disputatious sports, and he carefullyput it away with the lone five-dollar bill ofwhich he was possessed.

Jack, although sportily inclined, lacked the cashto be a sport himself, but he was known to the twowho thus disagreed, and they trusted him. He mightbe poor, but he was honest.

Nor was this confidence misplaced—at least so faras his honesty was concerned, although there mightbe question as to his judgment and discretion.

For instance, carrying that much money, it was afoolish thing to let an affable stranger scrape a barroomacquaintance with him when he stopped inat Pete’s on his way to his little mortgaged home.He realized that later. He was not drunk—positively,he was not drunk, for he recalled everythingdistinctly, but he did fraternize briefly with the jovialstranger. And in seeking his lone five-dollar bill,that he might return the joyous stranger’s hospitality,he did display the four-hundred-dollar roll. It wasall very clear to him the next morning, when hefound nothing in his pockets but the change from thefive-dollar bill.

Naturally, he hastened to Pete’s to learn what hecould of the amiable stranger, which was nothing.Then he sought his sporty friends, and made fullconfession. They regarded him with coldly suspiciouseyes, deeming it strange that one so wise shouldhappen to be robbed when he was carrying theirmoney. He promised restitution, but they were notappeased, for well they knew that it would take himabout four years to repay four hundred dollars.

He went to the police, and the police promised todo what they could to identify, locate, and apprehendthe sociable stranger, but there was still much in theattitude of the sporty pair to make him uneasy.

He remained at home that evening, having neitherheart nor money for livelier places, and about eighto’clock he had his reward. The police telephonedhim that they had the genial stranger in custody.

“Hold him!” he cried jubilantly. “I’ll be rightdown.”

He was rushing for his hat when his wife, whohad been strangely silent and thoughtful, stoppedhim.

“John,” she said, “I’d like a word with you beforeyou go out. Why have you deceived me?”

“Deceived you!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, deceived me,” she repeated severely. “I’vesuspected this duplicity for some time, and now Ihave proof. When I asked you for ten dollarsyesterday you said you didn’t have it, but last nightI found four hundred dollars in your pocket.”

“Howling Petey!” he cried. “Great jumpinggrasshoppers! I’ve had a man arrested for that, andtwo others are just about ready to beat me up!Where is it, Mary—quick!”

“I applied it on the mortgage,” she answeredcalmly.

THE RECOIL OF THE GUN

By Marian Parker

Yes, I will tell you why I did it. I can talkto you, because you are a gentleman. Youwill understand. Those others were horrible men,policemen. They hustled me, they took me by thearm—me! Did you ever see a prison cell before?I never did. It’s a queer place to receive you in,but that isn’t my fault. They won’t let me out.

You wish to know why I killed my husband? Itdoes sound rather dreadful, doesn’t it? Though, youknow, a woman might get angry—might throwsomething at a man. But I wasn’t angry. It’s notreally hard to kill people. Why, even now, here,alone with you—but they haven’t left anythinghandy. May you call in your friend from the corridor?Yes, of course.

About my husband. He was a very good man,very fond of me; a little tiresome, but I wouldn’thave killed him for that. People won’t understandthat I did it from the highest motives.

This is the reason. It’s very reasonable. I did itfor the children. Now you know.

He began to follow me about. He began to watchme. Even when I was alone he watched me. Hewas suspicious. That’s a very bad sign. I knowwhat it meant. It was dreadful to know, but everythingproved it. He was going insane. But no oneelse knew. If I waited people would find out. Ihad to think of the children, my little girls. No onewould have married them. It’s hereditary, youknow. So I shot him.

Your friend’s a lawyer? He will get me off?They won’t hang me? I knew they wouldn’t if Iexplained. What’s that you said? I heard! Toplead insanity. For me? But he mustn’t do that!The girls—don’t you see? Why, you’re crazy! Noone would marry them! And I did it for them! Idid it for them!

“MAN MAY LOVE”

By Robert Sharp

“Miss Young, I want to ask you something,”and Geoffrey modestly pulled the sheets closeup under his pink chin. “I suppose you’ll thinkme an awful bore for saying this to you so abruptly,but I’m dreadfully in earnest. Will you marry me,please?”

Miss Young did not stop a minute in her deftarrangement of his breakfast tray. She didn’teven blush. “No, I don’t think I will,” she answered.“You see, I can’t marry every one that asks me.”

“How many have you married already?”

“Well, I haven’t married any yet.”

“Then marry me.”

The unruffled little nurse smiled at his impetuosity.“You know,” she said, “every marriageablemale that I have ever nursed has proposed to me. Itis merely a sign of recovery. It ought to go on thelist of symptoms.”

“My proposal is a symptom, all right, but not ofrecovery. It is a symptom that I am desperatelyin love.”

“You do it beautifully, but you are not quite soromantic as Antonio, my last potential husband.He wanted me to flee with him to Italy, but his wifecame and took him away.”

Geoffrey was indignant. “Do you think I’mgoing to let you stay here while every Dick, Tom, andDago Henry proposes to you?”

“Better eat your breakfast, Sonny.”

“Sonny,” Geoffrey flounced over, his face to thewall. “I don’t care for any breakfast, thank you.”

“All right, I’ll take the tray away in a minute,”and with a knowing smile she left the room.

Geoffrey was twenty-one, possessing all the impetuousnessand dignity accessory to that age. Hehad offered his love and had been laughed at. Shehad called him “Sonny.”

Yet, during those three past weeks of antisepticnightmare she had been extremely kind to him.Perhaps she loved some one else. At the thoughtGeoffrey became quite disconsolate.

But finally he turned over and his eyes fell uponthe breakfast tray laid temptingly beside his bed.A ravenous hunger assailed him. He pulled the trayonto the bed and began to eat. After all, things werenot so bad. A woman always had to be coaxed.

Meanwhile Miss Young was talking it over with asister nurse at breakfast in the nurses’ quarters.“What I want to know, Heine, is this. When do weever get a fair chance at a man? We don’t get awayfrom the hospital long enough at a time to captureone, and here, where we receive proposals every day,it’s against the rules to marry the patients.”

“Did he propose to you?” interposed Heine.

“Yes, he did. And he’s a nice boy, too.”

“Excuse me, not for mine. I’m vaccinated againstmarriage. I’m tired of having men growl and grumbleat me all the time.”

“Sure, so am I. But, Heine, wouldn’t it be perfectlygrand to have just one great big man to jawat you! He asked me to call him Geoffrey.”

“Look here, kid, you’re not falling in love, areyou?” demanded the quizzical Heine.

“I wonder if he has another girl,” answered MissYoung irrelevantly.

About noon Geoffrey became exceedingly restless.Miss Young smoothed his pillows again and again.Once, when her hand strayed temptingly near, hegrasped it and kissed it. It must be confessed thatMiss Young didn’t withdraw her hand quite soquickly as the superintendent would have thoughtproper. She even blushed, and that was very unusualfor the sophisticated nurse.

“Gee, I know I’m an awful bore to keep botheringyou like this, but haven’t you changed your mind?Don’t you think you can marry me?”

“Look here, Geoffrey”—she really hadn’t meantto call him Geoffrey—“you don’t know what you’retalking about. I’m the only woman you’ve seen inthe last three weeks. I may have helped pull youover some pretty rough places. Of course you thinkyou have to marry your benefactor.”

“I have to marry you, Miss Young, but that’snot the reason. I’m going to ask you three times aday until you consent to be my wife.”

“Well, keep it up, Geoffrey. It will help pass thetime.” Miss Young had quite regained her customaryimpenetrability.

Geoffrey kept his word. When his nurse was inthe room he watched her continually and at the mostunexpected times propounded the old question. Ifshe left the room he always developed a dreadfulthirst as an excuse for an imperative summons. EvenMiss Young found it hard to doubt his sincerity.She floundered between natural emotions and herprofessional indifference.

At last Geoffrey was pronounced well, and yet thegirl had not consented. He had no excuse for remaininglonger, so with evident bad humour he consentedto go.

“Miss Young,” he said, “I’m going home to-day,and I just won’t leave you here for some dirty ‘Dago’to be grabbing at your hand and proposing to you allthe time. Marry me and come away from here.”

“Geoffrey, I’m going to give you a square deal.You go home for a month, see other girls, and if youthen still want to marry me, come up here and I’llthink about it.”

“I’m on, Miss Young. Say, I’ve found out yourfirst name. It’s Claire, isn’t it? You know I usedto think ‘Diana’ was a peach of a name, but ‘Claire’beats it a mile.”

Geoffrey went home. Miss Young cried a littlein the solitude of her room. Then she settled downto a half-hopeful vigil of waiting. During the firsttwo weeks she received seven letters, each one declaringGeoffrey’s undying devotion and his firm desireto return for her. Every night she read the entirecollection up to date, and wept over them, as is themanner of women beloved. Then for days shereceived no word. She fought this rather hopelessportent with trusting heart.

Often during the long day’s work when patientsgrumbled, when some ogling male became amorouslypersistent, when the little nurse found herself almosthating mankind, she slipped into the vacant corridorand reread one of the treasured epistles to give herfaith.

The third week dragged along and the beginningof the fourth, and still she received not a word.At first she waited impatiently for each day’s mail,but finally she began to delay her call at the desk,dreading the recurrent disappointment.

At last one morning at breakfast she received aletter addressed in Geoffrey’s handwriting. Allaflutter she slipped it into her pocket until she couldbe alone. But she couldn’t wait, so she tremulouslytore the envelope open and read:

“My Dear Miss Young:

“I shall always regard you as a woman of the rarestgood sense. You must have thought me a great fool.I think a man is hardly responsible for what he doeswhen he is sick. I must thank you for your splendidnursing, and, furthermore, for the way in which youbrought me to my senses. You see, Diana and I havemade it all up again. I’m sending you a card.”

The card bore the conventional “Mr. and Mrs. W.P. Harvey announce——”

Miss Young slowly crumpled up the letter andshoved it into her pocket. “Heinie,” she said, “oneof these days I’m going to take advantage of someguy and marry him while I’ve got him down.”

ONE WAY—AND ANOTHER

By Noble May

“That’s where my finish will be,” said the girl.She rested her odd-looking bundle on the railingof the bridge and looked moodily down into theriver.

Tough Muggins wasn’t particularly strong on theconventionalities, but he had stopped on the bridgeto look at the river coquetting under the moon’srays, not to listen to idle talk from strange girls. Itlistened like a touch, too, so he slid an indifferenteye around in the girl’s direction and advised herto chop it. Something, however, about the tenselook of her as she gazed fiercely down into therippling water compelled him, in spite of his naturalinclination, to carry the matter slightly farther.

“What’s got you sore on the livin’ proposition?”he asked grudgingly.

If he had expected melodrama he was doomed todisappointment.

“Same old trouble,” she said quietly. “I wasworkin’ for some swell folks up on the North Side—realswells they was, believe me. They thought Iwas bad. Maybe I am. I don’t know. He promised.What more could a girl expect? When theyfound out, the lady she says to me, ‘Of course, I can’tkeep you here, Molly. It wouldn’t be right with mewith two daughters of my own, but I’m awful sorry,and I hope it’ll be a lesson to you. There’s plenty ofchances for you to start again. It ain’t never toolate to turn over a new leaf. Don’t tumble downthem stairs,’ she says when I kind of stumbled.Like it would make any difference! Then she shutthe door on me. ‘There’s plenty of chances for youto begin over again.’ That’s what she said. Lord,ain’t it funny?” cried the girl. Her laugh rang outhigh and shrill, seeming to cut into the clear darkness.

Tough agreed that it was funny. Having, perhaps,less sense of humour than Molly, he qualifiedthe statement by adding that it was kind of toughalso.

“How about the fella?” he asked casually.

“Ditched me,” replied the girl. “After I come outthe horspittle I never seen hide nor hair of him.Gee,” she concluded bitterly, “I was crazy aboutthat lad.”

“Must ’a’ been a kind of a mean skunk, though,”judged Tough. “How about the kid?”

The girl’s eyes sought the glittering river. “I giveit away,” she told him finally.

“Oh!” ejacul*ted Tough.

