The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Best Short Stories of 1918, by Various (2025)

• INTRODUCTION

• THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1918

  • A SIMPLE ACT OF PIETY

  • CRUELTIES

  • BUSTER

  • THE OPEN WINDOW

  • BLIND VISION

  • IMAGINATION

  • IN MAULMAIN FEVER-WARD

  • THE FATHER’S HAND

  • THE VISIT OF THE MASTER

  • IN THE OPEN CODE

  • THE WILLOW WALK

  • THE STORY VINTON HEARD AT MALLORIE

  • THE TOAST TO FORTY-FIVE

  • EXTRA MEN

  • SOLITAIRE

  • THE DARK HOUR

  • THE BIRD OF SERBIA

  • AT ISHAM’S

  • DE VILMARTE’S LUCK

  • THE WHITE BATTALION

• THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

  • ADDRESSES OF AMERICAN MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES

  • THE BIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES

  • THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES

  • THE BEST BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES OF 1918: A CRITICAL SUMMARY

  • VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918: AN INDEX

  • THE BEST SIXTY AMERICAN SHORT STORIES

  • ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

  • MAGAZINE AVERAGES, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

  • INDEX OF SHORT STORIES IN BOOKS, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

  • INDEX OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

A SIMPLE ACT OF PIETY

His affair that night was prosy. He was intendingthe murder of an old Spanish woman around thecorner, on the Bowery, whom he had known for years,with whom he had always exchanged courteous greetings,and whom he neither liked nor disliked.

He did kill her; and she knew that he was going tothe minute he came into her stuffy, smelly shop, loomingtall and bland, and yellow, and unearthly Chinese frombehind the shapeless bundles of second-hand goods thatcluttered the doorway. He wished her good evening intones that were silvery, but seemed tainted by somethingunnatural. She was uncertain what it was, and this veryuncertainty increased her horror. She felt her hair riseas if drawn by a shivery wind.

At the very last she caught a glimmer of the truth in hisnarrow-lidded, purple-black eyes. But it was too late.

The lean, curved knife was in his hand and across herscraggy throat—there was a choked gurgle, a crimsonline broadening to a crimson smear, a thudding fall—andthat was the end of the affair as far as she wasconcerned.

A minute later Nag Hong Fah walked over to theother end of Pell Street and entered a liquor-store whichbelonged to the Chin Sor Company, and was known asthe “Place of Sweet Desire and Heavenly Entertainment.”It was the gathering-place for the Chinese-bornmembers of the Nag family, and there he occupied a seatof honor because of his wealth and charity and stoutrectitude.

He talked for about half an hour with the other membersof his clan, sipping fragrant, sun-dried Formosa teamixed with jessamine-flowers, until he had made forhimself a bullet-proof alibi.

The alibi held.

For he is still at liberty. He is often heard to speakwith regret—nor is it hypocritical regret—about themurder of Señora Garcia, the old Spanish woman whokept the shop around the corner. He is a good customerof her nephew, Carlos, who succeeded to her business.Nor does he trade there to atone, in a manner, forthe red deed of his hands, but because the goods arecheap.

He regrets nothing. To regret, you must find sin inyour heart, while the murder of Señora Garcia meant nosin to him. It was to him a simple action, respectable,even worthy.

For he was a Chinaman, and, although it all happenedbetween the chocolate-brown of the Hudson and themurky, cloudy gray of the North River, the tale is ofthe Orient. There is about it an atmosphere of age-greenbronze; of first-chop chandoo and spicy aloe-wood;of gilt, carved statues brought out of India whenConfucius was young; of faded embroideries, mustywith the scent of the dead centuries. An atmospherewhich is very sweet, very gentle—and very unhuman.

The Elevated roars above. The bluecoat shuffles hisflat feet on the greasy asphalt below. But still the taleis of China—and the dramatic climax, in a Chinaman’sstory, from a Chinaman’s slightly twisted angle, differsfrom that of an American.

To Nag Hong Fah this climax came not with themurder of Señora Garcia, but with Fanny Mei Hi’s laughas she saw him with the shimmering bauble in his handsand heard his appraisal thereof.

She was his wife, married to him honorably and truly,with a narrow gold band and a clergyman and a bouquetof wired roses bought cheaply from an itinerant Greekvendor, and handfuls of rice thrown by facetiousand drunken members of both the yellow race and thewhite.

Of course, at the time of his marriage, a good manypeople around Pell Street whispered and gossiped. Theyspoke of the curling black smoke and slavery and othergorgeously, romantically wicked things. Miss EdithRutter, the social settlement investigator, spoke of—andto—the police.

Whereas Nag Hong Fah, who had both dignity and asense of humor, invited them all to his house: gossipers,whisperers, Miss Edith Rutter, and Detective Bill Devoyof the Second Branch, and bade them look to their hearts’content; and whereas they found no opium, no slidingpanels, and hidden cupboards, no dread Mongol mysteries,but a neat little steam-heated flat, furnished byGrand Rapids via Fourteenth Street, German porcelain,a case of blond Milwaukee beer, a five-pound humidor ofshredded Kentucky burlap tobacco, a victrola, and a fine,big Bible with brass clamp and edges and M. Doré’sillustrations.

“Call again,” he said as they were trooping down thenarrow stairs. “Call again any time you please. Gladto have you—aren’t we, kid?” chucking his wife underthe chin.

“You bet yer life, you fat old yellow sweetness!”agreed Fanny; and then—as a special barbed shaftleveled at Miss Rutter’s retreating back: “Say! Anytime yer wanta lamp my wedding certificate—it’shangin’ between the fottygraphs of the President andthe Big Boss—all framed up swell!”

He had met her first one evening in a Bowery saloon,where she was introduced to him by Mr. Brian Neill, theowner of the saloon, a gentleman from out the CountyArmagh, who had spattered and muddied his proverbialIrish chastity in the slime of the Bowery gutters, and whocalled himself her uncle.

This latter statement had to be taken with a grain ofsalt. For Fanny Mei Hi was not Irish. Her hair wasgolden, her eyes blue. But otherwise she was Chinese.Easily nine-tenths of her. Of course she denied it. Butthat is neither here nor there.

She was not a lady. Couldn’t be—don’t you see—withthat mixed blood in her veins, Mr. Brian Neillacting as her uncle, and the standing pools of East Sidevice about her.

But Nag Hong Fah, who was a poet and a philosopher,besides being the proprietor of the Great Shanghai ChopSuey Palace, said that she looked like a golden-hairedgoddess of evil, familiar with all the seven sins. And headded—this to the soothsayer of his clan, Nag Hop Fat—thathe did not mind her having seven, nor seventeen,nor seven times seventeen bundles of sin, as long as shekept them in the sacred bosom of the Nag family.

“Yes,” said the soothsayer, throwing up a handful ofpainted ivory sticks and watching how they fell to see ifthe omens were favorable. “Purity is a jewel to thesilly young. And you are old, honorable cousin—”

“Indeed,” chimed in Nag Hong Fah, “I am old andfat and sluggish and extremely wise. What price isthere in purity higher than there is contained in the happinessand contentment of a respectable citizen when hesees men-children playing gently about his knees?”

He smiled when his younger brother, Nag Sen Yat,the opium merchant, spoke to him of a certain YungQuai.

“Yung Quai is beautiful,” said the opium merchant,“and young—and of an honorable clan—and—”

“And childless! And in San Francisco! And divorcedfrom me!”

“But there is her older brother, Yung Long, the headof the Yung clan. He is powerful and rich—the richestman in Pell Street! He would consider this new marriageof yours a disgrace to his face. Chiefly since thewoman is a foreigner!”

“She is not. Only her hair and her eyes are foreign.”

“Where hair and eyes lead, the call of the blood follows,”rejoined Nag Sen Yat, and he reiterated his warningabout Yung Long.

But the other shook his head.

“Do not give wings to trouble. It flies swiftly withoutthem,” he quoted. “Too, the soothsayer read in thepainted sticks that Fanny Mei Hi will bear me sons.One—perhaps two. Afterward, if indeed it be so thatthe drop of barbarian blood has clouded the clear mirrorof her Chinese soul, I can always take back into myhousehold the beautiful and honorable Yung Quai, whomI divorced and sent to California because she is childless.She will then adopt the sons which the other womanwill bear me—and everything will be extremely satisfactory.”

And so he put on his best American suit, called onFanny, and proposed to her with a great deal of dignityand elaborate phrases.

“Sure I’ll marry you,” said Fanny. “Sure! I’drather be the wife of the fattest, yellowest Chink in NewYork than live the sorta life I’m livin’—see, Chinkie-Toodles?”

“Chinkie-Toodles” smiled. He looked her over approvingly.He said to himself that doubtless the paintedsticks had spoken the truth, that she would bear him men-children.His own mother had been a river-girl, purchasedduring a drought for a handful of parched grain;and had died in the odor of sanctity, with nineteen Buddhistpriests following her gaily lacquered coffin, waggingtheir shaven polls ceremoniously, and mumblingflattering and appropriate verses from “Chin-Kong-Ching.”