The girl seemed to feel a tentative rebuke in this.“What could I do?” she asked. “I tried to getanother job before—and I couldn’t. I don’t know’sI’ll try again. There’s easier ways”—the sentencehung suspended for a moment—“you know.”

There was no polite veil of assumed ignorancethrown over such situations in the circle in whichTough moved. He knew, of course. Still——

“There’s better ways,” he ventured.

Tough was startled at the flash of anger that litup the girl’s shrunken face. For a moment shelooked as if she would strike him. Then, with asharp, quick movement, she buried her face in thecovering of the bundle which she had been holdinglightly on the railing of the bridge. The next instantTough heard a soft splash as something struck thewater.

“There’s that way,” a voice shrieked in his ear.

Tough sprang to the railing and looked down.

“Gawd a’mighty, girl!” he panted.

“I seen—seen—Gawd, woman!” he moistened hisdry lips. “Was it—say, it wasn’t the kid?”

Molly burst into a blood-curdling laugh.

“Sure it was,” she cried. “I doped it a-purpose.I been trying to get up the nerve to do it ever sincethis morning. Do you think I was going to let hergrow up into a thing like her mother? Man, you’recrazy.”

Tough’s coat had been already flung off. “Don’tbe a quitter, girl,” he gasped. “Run for the cop andtell him to put out a boat, and then you wait for me.We’ll save her and she’ll be an all-right one and likeher mother, too.”

Just how near Tough came to seeing his finishthere in the rays of the moon which he loved nobodybut Tough ever knew. It was easy enough to swimwith the current and overtake and seize the tinybundle held up for the moment on the surface of thewater by the expanding draperies. It was when heturned and tried to swim back to the bridge that thewaves pushed and beat at him like cruel hands. Hethought somebody was trying to strangle him. Whatwere they hanging to his feet for? Why did theypush him and strike him? He wouldn’t go that way.He had to go the other way. He must make themquit twisting him. And then through the awfulpounding at his brain came a cheery voice: “Ketcha hold, bo. Ketch a hold.”

Sputtering, gasping, sick, exhausted, Tough hitchedhis elbows weakly over the side and let the unconsciousthing he had so nearly lost his life for slipgently into the bottom of the boat.

“Why, it’s Tough Muggins,” said the officer, lookingdown into his face. “For the lova Mike, whatwas you doin’?”

Through the dank drip of his hair Tough winked.

“I just dropped in to get a drink,” he said. “Ibelong to the cop family and I got the habit.”

It was not until the boat had ground itself gratinglyup against the rough stone ledge that served fora landing that Tough openly acknowledged PolicemanConnelley’s right to an explanation of a sort.He jerked his head toward Molly, who stood, wild-eyedand trembling, on the narrow ledge above.

“My girl,” he said succinctly. “We was scrappin’,and she pitched my bundle of clothes that I wasfetchin’ home overboard. There was money in thepants,” he added by way of gracious explanation.“That was why I jumped in after ’em.”

“Didn’t know you had a girl, Tough.” Big JimConnelley may have had his suspicions, but his tonewas of the most conventional.

“That so?” inquired Tough as he scrambled up theledge. “Say, Jim, the things you don’t know wouldfill a city directory right up to the limit.”

Then he turned to Molly. “Guess you’re cooledoff, now, old girl, what?” he said. “Come on, then.Let’s beat it home.”

Gathering her unconscious baby to her withtrembling, passionate hands, the girl went with himtrustingly.

THE BLACK PATCH

By Randolph Hartley

I wear a black patch over my left eye. It hasaroused the curiosity of many; no one has suspectedthe horror that it hides.

Twenty years ago Bernard Vroom and I, fellow studentsat the University of Jena, were devotees atthe feet of Professor Malhausen, the foremost opticalsurgeon of his time. Living, working, dreaming together,Vroom and I became almost as one intelligencein our passionate study of the anatomy of the eye.Vroom it was who advanced the theory that a livingeye-ball might be transferred from the head of oneman to the head of another. It was I who suggested,and arranged for, the operation, performed by ProfessorMalhausen, through which Vroom’s left eye becamemine and my left eye became Vroom’s. ProfessorMalhausen’s monograph, published shortlyafterward, describes the delicate operation in detail.The ultimate effects of the operation are my ownstory.

Very distinctly do I remember the final struggle forbreath when the anesthetic was administered; andquite as vividly do I recall my return to consciousness,in a hospital cot, weakened by a six weeks’ illnesswith brain fever, which had followed the operation.Slowly but clearly my mind advanced throughthe process of self-identification, and memory broughtme to the moment of my last conscious thought.With a mingled feeling of curiosity and dread Iopened my eyes.

I opened my eyes and beheld two distinct andstrongly contrasting scenes. One, which was visiblemost clearly when I employed only my right eye, wasthe bare hospital room in which I lay. The other,distinct to the left eye alone, was the deck of a ship,a stretch of blue sea, and in the distance a low, tropicalcoast that was to me totally unfamiliar.

Perplexed and vaguely afraid, I begged the nurseto send at once for Vroom. She explained gentlythat Vroom had recovered quickly, and that, althoughdeeply distressed over leaving me, he hadsailed for Egypt, a fortnight since, on a scientificmission. In a flash the truth came to me overwhelmingly.The severing of the optic nerve hadnot destroyed the sympathy between Vroom’s twoeyes. With Vroom’s left eye, now physically mine,I was beholding that which Vroom beheld with hisright. The magnitude of the discovery and its potentialitiesstunned me. I dared not tell ProfessorMalhausen for fear of being thought insane. Forthe same reason I have held the secret untilnow.

On the second day of double-vision my left eyerevealed a gorgeous picture of the port and city ofAlexandria—and of a woman. Evidently she andVroom were standing close together at the ship’s rail.I saw on her face an expression that I had never seenon woman’s before. I thrilled with exultation.Then suddenly I went cold. The look was forVroom, not for me. I had found a love that was notmine, a love to which every atom of my being responded,and it was to be my portion to behold onmy loved one’s face, by day and by night, the manifestationof her love for another man.

From that moment on I lived in the world thatwas revealed to me by my left eye. My right wasemployed only when I set down in my diary theimpressions and experiences of this other life. Therecord was chiefly of the woman, whose name I neverknew. The final entry, unfinished, describes theevidences that I saw of her marriage to Vroom in theEnglish Garrison Church at Cairo. I could writeno more. A jealousy so sane and so well founded, soamply fed by new fuel every new moment that it wasthe acme of torture, possessed me. I was trulyinsane, but with a true vision, and to me was giventhe weapon of extreme cunning that insanity provides.I convinced Professor Malhausen that myleft eye was sightless, and by simulating calmnessand strength I gained my discharge from the hospital.The next day I sailed from Bremen for Port Said.

Upon reaching Cairo I had, naturally, no difficultyin finding my way through the already familiarstreets, to the Eden Palace Hotel, and to the verydoor of Vroom’s apartment, overlooking the EsbekiehGardens. Without plan, save for the instant sightof her I loved, I opened the door. Vroom stood therefacing me, a revolver in his hand.

“You did not consider,” he said calmly, “that myleft eye also is sympathetic; that I have followedevery movement of yours; that I am acquainted withyour errand through the entries in your diary, whichI read line by line as you wrote. You shall not seeher. I have sent her far away.”

I rushed upon him in a frenzy. His revolverclicked but missed fire. I bore him backward overa divan, my hands at his throat. His eyes grew bigas I strangled him. And into my left eye came avision of my own face, as Vroom saw it, distorted bythe lust of murder. He died with that picture fixedin his own eye, and upon the retina of the eye thatonce was his, and is now mine, that fearful pictureof my face was fixed, to remain until my death.

I wear a black patch over my left eye. I dare notlook upon the horror that it hides.

A SHIPBOARD ROMANCE

By Lewis Allen

“Isn’t that young Griggs and Miss Deering?”asked the captain, peering down from thebridge at a dark spot silhouetted against the moonlitsea.

“Yes, sir,” replied the second officer.

“It’s the speediest shipboard romance I’ve everseen in all my thirty years aboard a liner,” remarkedthe captain, smiling.

“I understand they never saw or heard of eachother until they met at dinner, Tuesday. Have youtalked much with them, sir? I see they sit next youat table.”

“Oh, yes, that’s true. Why, on the second dinnerout he complained because there was no jewelleryshop aboard. She looked as happy as a kid with alollypop, and blushed.”

“Whew! Engaged within forty-eight hours! Goingsome! I suppose they’ll be married by the Americanconsul before they’ve been ashore an hour.”

“Not a bit of doubt of it,” grinned the captain.“True love at sight in this case, all right. Well, theyhave my blessings. I fell in love with my Missusthe same way, but we waited three months. I’llgo below. What’s she making?”

“Nineteen, sir. Good-night.”

Two hours later there came a terrific explosionaway down in the hold amongst the cargo. The shiptrembled and listed.

“Women and children first! No danger! Timeenough for all!” shouted the officers, as the franticpassengers surged about the life-boats.

She was going down rapidly by her stern. Therecame another explosion, this from the boilers.

“All women and children off?” bellowed the captain.

“Aye, aye, sir,” answered the second officer.

“Married men next!” shouted the captain as themen began scrambling into the boats. A score ofmen paused, bowed, and stepped back. YoungGriggs tore his way through and started to clamberinto the boat.

“Damn you, for a coward!” cursed the secondofficer, dragging him back.

Young Griggs yanked away and again clutchedat the boat. This time the second officer struck himsquare in the face and he went down.

The boatload of married men was merely cutaway, so low was the ship in the water. Then camea lurch, and the waves closed over the great ship.

The next evening the Associated Press sent out,from its St. Louis office, this paragraph:

“Among those lost was H. G. Griggs, juniorpartner of the Wells & Griggs Steel Co. He leavesa wife and infant son in this city. It is feared Mrs.Griggs will not recover from the shock.”

THE COWARD

By Philip Francis Cook

Johnson stopped at the edge of the clearingand looked carefully at the hut. A few yardsback, where the spring crossed the trail, there weretracks of a woman’s shoe-pack. It was countrywhere one didn’t live long without the habit of noticingthings. The tracks were light, mostly toes, andfar apart for so small a foot. Johnson knew nowoman travelled north so fast, into the wilderness,and without a pack, at that, for diversion, so he hadsidestepped from the trail, silently slipped off histump-line, and circled to the edge of the clearing,about a dozen yards from where the trail struck it.There in the shadow of the pines he searched theclearing with his eyes. No sign of life.

The door of the hut was shut, but a couple ofboards had been knocked off one of the windowopenings. The tall grass was trampled toward thespring. Over to the right was a wreck of a birch,where some one had been cutting firewood. Nothingespecially alarming, but Johnson was not popularand a few early experiences had made him cautious.He stood there, silent, for perhaps fifteen minutes,before he started for the door. There was still nosound, and he stepped inside, gun in hand.

A rusty little yacht stove, a few shelves, and a rudetable were all the cookroom contained. Beyondwas the bunkroom with a large double-decked bunkagainst one wall, and opposite it the window. Johnsonwent on in.

In the lower bunk lay the body of a man with ahunting knife sticking in his breast. He lay staringat the ceiling with a rather silly smile, as though hehad been grinning, and death had come too quicklyfor it to fade.

“MacNamara—— My God!”

Johnson was unnerved. It was not often that mendie by the knife in the North country. Then a greatload seemed to leave his shoulders, for this dead manhad sworn, not three weeks before, to shoot him atsight—and Johnson was known to be a coward. Nomore need he sleep with an eye open, or slip intotowns at night. MacNamara, thank God, wasdead.

The dead man’s pack was in the other bunk, andscattered around the room were hairpins, a smallrhinestone ring, and a few other feminine trinkets.“Woman!” said Johnson—and then he saw the note.It was scrawled on the cover torn from an old magazine.It read:

“Ed, you’ll find this sure. Mac was going to layfor you and pot you at the White Rocks. I couldn’tfind you, so I promised to come here to Carmels withhim. When he climbed in the bunk I give it to him—thedamned fool!”

It was unsigned.