Fanny, on the other hand, though wickedly and lyinglyinsisting on her pure white blood, knew that a Chinamanis broad-minded and free-handed, that he makes a goodhusband, and beats his wife rather less often than a whiteman of the corresponding scale of society.

Of course, gutter-bred, she was aggressively insistentupon her rights.

“Chinkie-Toodles,” she said the day before the wedding,and the gleam in her eyes gave point to the words, “I’msquare—see? An’ I’m goin’ to travel square. MaybeI haven’t always been a poifec’ lady, but I ain’t goin’ tobilk yer, get me? But—” She looked up, and suddenly,had Nag Hong Fah known it, the arrogance, theclamorings, and the tragedy of her mixed blood were inthe words that followed: “I gotta have a dose of freedom.I’m an American—I’m white—say!”—seeingthe smile which he hid rapidly behind his fat hand—“yerneedn’t laugh. I am white, an’ not a paintedChinese doll. No sittin’ up an’ mopin’ for the retoin ofmy fat, yellow lord an’ master in a stuffy, stinky, punkyfive-by-four cage for me! In other woids, I resoive formy little golden-haired self the freedom of asphalt an’electric lights, see? An’ I’ll play square—as long asyou’ll play square,” she added under her breath.

“Sure,” he said. “You are free. Why not? I am anAmerican. Have a drink?” And they sealed the bargainin a tumbler of Chinese rice whisky, cut with Bourbon,and flavored with aniseed and powdered ginger.

The evening following the wedding, husband and wife,instead of a honeymoon trip, went on an alcoholic spreeamid the newly varnished splendors of their Pell Streetflat. Side by side, in spite of the biting December cold,they leaned from the open window and brayed an intoxicatedpæan at the Elevated structure which pointed at thestars like a gigantic icicle stood on end, frozen, austere—desolate,for all its clank and rattle, amid the fragrant,warm reek of China which drifted from shutters andcellar-gratings.

Nag Hong Fah, seeing Yung Long crossing the street,thought with drunken sentimentality of Yung Long’ssister whom he had divorced because she had borne him nochildren, and extended a boisterous invitation to come up.

“Come! Have a drink!” he hiccuped.

Yung Long stopped, looked, and refused courteously,but not before he had leveled a slow, appraising glance atthe golden-haired Mei Hi, who was shouting by the sideof her obese lord. Yung Long was not a bad-looking man,standing there in the flickering light of the street-lamp,the black shadows cutting the pale-yellow, silky sheen ofhis narrow, powerful face as clean as with a knife.

“Swell looker, that Chink!” commented Fanny MeiHi as Yung Long walked away; and her husband, theliquor warming his heart into generosity, agreed:

“Sure! Swell looker! Lots of money! Let’s haveanother drink!”

Arrived at the sixth tumbler, Nag Hong Fah, the poetin his soul released by alcohol, took his blushing brideupon his knee and improvised a neat Cantonese love-ditty;but when Fanny awakened the next morning withthe sobering suspicion that she had tied herself for life toa drunkard, she found out that her suspicion was unfounded.

The whisky spree had only been an appropriate celebrationin honor of the man-child on whom Nag HongFah had set his heart; and it was because of this unbornson and the unborn son’s future that her husband rosefrom his tumbled couch, bland, fat, without headache orheartache, left the flat, and bargained for an hour withYung Long, who was a wholesale grocer, with warehousesin Canton, Manila, New York, San Francisco,Seattle, and Vancouver, British Columbia.

Not a word was said about either Yung Quai or Fanny.The talk dealt entirely with canned bamboo sprouts andpreserved leeches, and pickled star-fruit, and brittlealmond cakes. It was only after the price had beendecided upon and duly sealed with the right phrases andpalm touching palm—afterwards, though nothing inwriting had passed, neither party could recede from thebargain without losing face—that Yung Long remarked,very casually:

“By the way, the terms are cash—spot cash,” and hesmiled.

For he knew that the restaurant proprietor was anaudacious merchant who relied on long credits and futureprofits, and to whom in the past he had always grantedninety days’ leeway without question or special agreement.

Nag Hong Fah smiled in his turn; a slow, thin, enigmaticsmile.

“I brought the cash with me,” he replied, pulling awad of greenbacks from his pocket, and both gentlemenlooked at each other with a great deal of mutual respect.