The sun was very near the western hilltop. Johnsonwent to the woods and returned with his pack;he dropped it near the stove in the cookroom.Then he burned the note. Next he took a smallbag of parched corn out of his pack and concealed init the woman’s little things, and put the bag in hisshirt. There remained only one thing to do. Withoutlooking at the dead man’s face he drew the knifeout of his breast and forced his own into the wound.The woman’s knife he took to the door and hurledfar out into the woods.

There wasn’t much daylight left. He closed thedoor quietly and started for the trail, north.

“I’ll have to hurry,” said Johnson.

THE HEART OF A BURGLAR

By Jane Dahl

Noiselessly the burglar drew his great bulkthrough the window, deposited his kit of toolson the floor, and lowered the sash behind him. Thenhe stopped to listen. No sound broke the midnightstillness. Stealthily he flashed his lanternaround the room in search of objects of value. Hisquick ear caught the sound of a door opening andhurried footsteps in the upper hall. Instantly he adjusteda black mask and sprang behind an open door.Pistol in hand, every faculty alert, he waited. Heheard the soft thud of bare feet on the padded stairs,then laboured breathing nearby.

As the electric light was switched on, brilliantlyilluminating the room, he gripped his revolver andstepped from behind the door.

“Hands up!” he cried in a hoarse whisper. Thenhe fell back with a short, raucous laugh. He waspointing the revolver at a frightened little mite of agirl shivering before him in her thin, white nightgown.The small, terrified face touched him strangely, and,placing his pistol in his pocket, he said, not unkindly:

“There, little girl, don’t be so scared—I’m notgoing to hurt you. Just you be real still so as not todisturb the others until I get through and get away,and you shan’t be hurt.”

The child looked at him much as she would an obstaclein her path, and attempted to rush past him.He grabbed her and held her tight.

“You little vixen!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t I tellyou to keep still?”

“But I’ve got to telephone,” gasped the child,struggling to free herself. “Just let me telephoneand then you can do what you like with me—but Ican’t wait—I’ve got to telephone right away.”And she made another effort to reach the telephoneon the wall.

Again the burglar laughed. “It’s very likely I’lllet you telephone for the police. No, missy, youcan’t work that on me. I guess I’ll have to tie andgag you after all.”

Fresh terror found its way into the child’s face,and, for the first time the burglar realized that he wasnot the cause of it. She was not afraid of him. Shefought and scratched him like a young tigress, strivingto free herself, and when she realized how powerlessshe was in his strong arms she burst intotears.

“Oh! My brother is dying,” she cried, “and Iwant to telephone the doctor. He has convulsionsand mamma doesn’t know what to do—and youwon’t let me telephone the doctor!”

At the word “convulsions” the burglar went white—hishands fell nervelessly to his sides—the child was free.

“Call the doctor, quick,” he said, placing the childon the chair in front of the telephone. “What roomare they in?”

“End of the hall, upstairs,” responded the child,with the receiver already off the hook.

In three bounds the burglar was up the steps.He made for the light which shone through a half-opendoor down the hall, striving to formulate someexplanation to offer the mother for his presence inthe house. When he gently pushed open the doorhe saw that none was needed—the woman beforehim was oblivious to all the world. Dishevelledand distracted, she sat rocking to and fro, clutchingto her breast the twitching body of a wee boy.Piteously she begged him not to die—not to leavehis poor mummy.

Quietly the burglar came to her side and gentlyloosened her clasp.

“Give me the baby,” he said in a low voice. “Hewill be better on the bed.”

Dumbly, with unseeing eyes, she looked at him,and surrendered the child.

“He is dying,” she moaned—“dying—oh, mylittle, little man!”

“No, he’s not,” said the burglar. But as he lookedat the wide-open, glassy eyes and blue, pinched faceof the child he had little faith in his own words.

He placed the baby upon the bed, and turning tothe mother, said in an authoritative voice:

“You must brace up now and save your child—doyou understand? I can save him, but you musthelp me, and we must be quick—quick, do youunderstand?”

A glimmer of comprehension seemed to penetrateher palsied brain.

“Yes, yes!” she said. “What shall I do?”

“Heat a kettle of water, quick. Bring it in hisbathtub—and bring some mustard, too. Hurry.”

Impatiently the mother was off before the last“hurry” was hurled at her. Now that a ray of hopewas offered, and something definite to do, she was allaction.

Reverently the burglar removed the baby’s nightrobe,and, covering the little body with a blanket,he rubbed the legs and arms and back with his hugehands—very, very gently, for fear their roughnesswould irritate the delicate skin.

In a short time the mother was back with the hotmustard bath. Together they placed the baby inthe tub. His little body relaxed—the glassy eyesclosed—he breathed regularly—he was asleep.

“Thank God,” breathed the burglar, fervently,though awkwardly, as though such words werestrange to his lips.

“He is sleeping,” cried the mother rapturously.“He will live!”

As the mother was drying the little body with softtowels the burglar said brokenly:

“I had a little boy once—about his size—twoyears old. He died in convulsions because hismother didn’t know what to do and the doctor didn’tget there in time.”

A sob of ready sympathy came from the heart ofthe woman.

“And his poor mother?” she asked. “Where isshe?”

“She soon followed—she seemed to think the littlefellow would need her over there,” he replied in atear-choked voice.

Half ashamed, he ran his sleeve across his eyesto remove the moisture there. The woman’s tearssplashed on the quietly sleeping infant in her lap.

Both were startled by the clamorous ringing of thedoorbell.

“The doctor!” cried the man, suddenly brought toa realization of his position.

The woman looked at him, and for the first timeshe really saw him; for the first time the strangenessof an unknown man in the house in the middle of thenight was apparent to her. From his face her glancewandered to the chair where the burglar had thrownhis mask and tools.

“Yes,” he said, answering her look, “I’m a burglar.I heard your husband was out of town, and I cameto rob you. You can call the police, now.”

“No,” the woman interrupted. “Go into thenext room and wait until the doctor leaves. I wantto help you to a better way of living than this, if Ican.”

After the doctor had departed the woman wentinto the next room. The burglar was not there.Going downstairs she found the drawers ransackedand all her valuables gone. On the table was ascrap of paper. On it was written:

“Thank you, madam, for your offer, but I’m usedto this life now and don’t want to change.”

The woman thought of the sleeping baby upstairs,and a tender smile came to her lips. That robberywas not reported to the police.

THE REWARD

By Herbert Heron

No one knew just how popular Cobbe was tillDick Walling shot him. It was Cobbe’sfault, but Walling didn’t wait to explain. Likeothers, he didn’t know the degree of the deceased’spopularity but he had a fair idea, and left Montereyas fast as his horse could take him. The animal wasthe speediest in the county.

He stopped at Parl’s on his way up the valley.Parl greeted him cordially. For half an hour theytalked. The ’phone rang.

“That’s for me. I told Cobbe I’d stop here,” andwith that Walling took down the receiver.

“Hello! This Mr. Parl’s. Oh, yes, you want me.What? Well, I’m damned! Not a sign. I’ll watch.Sure. What? How much? Whew!” He endedin a long whistle, and hung up.

“I’ll be sliding along now.” He shook hands,mounted, and rode toward Monterey till Parlshut the door. Then he circled, and went on upthe valley. A thousand dollars reward, dead oralive! He knew now how popular Cobbe was.

They hadn’t even waited till the sheriff had failedto get him.

There are few ranches above Parl’s, and these haveno telephones, so he rode by, unconcerned. Towardmidnight he came to a place owned by a girl and herbrother. He had loved the girl, but decided that shedidn’t care for him. The brother liked him, though,and he could get some food for his stay in the mountainstill things quieted down and he could leave thecountry.

The brother came to the door, pale and troubled.“He can’t have heard——” The thought was dispelledby the sudden relief on the boy’s face.

“Thank God, it’s you, Dick! Mary’s dying,and——” Walling followed him into the roomwhere the girl lay, high in fever. “I couldn’t leaveher alone, to get the doctor, but now you can go——”Something in Walling’s manner stopped him. “I’llgo, and you can stay with her. Are you on Firefly?I’ll take him. It’ll be quicker.” Before Wallingcould think what to say, the boy was gone. He wentto call him back. The girl moaned. What couldhe do? He couldn’t refuse this duty fallen on himfrom the sky, even if the girl were a stranger; and thiswas the woman he loved, ... but she wasdying.

“Dick!... Oh, Dick!... Dick!...”The voice from the bed startled him. He wentsoftly over to see what she wanted. In her eyesthere was no recognition: she had spoken in delirium.

She loved him! But the rush of joy was sweptaway by the sight of her suffering. He bathed herface and hands. By and by the fever seemed less.She passed into a light sleep.

He made some coffee. While he drank it he hadtime to think of himself. When the doctor camefrom Monterey.... The doctor would know,and....

“I must clear out when I hear them coming.”Then another thought forced its way in: “Go now,while you’ve still a good lead. Go now!”

He went to the stable, saddled a horse, and ledhim out. Then the face of the girl came over him.He left the horse tied to the gate, and went back.She was sleeping still, but brokenly. He couldn’t go.

It was a two hours’ ride to Parl’s, where the boycould ’phone.... If the doctor left Montereyimmediately, he’d get to the house about five. It wasnow nearly two.

The girl slept. Walling knew it was the criticaltime. If she woke better, she would probably recover.The thought was sweet to him. If she wentagain into delirium.... He sat still, thinking.The hours passed very slowly.

Suddenly Walling heard a step outside. He hadheard no horse coming. He looked out cautiouslyand saw four men with rifles. Walling co*cked hisrevolver, took down the boy’s rifle from the wall andloaded it. He could account for some—and thosewho were left might depart. It would be a battle,anyway. There was no use being taken alive.Better be shot than hanged.

The leader made a signal. Walling raised his gun.And then—Mary stirred. Her battle, like his, wasstill undecided. If she slept on, and woke refreshed,she would get well. If not....

Walling laid down his rifle and stepped outside.The men covered him. As he was taken down theroad to the waiting horses, the doctor and the girl’sbrother drove up.

“She’s asleep,” said Walling.

The boy showed no surprise—he had heard thestory from the doctor—but his voice was pitiful:

“Why didn’t you?... I didn’t know....Oh, my God! ... and you stayed ... whenyou could have got away!” He turned to the menwith a hopeless look. “It’s my fault!” he cried.“He stayed with my sister. I thought she was dying.He didn’t tell me he couldn’t stay! He’d be safe inthe mountains by now.... Oh, my God!”

The leader glanced at his companions. They werestern men, but they were moving uneasily. The situationwas unbearable.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since about midnight,” answered Walling, thoughhe couldn’t see what difference it made. The leadertook out his watch.

“Twelve minutes past five now. Say, we’ve beentwelve minutes getting you, that leaves five hours.We’ll stay here and rest our horses. At twelveminutes past ten we’ll start again. That suit you,boys?”

“What do you mean?” asked Walling.

“I mean you still have your five hours’ start; youhaven’t lost anything by staying with the sick girl.”

Walling went back to the house. Mary was stillsleeping. He touched her hand. It seemed cooler.

“Tell her I’ll write—if I can.”

“Good-bye,” said the boy.

As he went out Walling saw the men unsaddlingtheir horses. He took off his hat to them as he rodeaway into the mountains.

THE FIRST GIRL

By Louise Pond Jewell

They had been talking of the Marsdens, whohad just gone down with the torpedoed ship;and among the kindly and affectionate things saidabout them, the exceptional happiness of their marriedlife was mentioned. Some one spoke of this asbeing rather surprising, as they had married so latein life; then, naturally enough, another remarkedwhat a different world it would be if every man hadbeen accepted by the first girl he had proposed to.And he added, that sometimes he thought that firstchoice was one of truer instinct, less tinctured withthe world’s sophistication than any later one. Thebachelor contributed with a laugh that that first girlhad one advantage over the wife, no matter howperfect the latter—that she remained the ideal. Andthen, little by little, they came to the point of agreeingto tell, then and there, in the elegance and dignityof the clubroom suited to the indulgence of their latemiddle years, each one about that first girl, and whatshe had meant to him.

The Explorer began.

“I met her in the Adirondacks, and knew her onlyone summer. After that, I couldn’t see her just as afriend—and she was unwilling to be anything else tome. So, all my life, I’ve associated her with thewoods and lakes, with the sincerity and wholesomenessof the great Outdoors. She had the freedom ofDiana, and her lack of self-consciousness. I neversaw her except roughly clad, but she always suggestedthat line of Virgil—‘She walked the goddess.’

“She was strong and lithe as a boy, could climbmountains, row, play golf and tennis with any of us;and what a good sport. She never fussed over gettingcaught in drenching rains, being bruised andtorn by rocks and thorns; and once when a smallparty of us lost our way, and had to spend the nighton a lonely mountainside within sound of wolvesand catamounts, her gayety made a ‘lark’ of it. Shecould drive horses with a man’s steady hands; sheknew the birds by name, and all the plants and treesthat grew within miles, and she was familiar with thetracks and habits of all the small creatures of theforest. To me she was—simply wonderful, and, Iconfess, always has been.”

“What became of her?” they asked.

“Later, she married—a man who didn’t know apine from a palm! I always wondered....”

The Diplomat came next.

“That sort,” he said, “is a little too independentand upstanding to belong to my type of woman. Therough, tanned skin, the strong, capable hands—big,probably—the woolen skirt and blouse—they’ll dovery well in a girl chum, for a summer. But when itcomes to a wife, one’s demands are different. Thegirl I wanted first—and I’ve never forgotten her; shewas a queen—I knew during my first winter in Washington.You talk of Diana; I prefer Venus—whollyfeminine, but never cloying. She was the kind thatlooks best in thin, clinging things. I remember yeta shimmering green and silver ‘creation’ she wore atthe Inaugural Ball. She didn’t take hikes with methrough scratchy forests, but she’d dance all nightlong, and her little feet would never tire. She didn’thandle guns or tillers, but you should have seen herpretty fingers deftly managing the tea things in adrawing-room, of a winter’s afternoon, or playing soft,enchanting airs on the piano at twilight; or, for thematter of that, placing a carnation in a man’s button-hole—Ican feel her doing it yet! She probablydidn’t know birds, but, by George! she knew men!And there wasn’t one of us young fellows that winterthat wouldn’t gladly have had her snare him. Only—thatwas the one thing she didn’t do!”

“Didn’t she ever do any snaring?”

“Oh—finally. And—the pity of it!—a man whocouldn’t dance, and had no use for Society! Sometimes....”

“How about you?” the third member of the groupwas asked, an Engineer of national reputation. “Wasthere a first best girl for you, too?”

“Guilty!” he replied. “But my account will soundprosaic after these others. You know, my early daysweren’t given to expensive summer camps, nor toWashington ballrooms. I made my own waythrough college, and ‘vacations’ meant the hardestwork of the year. But when I was a Senior, all thedrudgery was transformed. Paradise wouldn’t havebeen in it with that little co-educational college campusand library and chapel and classrooms; for Ifound her. Just a classmate she was. You tell howyour girls dressed; I never noticed how she dressed;it might have been in shimmering green and silver,and it might have been in linsey-woolsey, for all Iknew. But—she could think, and she could talk!We discussed everything together, from philosophyand the evolution of history to the affairs of the day.I spent every hour with her that I could, and in allsorts of places. There’s a spot in the stackroom ofthe old library that I always visit yet, when I go back—becauseof her. I’ve never known a woman sincewith such a mind, such breadth and clearness; andit showed in her face—the face of Athena, not Dianaor Venus! I believed that with such a companion atmy side, to turn to in every perplexity, I could makemy life worth while. But she—saw it differently.”

“Is she a feminist now?” slyly inquired theExplorer.

“She, too, married, after a while—a fine fellow,but—anything but a student. I can’t help....”

“Mine,” said the fourth, the Socialist, “will soundleast dramatic of all—though I assure you the timewas dramatic enough for me. You talk about yourgoddesses; my pedestal held just a sweet human girl,—anurse, serving her first year at the hospital, thattime we had the smash-up in ’80. And you talk ofbeauty, and style, and brain; but with me it isn’tof a pretty face or graceful form I think when I recallthat magic time; and least of all is it of any intellectualprowess. I’m not sure whether she knewthe difference between physics and metaphysics, orwhether she’d ever heard of a cosine. But she wasendowed with the charm of charms in a woman—sympathy.She would listen by the hour while Ipoured out to her my young hopes and ambitions; Icould tell her all the dreams a young fellow cherishesmost deeply—and would die of mortification if evenhis best friend guessed at their existence. She alwaysunderstood; and though she talked little herself, shehad the effect of making me appear at my very best.I felt I could move the world if she would just standby and watch. But in spite of her kindness andgentleness she turned me down. Many times I’vequestioned....”

“That was all right for a sick boy,” commentedthe Diplomat, “but for a wife, a girl like Alison——”

“‘Alison,’” echoed the Engineer, involuntarily,“a nice name, anyway; that was her name.”

“Why——” the Explorer mused—“that’s an oddcoincidence; so was hers—Alison Forbes.”

“Alison Forbes”—breathed the Socialist—“AlisonForbes—Marsden!”

And suddenly there was a silence, and the fourfriends looked strangely at one another. For theyknew in that moment that there had been in thoselives of theirs left far behind, not four first girls,but one—seen with different eyes.

A SOPHISTRY OF ART

By Eugene Smith

On the station platform in Quanah, one morning,I stopped “waiting for the train” for amoment to watch a man and woman painting on alarge signboard across the way. The inevitable wiseacrein the little group of travelling men explainedthat they were really talented artists, a man andwife.

The husband had contracted—er—a throat affectionin their studio back East, and physicians hadordered him to the open air and high, dry altitude ofwest Texas. So they had come, and were earningexpenses, making a series of paintings on signboards,advertisem*nts of a lumber corporation, throughoutthe Panhandle country.

I walked out across the tracks near where theslightly stooped husband, in overalls, and his littlewife, looking very attractive in her neat apron andsunbonnet, were at work.

There was a pathos about the thing that wentstraight to my heart. The loyal little woman andthe stricken husband there in the clear, crisp morningair and sunshine, earnestly striving, undismayed.Something—a common sympathy—thrilled me.

And now the painting seemed artistic. The generalidea was a lovely cottage home (built, of course, withOakley’s lumber, as was intimated). But the cottagewas not glaringly new—rather mellowed a bit withtime, it seemed, and was the more homelike for it.

In the front stood a sweet little woman, lookingdown a winding road, and in the expression on herface, painted by the real little woman, was joyoushope—almost certainty—of seeing the husband comingdown the road to her and home, after his day’swork.

The colours of sunset added to the beauty of theconception, which altogether made desirable thehaving such a little wife to wait for one each eveningat such a little cottage home. And that was thepurpose of it; when you thought of home-building,you also thought of Oakley’s lumber.

The painters were happy in their work—happy astwo birds building a nest. The wife, seated on herlittle stepladder, with palette and brushes, wasdeftly pointing up the vines about the windows, as allgood wives should. She hummed something of atune, now and then looking gayly down at him, wholaughed back up at her from his work on the windingroad and distant trees.

A courteous inquiry and my being an Easterner,was a passport into their confidences. “We onlypaint a little while in the cool of the morning andafternoon of each day,” he was saying to my remarkson the weather. “It’s dangerous to lay on muchpaint at a time,” he continued, “for the sand ruinsit.”

“Oh, if it wasn’t for the sand storms!” she chimedin. “But we love the country, and the folks, too;they seem so much a part of the out of doors, youknow. Though we hope—we expect—to go backhome before long.” She was looking fondly downat him.

“I had a little trouble with my throat,” he explaineddepreciatively. “But this western air hasjust about put me in the running again. It’s wonderful.”I could see the thankfulness in his eyes, ashe smiled up at his companion. I didn’t blame himfor loving life.

In the smoking-car of the belated train we travellingmen discussed the case of the painters.

“It’s only his throat that bothers him a bit,” Idenied with some heat. “Besides, he is nearly recovered,and looks it.”

“Yes, I know; that’s characteristic. It’s whatthey all say when they begin to perk up in a change ofclimate,” persisted the Pessimist in the crowd.“But the average is 100 to 1 against them. I’ve seentoo many lungers out here in this country.”

Damn a Pessimist with his statistics, anyhow!

Several months later I made another trip throughthe Texas Panhandle country, and at each towngoing up from Quanah toward Amarillo I saw one ofthe Oakley lumber advertisem*nts prominently displayedon large bill-boards. They were all the same,like the first one; that is, if your glance was but a passingone. But to me, who had grown interested inArt and things artistic, there was a difference in thepaintings. Yes, a difference! I wasn’t so sure atfirst. “It’s just imagination,” I pooh-poohed theidea. But later on——

Anyhow, I soon found myself going directly fromthe station, on each arrival, to look up the Oakleybill-board. It was never hard to find. Somehow,I just got to wondering—worrying—about the welfareof the young husband, the artist, I had met.

In the first few of the paintings I found portrayedall the life and glad hope and expectancy that I hadseen some time before in the one at Quanah.

Then came the inevitable. Strange as it was, Iknew that I had been expecting—dreading—it;though rather in the gossip around the hotels thanin the pictures themselves, where I really found it.That was the only surprise.

I remember, in Clarendon—the first town afteryou get up on the Cap-rock of the Staked Plains—thereI saw—or imagined—it first. One is everinstinctively wary of eyesight in that land of mirages.

And in each succeeding village and town as Itravelled westward and upward, I felt it—saw it—thereon the bill-boards, as if painted in half-unconsciouslyby the artist: a faint trace of querulousdoubt in the face of the little, waiting wife, spirit ofmelancholia lying dull in the picture.

As I was getting out of Goodnight one afternoon—alittle ahead of time—in the automobile that dailymakes the round trip to Claude, we drove past theOakley signboard. I was in a hurry to get on toClaude to see the trade before night, and be readyto leave for Amarillo the next morning. But forgettingall this at the sight of the picture on the bill-board,I asked the chauffeur to stop a minute beforeit.

She was still smiling, the little wife waiting there infront of their home for her husband’s return, but thesmile was hollow and lifeless. I knew—could see—shewas full of uneasiness and dread, and was onlysmiling to keep up her courage.

“That’s quite a lumber advertisem*nt—there,” Iventured. The chauffeur was drinking water fromthe canvas canteen.

“Uh-huh!” he gulped. “I seen ’em painting it.”

“A man and woman?”

“Well, yes; but the woman did most of it. I sawher there every day for some time. Once in a whilethe man—her husband, I guess—would be tryin’ tohelp paint, but he was all in. You could tell it, theway he looked.”

I winced at his words. So here it was, confirmed,what I had been hoping was only imagination. Confoundthat Pessimist!

“They must have painted a good many of thesesigns; I see them everywhere,” I continued, in a disinterestedmanner.

“There’s another’n over at Claude,” yawned thechauffeur. “I think I remember hauling them peopleover in the car.”

“Over to Claude?”

“Yes—I fergit. I never pay much attention tothe folks I haul,” he remarked casually, eying me ina bored way.

Then we drove on.

A day later I arrived in Amarillo from Claude,glad, for it was my trip’s end. I started walking uptownfrom the station to stretch my legs, besides—well,there across the street, on a vacant lot, was theOakley bill-board, and the picture. The late afternoonsunlight fell full across it.

I looked at the woman in the picture, whom I hadcome to know for the real little wife, the artist,painting from her heart. She stood smiling, but behindthe smile I read doubt and dread realized, andhope—almost—dying hard. For the smile was buta poor attempt, and the joyous expectancy I sawshining in her eyes months before at Quanah was notthere now. There was a subtle air of unmistakabledespair about her. Her very frailty and dependencyand loyal effort to keep her smile wrung from me aquick sympathy.

I turned back to the drab routine of life sadly,and picking up my grips, saw the Pessimist standingon the sidewalk with his detestable knowing look.There behind him came the Wiseacre. It was one ofthose little coincidences of a drummer’s life which sooften find the same parties together again.

“I was just looking at another one of the pictures—thelast one, I guess,” I said suddenly, feeling unashamedof my concern and sadness.

“Last one!” exclaimed the Wiseacre, full of readyinformation. “Why, man! That’s their first one.Here’s where they began last year. I saw them inSt. Paul three weeks ago, happy as wrens.”

THE MESSAGE IN THE AIR

By B. R. Stevens

The typewriters were clicking busily in the place.Every one seemed honestly, industriously atwork.

Looking out of the aperture prepared for the purpose,Lance Allison saw nothing suspicious. YetMonsieur the General had been so sure that informationwas leaking, in some mysterious way, from thisvery room.

Lance had been surprised that the fame of anAmerican detective should have made any impressionin France: more surprised when the General, onlearning his identity, had personally solicited his aid.

Sitting with ears as well as eyes alert, his quickbrain began to dissociate the sound of the typewritersone from another.

That tall girl in black—the one with the pale,pale face, he amended in his thought, so many,alas! were in black—that girl wrote with an evenmonotony in consonance with her expressionlesscountenance.

The pert little lass in blue seemed to write eachword with an emphasis, for her spacing was noticeableeach time.

And so it went, each typist showing some markedpeculiarity as his ear picked out the particular rhythm.

His examination had reached the last one, andfor the first time he observed its operator closely....Something familiar and different about thatgirl.... Not her clothes, nor her coiffure—nothinghe could put a finger on.

Then he caught the click of her machine. Differentfrom any of the others, it seemed to jerk out thewords and syllables with amazing irregularity, dwellingon one letter, slighting another, pausing between.Here, too, was something hauntingly familiar.

In the meantime men came and went, and Lance’swatchful eye followed the slightest movement madeby each newcomer. At any moment some signalmight give him a clue to the disclosures which theGeneral declared seemed to be made daily.

A timid country lad entered, wiping the dew ofembarrassment from his brow. After some awkwardhesitation he conferred with one of the clerks,evidently stumbling and halting in his inquiries.

No word of the colloquy reached Lance’s ear, buthe suddenly became aware of a message in the air—clear,deliberate, reiterated!

Fifty thousand English left Paris this morning.Destination, Arras.

An hour later the girl who somehow seemed differentwas confronted in the private quarters ofMonsieur the General by Lance Allison, Americandetective. Bright-eyed and defiant, she smoulderedunder the guard’s restraint.

“You are an American!” There was curt reproachin the detective’s tone.

“Well, what of that?” she snapped.

“How came you a traitor to the Allies?”

Then, as she did not answer, he bowed to Monsieurthe General. “This girl gave out her information toa young clod-hopper to-day. More than likely someother one yesterday and the day before, or to himin a different disguise. At any rate, they were menwho could spell English—or American,” he addedwhimsically.

“But how? How, Monsieur le detective? Heapproached her not—nor even looked toward her.”

“No,” smiled Lance, “but he had his ear co*cked inher direction.” He turned to the seething girl.“Now, make a clean breast of it, Miss. You are donefor. What evil spirit prompted treachery in oneborn under the Stars and Stripes?”

Suddenly the smouldering fire burst into the flameof speech.

“’Twas Jean Armand, the low-down dog! Pretendedto love me—me! Kissed me—took my hard-earnedmoney for his own comfort. And then—theday he went to the front—he married Elise, a stupid,wax-faced doll!... Then I swore to betrayFrance as he had betrayed me—and I have done it.”

“But how?” The General’s question was addressedto the detective.

“By the clicks of her typewriter, Monsieur. Shepractised a peculiar jerky touch so that it would becomeunnoted. Then when a spy came in—was thehand on the heated brow the signal, I wonder?—shetalked to him by the dots and dashes of the Morsecode with as much clearness as if the words werebreathed into his ear.”

“Yes, and it took an American to find me out,”she glowed with strange exultation. “These conceitedFrenchies were all at sea.... And—Jean,the husband of the fat Elise, fell yesterday undera charge from troops I sent to meet his regiment—so—Idon’t care what you do to me, now. Mywork is done!”

IN A GARDEN

By Catherine Runscomb

Dick Halcomb stood waiting on the shadystation platform. A little groom appeared,suddenly and breathlessly.

“Sorry to be late, sir,” he gasped. “Mrs. Paigeand Miss Laura have gone to Mrs. Vingut’s gardenparty, and left word for you to join them.”

“Damn!” muttered Halcomb. He had had a hardday in the city, and felt quite unequal to dragginghimself about, wilted and irritated, any longer.Really, he considered, settling back into the motor,he was getting pretty fed up with this insatiablelust of Laura’s. He wondered whether, when theywere married and she was away from her mother, hewould be able to instil in her a more normal enjoymentof her pleasures. He thought, vaguely, of notgoing after all—of awaiting them at the house. Buta vision rose before him of Laura all evening wrappedin her delicate fury of aloofness, something too inhumanlypolite to be called sulking, but of shatteringimport to nerves on edge—and he decidedgrimly that he was too hot, too tired. In the lastanalysis it was less trouble to go to the gardenparty.

By this time they were humming smoothly up tothe Vinguts’ gates. The breeze had cooled the heatof his brow, but his thoughts were growing only morefeverish with the passing moments. He halted thechauffeur suddenly: “Let me out here, Lane. I’llwalk up to the house—I need exercise.”

It was pleasant to stroll along the driveway, tostretch his cramped limbs, and absorb at leisure thecareful beauties of the land about him. The lonelygraciousness of tall poplar trees, the low-floweringcrimson of rhododendrons ministered gratefully tohis troubled soul. New satisfaction filled him as hediscovered no people in sight. They must be theother side of the house, on the terraces, he thought,restfully. And then, suddenly, he stopped short,staring.

Just ahead in a clearing was an old Italian fountain,gray stone, carved and mellowed by the centuries,water splashing musically into its basin.Sitting on the edge was a tall young girl, the adolescentgrace of her body showing clear and whitethrough the classic scantness of her shell-pink draperies.Diana herself she might have been, nymph-robedand formed, her chestnut hair bound about bya silver fillet, her long, white legs, uncovered, danglingin the water. He felt a wild certainty that if hespoke she would melt away into the spray of the fountain.And then she turned her head and saw him.

“You are late,” she said, in a very clear, low voicethat merged into the plashing water.

“Yes—I am late,” he stammered. “I wonder... who you are?”

She stared into his eyes with the deep, unconsciousgravity of a child.

“I am Athena,” she answered simply.

“Athena!” he gasped. “Good heavens! Thenyou are a goddess—or a nymph——”

She laughed—and her laughter sounded in his earmore like the fountain than the fountain itself.

“Oh, no,” she reassured him. “We all have Greeknames because they are more beautiful.”

“‘We all’!... Good lord, child, who areyou?”

“Why—I am Athena—one of the Morris Dancers.We came to do our Spring Dance for the party.”

How absurdly simple, he thought. And yet howinsufficiently it explained the wonder of her.

“Why are you here—alone?” he went on. Hecould do nothing but question her. He had to get tothe bottom of her, somehow.

“We’re through dancing—and the people tired me.”

He sat down on the edge of the fountain, and shemoved up beside him, touching him, a divine friendlinessin her deep blue eyes.

“How did they tire you—child?” he asked her gently.

“They are all so artificial—and so conscious. Weare taught how terrible this consciousness of self andsex is. Hellena Morris teaches us that woman is onlyreally beautiful, really strong, when she is quite unconsciousand unstudied.”

He eyed the grave little lecturer amusedly.

“Do you understand all that—Athena?” he ventured.

“Why, yes,” she said. “We are all very intelligent.It’s the wholesome life we lead and the perfectionof our bodies.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“I like you when you laugh,” she told him suddenly.“I like you to throw your head back, and thekind little crinkles round your eyes. When you arenot laughing you look so tired.”

“I am tired,” he admitted; “tired and disillusionedmost of the time. Perhaps it’s my unwholesomelife and imperfect body——”

He watched her, glowing with unreasoning pleasureat her laugh.

“Humour, too!” he cried. “Child, you are wonderful!Tell me about yourself ... everything. Imust know the magic that evolved such perfection.”

“Give me your hand,” she said. “There!...Now you can understand me better.

“There isn’t much to tell. I am seventeen, andhave lived with Hellena since I was eight. There aretwenty of us. She teaches us ... wonderfulthings. Not hideous ‘accomplishments,’ but realthings that will help us—Greek and Latin, and thecare of our bodies, and the worship of beauty. Weall dance, and sing, and play ... and we paint,and write verse, and translate the classics, and readto each other. And we are very strong and hardy,because of our simple lives.... We can beatmen at their own games, although we are so slight.We wear few clothes—nothing to restrain or disfigureus. And when we dance we don’t learn special steps;we express in ourselves whatever we are dancing—Sorrow,or Love, or Spring. See, I will do you partof our Spring Dance.”

She drew her white, dripping legs from the fountainand danced before him—a thing so light and delicate,so breeze-blown and whimsical, so altogether lovely,that his distrust of her humanity returned to himunbearably.

She stopped—a sudden flush of rose and gleam ofwhite—and dropped by his side again.

“And every night,” she went on, as though therehad been no interruption, “we say our creed: ‘I believein beauty—all the beauty that ever has beenand ever will be in the world. And I will worshipand serve it with the highest there is in me—always.’”

He could not speak at first. Then finally, unevenly:“I can’t presume to praise your theory of life, Athena—anymore than I could your dancing. Thank youfor them both.”

She put her hand on his knee, looking at him,whitely, a little wildly.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Dick,” he answered, as simply as she had toldhim hers.

“I should like to marry you—Dick.”

He stared at her.

“So you include marriage—in your scheme of life?”he said dully.

“Yes. Hellena says our marriage laws are terrible,but, while there is no substitute, if we love terriblyit is right to marry. I want to marry you, Dick—tobe with you always, and take the tired look away fromyour eyes.”

“Child!” he cried. “You don’t know me!”

“It doesn’t matter,” she told him quaintly. “Loveoften comes this way.”

He took her hand against his cheek.

“Dear,” he said, “I am thirty-five—a prettyworld-stained and world-weary creature. Your radiantyouth was given you for a better man than I.”

“I love you, Dick, I have never loved before.”

“Athena, I am ... going to marry ...some one else.”

She trembled against him.

“Some one you love?” she cried. “Dick, some oneyou love as you could love me? Is she as youngand beautiful? Could she amuse you, and care foryou, and adore you always—always, as I would?”

“Athena,” he said slowly, “there is no one likeyou ... in the world. I love this ...other girl in my own way. Not as you should beloved, but I’m not fit for such love as that. I can’tmarry you. Athena—dear—don’t make it too hard.”

She sat, silent.

Then: “Dick—would you—kiss me?”

He took her gently in his arms.

In the distance people were moving. There was arustle and a chatter. He let her go suddenly.

“Good-bye—dear,” he said.

“Good-bye—Dick,” she answered dully.

Once he turned back and saw her—drooping, rose-white,against the old gray fountain.

From the gay group ahead Laura detached herself,ruffled and fluttering.

“You’re late enough,” she greeted him.

“Yes,” he said. Then, with an effort: “Have youseen the—Morris Dancers?”

“Oh, yes; we all did. I think they’re rather disgusting—sofew clothes and so much throwing themselvesabout; don’t you?”

“You forget,” he answered slowly, “that I havejust arrived.”

A CLEVER CATCH

By Lloyd F. Loux

She was a thief, and he knew it. He had followedher in her travels, where she posed as asaleswoman. At various times he had thought tocapture her, but she evaded him. He feared he hadtoo little evidence, and she was so wily and so clever.

When he saw her sun-kissed hair and inviting lips,he felt abashed to think of associating crime with her,and so he waited for more conclusive evidence. Hewished to be sure. How embarrassing it would beto accuse her and then find her innocent!

And yet—he knew she was dangerous. Then oneday he realized something odd. He had been robbed!He, the cleverest detective on the force, had beenrobbed! Yes, it was hard to realize. And by thevery woman he was seeking to capture. Yes, heknew she must have done it.

Now he would bring her to justice! But how?He had no actual evidence more than his own conviction.Ah, yes! He would put on a bold front andbluff her. Yes, bluff her! How happy he felt.Why, after he had made this capture he would bethe proudest man on the force. And he could havethe satisfaction of saying he had wrung the confessionfrom her. So he togged up and put on a bold frontand a wise air and started out. But suppose shesuspected his bluff? Oh, horrors! Imagine hischagrin. The wisest man on the force, and made aplaything of by a baby of a woman! But he wasstarted, and only cowards turn back. Suffice it for usto know that he succeeded and escorted her to thenearest magistrate’s office, and she confessed! Yes,and he had the satisfaction of hearing her take oathto the confession. Then the magistrate appointedhim to be her keeper for life.

The case was closed with the best wishes of themagistrate.

STRICTLY BUSINESS

By Lincoln Steffens

“There’s an extra, a Christmas girl downstairs,that I think you’ll want to keep; she’s aworker, but——”

The big store manager looked up at the tall, primNew England woman who was the head of his employmentbureau, and he understood. But he’s abrute.

“But?” he insisted.

“Her references aren’t good.”

“Not good?” he said. “You mean they ain’tgood people?”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “they’re good people; they’revery good people, but——”

“But?”

“They prefer not to speak, for or against.”

“I see,” he growled. “A case for bad people.Send her up to me.”

And up came the case, another Puritan, slim, alive,afire.

“I know,” she began, “I know what you’re goingto say; every word of it. I’m fired, but, first, I musthear a lecture; the same old lecture. So fire away,but cut it short.”

“Won’t you be seated?” he said politely.

“Thanks,” she mocked.

He rose, and, with a chivalrous bow, begged her to“Please be seated.”

“No,” she declared decidedly, “I’ll take it standing,so I can get out if I don’t like——”

“Sit down,” he bellowed.

She sat.

He stood glaring at her. “Think I’d let you standthere lecturing and judging me?” he growled. Andhe lectured and judged her. Then he, too, sat.

“How do you know what I was going to say?” hedemanded.

“Because you all say the same thing,” she flashed;“everywhere I work. They tell me I’m bad, so I’mdischarged, but they all give me that lecture on howto be good—out of a job.” She named places shehad worked: stores where the managers and the conditionswere notorious. “They gave it to me atFreeman’s,” she sneered, “and,” she jeered, “at theOne Price Stores! Everywhere I get it, and notonly from you bosses. I see the other girls catch onto my story, and, with looks at me, pass it on.‘Poor Thing,’ they whisper and, then, of course, thePoor Thing is fired.”

She didn’t look like a Poor Thing. She lookedlike a very Brave Thing to this manager of women,but he felt, with his man’s intuition, the despair thatwas washing her courage away. So he was kind.

“How old is the child?” he asked brutally.

“Five.”

“Who takes care of it while you’re at work?”

“Mother.”

“And you support all three?”

“Yes, and,” she blazed, “you needn’t worry aboutthat. You fire away. I’ll make out, somehow.Only don’t, don’t tell me I’m bad again. I knowthat, too. Don’t I tell it to myself every hour, everyday, and, if I forget it for one little hour, doesn’tsome one remind me?”

He was afraid she’d break, and he didn’t want herto; not her. “Too proud, too brave.”

“You needn’t worry about me, either,” he said.“This is a business house, strictly business. Nosentiment, and no scruples. We’re here to makemoney, and we’re on the lookout for women who’llwork and work hard for us. We don’t mind a littlething like a little child. Fact is, a little——”

She was lifting from her chair.

“Which is it,” he asked roughly, “a boy, or——?”

“A girl,” she said, and she dropped back.

“The fact is,” he resumed, “a little girl at homemakes the mother work harder in the store. Andthat’s the report on you. They say you’re a hardworker, so I’d like to keep you on, regular, forlife.”

She lifted again.

“But——” he said.

“But,” she collapsed.

“I don’t see,” he said, “how you can work hard,regular, if you go on telling yourself that lie everyhour, every day; that you’re bad.”

He got up, huffily. “How bad are you, anyway?How good you been since—during the last fiveyears?”

“As good as I was before,” she blazed, springingto her feet.

“Um-m,” he calculated. “I’ll bet you are, andI’ll bet that’s pretty good. Good enough for us.We ain’t so awfully good ourselves. Quick sales,small profits, and satisfied customers—lots of ’em.That’s what we call good.”

She was reaching for him again, with hands, witheyes.

“But,” he struck, “you can’t do much for us andthe little girl if you’re afraid every hour, every day,that you’ll be found out and fired. We got to cutout fear.”

“You mean?” she gasped.

“I mean,” he thundered, “I mean that you gotto cut out that every-hour-every-day business. See?It’s rot, anyhow. You’re as good as anybody, and ifanybody here says you ain’t, you come to me and I’lltell ’em this is a women’s business, run for profit; andwomen; including mothers; women, children, and—money.Y’on?”

She stood there staring; comprehending, and he feltthat she wanted to break, but——

“Now, now, none o’ that,” the brute commanded.“Not here. This is business, strictly business.You get back on your job. D’y’ hear?”

Yes, she nodded; she heard, and she bolted for thedoor, but as she opened it she turned and she broke:

“God, how I will work! How I will——”

THE ADVENT OF THE MAJORITY

By Stella Wynne Herron

Colonel Scipio Breckenbridgestopped polishing the lighthouse lamp andstared out across Lone Palm Key to where the blazingyellow sand met the dark blue waters of theGulf. Yes—there they were again, hobnobbing onthe beach—the alien Higgins, his face a beef redfrom alcohol within and the tropic sun without,stretched prone, the breeze flapping his loose sailor’spants around his skinny ankles—the Captain erectinga tarpaulin tent against the day of the great four-yearlyevent, the presidential election.

Yes, indeed. Make no mistake. Lone PalmKey is a part of the United States. This speck of anisland that flips up out of the Gulf like the tip end of afish’s tail is listed as the sixty-sixth precinct ofFlorida. For twenty years now the Colonel hadreligiously cast one vote for the Democratic candidate;the Captain, one for the Republican candidate.For twenty years—the Captain and the Colonelbeing the entire population—the sixty-sixth hadsplit fifty-fifty—and for twenty years both hadcherished the secret hope of one day carryingit.

Mr. Higgins had drifted into Lone Palm—literally—ona hatch top of the ill-fated Petrel two monthsbefore, and it was not long before his lamentablefailing made itself manifest. Mr. Higgins was unhappyunless drunk. When his entertainment ceased,and it looked as if, through sheer thirst, he wouldhave to consent to be taken to Key West withthe Captain’s next cargo of sponges—non-human—hehad discovered a cast-up keg of whiskey. Such anact of Providence almost restored his waning faithin God. But, alas! for an acrid week now thesacred fount had been dry. This time he wouldsurely be frozen out—— But, now, here was theCaptain encouragingly friendly, almost chummy,with him——

The Colonel strode across to the recumbent Higgins,and touched him with his foot.

“Higgins,” he asked, “do yo’ reckon to vote onLone Palm this election?”

“I ’ave that intention,” replied Mr. Higginsgently.

“Are yo’—Republican or—Democrat?” TheColonel’s voice trembled in spite of himself.

“I ’aven’t decided—yet,” and Mr. Higgins let hisgaze drift again skyward.

The Colonel met the Captain’s perfidious eyesacross the prostrate form of the potential majority.In that silent glance there was a declaration of bloodywar.

From that moment began the Golden Age onLone Palm for Mr. Higgins. With flattering frequencyhe drank healths to the Grand Old Party,then to the party “that gave birth to Andrew Jacksonand Thomas Jefferson, sah!”

But no maiden, pressed by two suitors, was evermore coy in avowing a choice than he.

A week before election the Captain’s and theColonel’s liquor ran out. Mr. Higgins, to his horror,began to get sober. The day before election theCaptain and his sloop disappeared. The Coloneldid not wait to investigate. He also hoisted sail forKey West. That night both the Captain and theColonel unloaded mysterious cargoes. At midnight,after wandering constantly between the Captain’sbungalow and the lighthouse, Mr. Higgins fell downin the sand, impartially between the two abodes.The Captain and the Colonel, in silence, removedthe political enigma to his sail-cloth tent.

Mr. Higgins did not appear at the polls untilnearly noon. It was evident that the combinationof Jamaica rum and Kentucky mountain dew hadmade terrible ravages on a constitution even so immuneto spirituous shocks as his.

“Drink’s the cause o’ this here country’s goin’ tothe dorgs,” he remarked, through pallid, parchedlips, as he entered the booth.

His ballot cast, he disappeared, still enwrapped inmystery and silence.

At exactly six o’clock the Colonel arose.

“The polls of the Sixty-sixth Precinct, MonroeCounty, State of Florida, are now closed. We willproceed to count votes, Captain Hartford!”

The Colonel thrust into the box a hand that shookin spite of him and drew out a ballot.

“One Republican!”

The Captain’s heart leaped.

“One Democratic!” announced the Colonel tremulously.

The Captain waited, staring at the floor. Finallyhe looked up. The Colonel was gazing as if hypnotized,his bulging eyes fastened on the ballot in hishand. At last the announcement came:

“The Prohibition Party—one vote!”

Two minutes later they found this pinned to Mr.Higgins’ empty tent:

“i don what i don bekaws of conshunce i suddentlycam to fel the orful kurse of drink hav made freeto borrow a sale bote will leve same at kee west”

The Colonel drew himself up in his Prince Albert.

“The Sixty-sixth has again split even, sah!” heannounced.

THE NIGHT NURSE

By Will S. Gidley

It was long after the midnight hour in the dimlylighted wards of the field hospital back of theEnglish battle line at Ypres, and pretty, white-cappedNydia, the nurse best beloved by the woundedsoldiers—Nydia, with the face of a Madonna andvoice as soft and soothing as that of a mother crooninga lullaby to a sleeping babe—was flitting aboutamong the cots, adjusting a bandage or pillow here,and giving a swallow of water or medicine there, anddoing everything possible for the comfort of hercharges.

There was something of a mystery about Nydia.Nobody knew her history or antecedents. She hadappeared at the hospital and proffered her servicesat a time when they were badly needed, and themedical staff had accepted the offer and set herat work without further questioning or investigation.

From the first Nydia was very popular with thepatients to whom she ministered; far more so thanshe was with the grim-visaged surgeon-general incharge of the field hospital. Said he one day to hisassistant:

“This angel-faced nurse we’ve taken on latelymay mean well, but I am afraid she is a bit careless.Altogether too many of her patients are droppingoff—er—unexpectedly. I’ll have to look into thematter.”

Which he did—later on—but that, as Kipling says,is another story.

Return we now to Nydia on her nightly rounds.

She pauses at the cot of a stalwart young Englishcaptain who is suffering from a gunshot wound receiveda few days before, and bends over him with alook of anxious solicitude on her face.

“How is the pain to-night, my captain?” she asks,in a low, sweet voice like a caress.

“Bad, bad,” he replies slowly. “But I can standit, dear, so long as I have you for a nurse. Justthink! Only a week since you first came to my cotside, and already I love——”

“Hush! my brave captain,” she breaks in on hisrhapsody. “You must not think of such thingswhen you are suffering so from your wound. It willbe time enough for that to-morrow. To-night youmust sleep. I must use the needle to quiet yourpain.”

“And when I wake to-morrow may I talk to youof love?”

“Yes—when you wake, my captain, you may talkto me of love—when you wake!

“Listen, dear,” she went on in a whisper so lowthat only he could hear. “I am going to lull you tosleep with a story—a story of myself.” She pausedlong enough to use the needle and then resumedwhispering in his ear:

“Don’t interrupt or try to ask questions, my captain;there isn’t time for that. In three minutes youwill be asleep, and I must talk fast. You, no doubt,believe me to be either French or English. I amneither. I am from beyond the Rhine, a true daughterof the Fatherland. When the war came I hadan affianced lover in the German army, a young lieutenant,who had been sent to England on a secretmission. There he was arrested, tried, and executed,as a spy, in the Tower of London.

“Yes, the English shot my lover for a spy! Sincethat my only thoughts have been of revenge. Thatis why I am here acting as nurse—and why mypatients die!

“The English sent my lover out into the GreatUnknown—alone. I will send a thousand Englishto keep him company! To-day, my captain, yousaid you would gladly die for me, so I am taking youat your word!

“I have just given you a fatal dose of the hypodermic,and when you wake it will be in anotherworld, with my brave Wilhelm, who was named forthe great War Lord. When you meet him, tell himthat I sent you—and give him my love!

“Ha! ha! Do you hear, my captain? Give himmy love; and tell him that each night, Providencepermitting, I will send him a new messenger bearingmy greetings! That is all. Good-bye, my captain.The end is near. I am going to kiss you now so youmay die happy!”

She bent lower over the cot of the dying officer.He had not spoken before during her self-revelation;but now his eyes, filled with horror and loathing,rolled upward to meet hers, and with a final effort hehissed forth the one word—“Fiend!”

Nydia smiled—a grim, mirthless smile.

“No, not fiend, my captain—only a German!”

WHY THE TRENCH WAS LOST

By Charles F. Pietsch

Not two miles away lay his home. Metre bymetre, Joffre’s “nibbling” had forced the Bochesback over the death-sown fields of the Argonne.And now as he sat in his cunningly hidden nest aloftin a treetop, observer for a battery of 75’s, his telescope,wandering from the German trenches, broughthome so close that he seemed almost to be standingin his own garden.

It was so close, he thought—just over there. Andit was so good to be able to watch little Marie playingat the door, and to peep inside into the kitchen whereJeanne was working—or to follow her from room toroom as her slim figure flitted past the windows.

He had worried so when “Papa” Joffre’s masterlyretreat had left her there alone. But this was thefourth day now that he had kept watch over her, andsoon, he said to himself with a smile—soon that littlehome was sure to lie back of the French lines in safety.

The day was quiet. Only intermittently a cannonbarked or a rifle spat across the wire entanglements.And all the morning he had sat watching Marie’sflaxen tresses bobbing among the rose bushes—anddreaming of when the war ended.

And suddenly the picture changed.

Marie has dropped her dolls and is racing into thekitchen. The door slams. He almost hears thebolt shot to, he thinks. And a squad of Uhlans ridesinto the yard.

For months past he had driven that picture fromhis mind. It couldn’t be—oh! it couldn’t be. Andnow in sight of home it came in grim reality. Soclose—and yet as well be at the ends of the earth withthat German line between them.

He steadied the telescope in time to see a gun buttsmash in the door and the officer stride in. TheGerman batteries opened with a crash. A chargewas coming. But he had no eyes for the enemy.He felt, rather than saw, a gray-green wave with acrest of steel flow up from the German trenches andover the “dead man’s land.” And instinctively heshot orders into the transmitter at his lips.

“Two hundred metres.”

“One hundred and seventy-five metres—left.”

And as the little puffs of shrapnel began to blossomover the gray-green wave, his gaze swung back to thelittle cottage.

And then he forgot the Germans—forgot his comradesin the endangered trench—forgot war—everything.For a figure—a woman’s figure—struggling—fellpast a window in the arms of a uniformedfigure.

He thought a scream came to his ears. For oneinsane second he started down from his station: hemust go; he was so close. She needed him. Andthen as his eyes fell on the struggle below he realizedhow far it was—how helpless he was. And——

But there was a way. And he began to snaporders into the transmitter.

“One thousand five hundred metres—eight degreesleft.”

A puff rose on the highway running past his home.

“One thousand six hundred metres.”

And a shell exploded at the little stable.

“One thousand six hundred and fifty metres”—heshot another order over the wire—and another—andanother—and then:

“Battery, fire!” And with a cry, fell headlongfrom the treetop as the little home and its tragedyvanished in a whirl of smoke and wreckage.

THE KING OF THE PLEDGERS

By H. R. R. Hertzberg

The Editor of Life,

31 West 17th Street,

New York City.

I send this communication to you rather thanto the editor of one of the country’s dailypapers, because your publication is national and eveninternational, instead of being a more or less localone, and also because the sketch of my life it contains,true though it is, has an appearance sufficientlyfictional to fit one of your short-story numbers.

My special purpose in wishing to have this autobiographicalsketch published is that it may warnand protect a worthy body of men, the RomanCatholic priesthood of the United States, against aclass of grafters which preys upon them and of whichI was the “King” for nearly ten years.

But, knowing mankind in general, and myself inparticular, fairly well, I have no doubt there isanother reason for the wish, to wit, that vanity ofvanities which compels all crooks, “con”-men, grafters,to brag of their exploits occasionally, and which—througha perverse viewing of viciousness as prowess—causesthe most of men to be prouder of their fallsfrom grace than of the good things they have done.

Up to this very day ten years ago I was wealthyand happy. The wealth I had inherited and thehappiness I had married. Then my happiness died—withmy wife. And, the same evening, my wealthdisappeared—with a dishonest manager.

There was nothing left me but our little daughter,a child of eight, and some two thousand dollars.The former I gave into the care of the DominicanSisters at whose convent, in a small Eastern town,my wife had been educated, and who would, I feltsure, make a true woman and lady of the girl. Andthe money I also turned over to the nuns, for mychild’s keep as a boarding-pupil, until she was eighteen.

So I remained alone with my responsibility: theneed of providing for my daughter’s later future.This purpose simply had to be achieved, and thatwithin ten years—because, when I recovered fromthe sickness, partly brought about by my wife’sdeath, the doctor, a scientist of note and a closefriend, told me frankly that I was afflicted with adisease of the heart which would not let me live nolonger than a decade, and this only if I remained asexceptionally temperate as I had always been.

God knows I did my best to obtain honest andfairly remunerative work. My very best. But Ifailed utterly. And, finally, I came to think of workthat was not honest. Grafting began to seem almosta duty, what with my pennilessness and my responsibility.Still, I did not know how to graft, not at all.

A bit of street-corner talk it was that “put mewise.” I heard a fellow ask another to have a drink,and I heard the other’s answer: “No,” said he, “nomore of that for mine. I’ve bin to Father O’Kelly’s’n’ took the pledge fer keeps, ’n’ the good man’s giveme five dollars to help the wife ’n’ the baby till I c’ngit a new job.”

“He has taken the pledge and the priest has givenhim five dollars!” I repeated to myself. And thenwhat poets call an inspiration came to me: theremight be money in taking the pledge continually, asa business. First, I smiled at the odd, phantasticallysacrilegious conceit. But I grew serious—the Responsibility(yes, it should be spelled with a capital)looming large in my mind’s eyes. Soon I was walkingrapidly toward the nearest Catholic church andcalling for the pastor, a priest whom I did not knowand who did not know me. My clothes were rathershabby by this time and I may have looked dissipated,thanks to my several months’ incessant “worrying.”

And the priest received me, and I took the pledge“before God and His Mother and the whole Court ofHeaven”; and the kindly old Father asked mewhether I was in need, and, when I stammered a“yes,” he gave me a bill and his blessing, and I wasagain on the street, a successful grafter.

To appreciate the enormity of my self-contemptat that moment you must know that I had steadilybeen not only what is usually meant by “a gentleman,”but, also, a sincere, practical Catholic, whilenow I was a petty swindler—and a swindler of myChurch.

Almost did I return to the priest and tell him thetruth. Responsibility appeared, however, and ledme away. At a distance from the priest’s house Ilooked at my “thirty pieces of silver” which were aten-dollar greenback. Then I judged that my appearance—ofdecent poverty—was an asset of sorts,that the “gentleman-gone-wrong” naturally elicitedmore sympathy of heart and purse than the commonerbar-room loafer.

Thereafter I became the King of the Pledgers.

Yes, there are many pledgers in the land. Professionalpledge-takers, who are also professional drunkards.For Catholic priests are easily imposed on,since they’re almost always warm-hearted men andsince their faith and their calling render charity,helpfulness, imperative; impel them to extend thebenefit of the doubt to every applicant, howeverworthless-looking, for fear of sinning against charity.Wherefore, even the least plausible pledger is sure topocket a donation each time he takes the pledge.

The professional pledger must be a traveller, ofcourse. The most of cities can be “worked to afinish” in a week. But there are three, at least,which have kept even the King of the Pledgers, withall his sobriety and diligence, busy for four or fivemonths.

As I have said, I was exceedingly successful. Twoweeks ago my bank account, piled up throughpledging only, totalled $9,902. With eighty-eightadditional dollars I would have enough to purchasefor my daughter the annuity—sufficient to keep hercomfortable all her life—that was the object of mymore than nine years’ swindling.

Three times had I visited the little one since I tookher to the convent. The last time she was sixteenand a happy, gentle, flower-like girl, gladdeninglyand saddeningly like her mother. And I wrote herand heard from her every month.

Well, that day, two weeks ago, when I’d foundmyself so near my goal, I went out to “work” asusual. My victim was a young priest just ordained,the son of a multi-millionaire, who had given up abrilliant worldly position. I was the first person towhom he administered the pledge. He was movedto the core. And he gave me ... one hundreddollars.

My life work was done.

In almost childlike glee I ran back to my roomthere to draw the check necessary for the immediatepurchase of my girl’s annuity. And there I founda letter from the child.

She asked for my fatherly consent—that she mightenter the Dominican Sister’s Order as a novice. Shehad a true vocation, said she, had always meant tobe a nun. And now that she was eighteen ...“it is my heart’s wish, father, dear,” were her words.A note from the Mother Superior confirmed herdeclaration.

Having read, I fell back in my chair and laughedcrazily at the joke that was “on me.” Then Ithanked God for the child. And then I wrote acheck for all the money I had, went to my last victimat once, told him everything, handed him my checkand his hundred dollars—to spend in charity butnot by way of gifts to pledgers, and fell into unconsciousness.

From that hour on I have been dying in a hospitalbed. My daughter has received my consent, andthe young priest will send her her father’s love andlast blessing when I am dead, in a day or so. And Ishall die in peace.

Very truly yours,

The ex-King of the Pledgers.

A PO-LICE-MAN

By Lincoln Steffens

“Chief,” said Mickey Sweeney, police reporter,to the Chief of Police, “my paper wants th’goods to prove whether that red-headed crook, CaptainMahoney, is a crook or an honest man.”

The Chief was about to light a cigar. He blew outthe match and turned an anxious face to Mickey.Twice the reporter had saved his official life. Therewas nothing he would not tell him, if he really wantedto know it, nothing. He looked at the boy darkly,then he looked away, off across the humming restaurant,off across the humming years, and the Chief’sface cleared.

“Mickey,” he said, “when I was young, youngerthan you, and a green cop, greener than you, I wasposted on Sixth Avenue, east side, between Twenty-eighthStreet and Thirty-three. The heart of theTenderloin. And my beat beat with the beat of theblood of it; an th’ life; an’ th’ death. One night, oneof my first nights, a fly cabman—one of them nighthawksthat picked up drunks to take ’em home andtook ’em instead to th’ Park and robbed ’em; Iwasn’t onto th’ game then, but because of th’ tipsthey give th’ police about other crooks, we let themoperate—well, this night-hawk drives up close to th’curb by me, and says:

“‘Hey, Bill,’ he whispers, hoarse, ‘there’s murderan’ riot in th’ Half Shell.’

“I hot-footed to th’ oyster house. Empty; nota head in sight. But I listened, and underneath,hell was boiling: yells, curses, thuds. And I pipedat th’ end of th’ counter, a bit back, a trapdoor withth’ lid off. I dropped in.

“I come down on them. One of my feet scrapeddown th’ face of some bloke, and he cussed. Myother leg got across a feller’s shoulder and stuck soI went down on my head, and my hands touchedth’ murdered body; they was all blood. Whichhelped me up; that, an’ hearing near me a call, lowan’ quick; ‘A cop!’ and the chorus singing: ‘Kill him!’

“So I come up standin’, an’ striking out, blind,with th’ stick. But I began to look around, careful,to get th’ lay. There was one gas-jet, rear. By it Imade out th’ feller that did th’ murder. He wasbeing fought over; some, th’ friends o’ th’ dead man,desirous to kill him: others, his friends, to save him.I made for him. He was at the back, under thelight, at th’ tip end of th’ two twisted strings of crazy-madfighters. I had to go along between ’em, butthat wasn’t so hard. In th’ surprise of my arrival,the clinch had broke, and that let me pass; that an’my stick on their faces. So I got through, grabbedmy man by th’ collar of all th’ shirts and coats he hadon, and I threw him up back o’ me onto an old pokertable that stood in th’ corner.

“So far I enjoyed it, but th’ mob rallied. The twofighting sides joined, and all together come for me.

“Ever see a mob mad to murder, Mickey? Itscares ye. It’s a beast; looks like a beast, smells likea beast. I was scared. I hit out, first with mystick, then when th’ mob jammed me against th’table, I hopped up on it and kicked with both legs.An’ I floored ’em; lots of ’em. But they come upagain, and again, and th’ mass of ’em bent me backon th’ prisoner. I had to hold him, you see, and herolled an’ pitched an’ kicked; that’s what give me onlyone hand. And, by and by, I had only one leg.He—or somebody—drove an oyster knife through myankle, in between th’ tendon an’ th’ bone, and nailedme to th’ table.

“I was done for, I guess. I was hit all over—fists,knives, chairs, legs of tables. I was sore; weak.Mike, I was all in when I seen a red-headed cop diveinto th’ hole. That’s how it looked to me, like a divehead-first. Maybe it was because I noticed first,and so particular, th’ red head on that uniform, an’th’ red face, an’ th’ red eyes; and because they lookedso good to me.

“‘Hold ’em, Brother,’ he calls to me, quiet-likean’ sure. ‘Easy does it.’

“And up he turns on his feet, an’ begins to cut aswathe up to me through that mess o’ men. It wasbeautiful. That’s when I learned to use a stick right,watchin’ him. He held it high, so as when it landedon a head, it come down level, exactly on th’ crown.Seems to shoot th’ ’lectricity down th’ spine, throughall th’ nerves to all th’ joints, plumb to th’ toes. Hehit no head twice. Every man he fanned closed uplike a knife, and click, click, click—slow, regular,nice, he laid ’em down like a corduroy road on whichhe walked to me.

“His red eyes was looking every which way, andthey didn’t miss a thing. I saw ’em see th’ knife thatspiked me to th’ table, but they was looking at somethin’else when his left hand pulled that knife, onejerk, and, in the same stroke, drove it into a blokethat was pounding my face, and left it in him.

“‘Baby between us,’ he says, an’ he grabs th’prisoner, yanks him to his feet, and when I, obeyinghim, took th’ other side, he says:

“‘Forward, march!’

“And we marched. We stumbled some, an’ slipped—offthe bodies on th’ floor. They was coming to,and moved; and some was getting up; enough to keepour sticks busy. But we marched, us three, like abattalion, to—under the hole.

“‘Up we go,’ he says to me, and with my goodfoot in his two hands, he shoots me up and out likea lady mounting a horse in th’ Park.

“‘Now, you,’ he says to th’ prisoner, and up th’prisoner came to me.

“And then he turns, belts th’ two nearest headstwo good last belts, and he bows. ‘Gentlemen,’ hesays to th’ mob, ‘good-night.’

“He hands me his hand and comes out, closes th’trap-door down careful and stands on th’ lid.

“‘Now, then,’ he says to me, ‘you take your babyto th’ station; send me th’ off-platoon, with th’wagon; and—don’t hurry. I like it here. And thatold oyster knife left rust in your left ankle. ’Tendto it.’”

The Chief lit the cigar he had been handling as aclub. When it was burning perfectly, he said:

“Sweeney, I wish you wouldn’t ask me nothingabout Mahoney. He’s a po-lice-man.”

THE QUEST OF THE V. C.

By A. Byers Fletcher

There was tumultuous cheering in the ranks ofthe Irish Guards somewhere in France. SergeantO’Reilly, V. C., had returned to the trenches.Two months before, Private O’Reilly had, with ascorching-hot machine-gun, held, single-handed, animportant trench after all his comrades had fallen.Incidentally, he had also saved the life of an officer,who lay wounded and exposed on the parapet of thetrench. His was but one of many such brave deedswhich occurred almost daily along that terrible front,but O’Reilly’s deed had the advantage of being conspicuous.Hence his two-months’ leave, his journeyto London, and his reception at Buckingham Palace,where the King himself pinned the little bronze crossto his khaki jacket. Hence, his public reception inhis native village of Tullameelan, where they hunggarlands of flowers about his neck, and his old motherwept tears of joyful pride. Hence, too, his returnwith the sergeant’s stripes. The story of the honoursheaped upon him had been duly chronicled and illustratedin the press, and had preceded his returnto the trenches. Hence, his joyful reception by theregiment.

Private Finnessy and Private Moloney had beenamong the first to grasp the hero’s hand, and hadjoined heartily in the vociferous cheering, but nowthat affairs had again resumed their normal round,these two companions sat at the bottom of thetrench, smoking thoughtfully.

“O’Reilly’s a brave man,” said Finnessy, thenadded, after a pause, “the lucky devil!”

“I believe ye,” replied Moloney.

“And he only five feet sivin,” continued Finnessy.

“With one punch,” said Moloney, contemplatinghis hairy fist, “I could lift him into the inemy’strenches!”

“Do ye mind how all the girls in Tullameelan kissedhim?” said Finnessy.

“I know one girl there that didn’t!” said Moloneyhotly.

“And I know another!” as hotly replied Finnessy.

“The papers are nothin’ but lyin’ rags,” saidMoloney.

“I believe ye,” said Finnessy.

Viciously whistled the bullets across the top ofthe trench, and a shell or two whined overhead,unheeded by the comrades, long accustomed to thesound.

“But I’m not denyin’,” said Finnessy, after apause, “that the little brown cross is a great timptationto anny girl.”

“It is that!” agreed Moloney.

“At five o’clock!” the whisper ran along the trench.Since three o’clock the guns massed on the hillsbehind them had been sending a shrieking death-storminto the enemy’s trenches in front of the IrishGuards. At five, promptly, the storm of shell wouldcease. At a given signal the men would clamberout over the parapet, make their way through theopenings in the wire entanglements, and rush thetrenches before them. There was no outward excitement.The aspect of the men remained unchanged,but one could feel the nervous tension. A youngsubaltern, near Finnessy and Moloney, glanced occasionallyat his wrist watch and smoked his cigarettemore rapidly than usual.

“If he falls,” whispered Finnessy to Moloney,“’tis mesilf that will bring him in.”

“You will not,” said Moloney, “I’ve had me eyeon him f’r wakes!”

“Ye can have the Major,” said Finnessy.

“I’ll not!” said Moloney, “’twud take a horse tocarry him in!”

The batteries ceased firing. A low whistlesounded. The men grasped their rifles with bayonetsfixed. Cold steel alone must do the work now.Another whistle. With a hoarse cheer the menclimbed out over the front of the trench and thecharge was on.

Side by side raced Finnessy and Moloney, witheyes fixed on the young subaltern, who, carrying arifle, was sprinting on before them. For a few momentsit seemed that the batteries had effectuallysilenced the trenches of the enemy immediately infront. A hundred yards farther and they would bereached. Now, however, from that line of piledearth and barbed wire came the crackling roar ofmachine-guns. For a moment the men wavered andmany fell, but, with a growl, the others rushed on.Fifty yards farther, and then the ground seemed toheave up and hit Finnessy and Moloney. Side byside they lay, with their faces partly rooted in thetrampled ground. To their ears came dully thesound of the fierce hand-to-hand fighting beyondthem. Slowly they scraped the dirt from their facesand looked at each other.

“Where did they get ye, Finnessy?” asked Moloney.

“In the leg,” groaned Finnessy.

“The same f’r me,” moaned Moloney.

The bullets of the machine-guns still sang overthem, and both men began to dig into the soft earthand pile it into a mound in front of their heads.

Now back across the torn ground came the remnantof the charge, for the trenches had not beentaken. Some ran, others walked or crawled or werecarried, but always over them and among themwhirled the leaden death. Soon Moloney and Finnessywere left alone in their little self-made trenches,for none of their retreating comrades had noticedthem.

Twilight was fading, when a brilliant idea flashedacross the mind of Finnessy. The intensity of theillumination almost dazed him for a moment.

“Moloney,” said Finnessy, “’tis not very sthrongye’re feelin,’ I’m thinkin’.”

“Ye’er think-tank is overflowin’, shut it off!”growled Moloney.

“Sure, Moloney, ye’er voice is very wake! Ye’llbe faintin’ in a minute!” said Finnessy soothingly.

“I’ll not!” cried Moloney. “What’s eatin’ ye?”

“Poor old boy!” purred Finnessy, “ye’re in a disperatestate. Ye must be rescued. I’m goin’ totake ye in!”

“How?” asked Moloney.

“I’m goin’ to take ye on me back and crawl in withye. It’s me duty to do it, and England expicts everyIrishman to do his duty! Me only reward will beye’er gratitood!” said Finnessy.

Slowly the brilliant idea spread to the mind ofMoloney.

“Sure, Finnessy,” said Moloney, “’tis brave andkind of ye, but I can’t accipt ye’er sacrifice. ’Tisye’ersilf that must be saved. I can hear the trimblein ye’er speech. No one can say that a Moloneyiver diserted a friend! I’ll take ye in if I die f’rit!”

“Don’t be a fool, Moloney, ye know ye’re wakerthan I am!”

“I’m not!” cried Moloney. “I’m as sthrong as ahorse, and I am goin’ to save ye or perish in the attempt!”

“Ye silfish baste!” howled Finnessy. “Ye’d spoilme chance for the V. C., would ye!”

“Silfish baste ye’ersilf!” roared Moloney. “’Tisme own chance! And in ye’ll go on me back, dead oralive!”

Moloney and Finnessy reached for each other.

Back in the trenches of the Irish Guards theyoung subaltern, peering through a loop-hole, sawdimly through the growing dusk the struggles ofMoloney and Finnessy.

“Poor devils,” he muttered, “must be in agony.Didn’t know any were left alive out there.”

Even as he spoke a wiry figure beside him sprangto the top of the parapet and started toward thestruggling men.

Now the enemy’s trench awoke again, but presently,through the zone of death, the subaltern andall who could secure loop-holes saw that wiry figureslowly crawling, crawling back toward their trench,dragging behind him two reluctant but exhaustedmen.

As the limp bodies of Finnessy and Moloney sliddown into the trench a cheer broke forth from themen which drowned the noise of the firing.

Slowly Finnessy and Moloney opened their eyes.The subaltern was speaking:

“Sergeant O’Reilly,” he said, “if such a thing werepossible, you deserve and should have another VictoriaCross!”

Again the cheers broke forth.

Finnessy looked at Moloney.

“For the love of Mike!” said Finnessy.

“I believe ye,” said Moloney.

SOMEWHERE IN BELGIUM

By Percy Godfrey Savage

The crude little cottage had been surroundedand two stalwart peasant boys routed out, butonly one gun had been found. Each lad stoutlyswore that he was responsible for the sniping. Theold mother stood near them.

“Choose one or we will shoot both!” the Germanofficer again ordered the old woman.

Her shrunken, toil-worn frame seemed to sufferpain of death. She wound her rough hands in herapron. Terror, hatred, love, devotion, helplessnessfilled her eyes.

Alphonse, the tall, light-haired boy, was urgingthe smaller and more delicate Petro by gestures andeager, low words to yield the punishment to him.

With equal intensity the little fellow pleaded totake the blame because Alphonse would be betterable to care for their mother.

The imperturbable German, not asking for morethan one life, set the decision before the mother herself.Apparently it would be necessary to shoot bothof them.

The soldiers stood waiting for their part in theprocedure.

The old woman turned aside. “Take Alphonse,”she groaned.

Surprised, but satisfied, they took the boy to theside of the house and fired upon him.

Perhaps a thought of another youth, perhaps thewonder of why the old woman had chosen, perhapsa burden of conscience delayed the officer as hefollowed his men from the yard.

“Quick, Petro,” whispered the mother, and the boywho had been standing rigid, with the horror of hisbrother’s death gripping his heart, came to life.Like a shadow he disappeared. The next instant therewas a shot and the German officer fell in the road.

A pack of wild beasts rushed toward the house.Two of them fell.

Somewhere inside the dwelling Petro was killed, butthere was neither shot nor cry.

They found the old peasant kneeling beside thedoorway.

“I said, ‘take Alphonse!’ oh, God,” she moaned,“but,” she shrieked with fierce satisfaction as herenemies appeared, “because Petro could aim betterwith his gun!”

Three graves on the right of the cottage held thepeasants, but three graves on the left held their toll.

THE END

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

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