“Forty-seven dollars and thirty-three cents saved onthe first business of my married life,” Nag Hong Fahsaid to his assembled clan that night at the Place of SweetDesire and Heavenly Entertainment. “Ah, I shall havea fine, large business to leave to the man-child which mywife shall bear me!”

And the man-child came—golden-haired, blue-eyed,yellow-skinned, and named Brian in honor of Fanny’sapocryphal uncle who owned the Bowery saloon. Forthe christening Nag Hong Fah sent out special invitations—pinkcards lettered with virulent magenta and borderedwith green forget-me-nots and purple roses; with anadvertisement of the Great Shanghai Chop Suey Palaceon the reverse side. He also bestowed upon his wife aprecious bracelet of cloudy white jade, earrings of greenjade cunningly inlaid with blue feathers, a chest of carvedTibetan soapstone, a bottle of French perfume, a pound ofMandarin blossom tea for which he paid seventeen dollarswholesale, a set of red Chinese sables, and a new Carusorecord for the victrola.

Fanny liked the last two best; chiefly the furs, whichshe wore through the whirling heat of an August day, assoon as she was strong enough to leave her couch, on anexpedition to her native pavements. For she held fastto her proclaimed right that hers was the freedom ofasphalt and electric light—not to mention the back parlorof her uncle’s saloon, with its dingy, musty walls coveredwith advertisements of eminent Kentucky distilleries andthe indelible traces of many generations of flies, with itsgangrened tables, its battered cuspidors, its comminglingatmosphere of poverty and sloth, of dust and stale beer,of cheese sandwiches, wet weeds, and cold cigars.

“Getta hell outa here!” she admonished a red-powderedbricklayer who came staggering across thethreshold of the back parlor and was trying to encircleher waist with amatory intent. “I’m a respectablemarried woman—see?” And then to Miss Ryan, theside-kick of her former riotous spinster days, who wassitting at a corner table dipping her pretty little up-turnednose into a foaming schooner: “Take my tip,Mamie, an’ marry a Chink! That’s the life, believe me!”

Mamie shrugged her shoulders.

“All right for you, Fan, I guess,” she replied. “Butnot for me. Y’see—ye’re mostly Chink yerself—”

“I ain’t! I ain’t! I’m white—wottya mean callin’me a Chink?” And then, seeing signs of contrition onher friend’s face: “Never mind. Chinkie-Toodles isgood enough for me. He treats me white, all right, allright!”

Nor was this an overstatement of the actual facts.

Nag Hong Fah was good to her. He was happy inthe realization of his fatherhood, advertised every nightby lusty cries which reverberated through the narrow,rickety Pell Street house to find an echo across the streetin the liquor-store of the Chin Sor Company, where themembers of his clan predicted a shining future for fatherand son.

The former was prospering. The responsibilities offatherhood had brought an added zest and tang to hiskeen, bartering Mongol brain. Where before he hadsqueezed the dollar, he was now squeezing the cent. Hehad many a hard tussle with the rich Yung Long overthe price of tea and rice and other staples, and never dideither one of them mention the name of Yung Quai, northat of the woman who had supplanted Yung Quai inthe restaurant-keeper’s affections.

Fanny was honest. She traveled the straight and narrow,as she put it to herself. “Nor ain’t it any strain onmy feet,” she confided to Miss Ryan. For she was happyand contented. Life, after all, had been good to her,had brought her prosperity and satisfaction at the handsof a fat Chinaman, at the end of her fantastic, twisted,unclean youth; and there were moments when, in spite ofherself, she felt herself drawn into the surge of thatMongol race which had given her nine-tenths of herblood—a fact which formerly she had been in the habitof denying vigorously.

She laughed her happiness through the spiced, warmmazes of Chinatown, her first-born cuddled to her breast,ready to be friends with everybody.

It was thus that Yung Long would see her walkingdown Pell Street as he sat in the carved window-seat ofhis store, smoking his crimson-tassled pipe, a wanderingray of sun dancing through the window, breaking intoprismatic colors, and wreathing his pale, serene face withopal vapors.

He never failed to wave his hand in courtly greeting.

She never failed to return the civility.

Some swell looker, that Chink. But—Gawd!—shewas square, all right, all right!

A year later, after Nag Hong Fah, in expectation ofthe happy event, had acquired an option on a restaurantfarther up-town, so that the second son might not beslighted in favor of Brian, who was to inherit the GreatShanghai Chop Suey Palace, Fanny sent another littlecross-breed into the reek and riot of the Pell Streetworld. But when Nag Hong Fah came home that night,the nurse told him that the second-born was a girl—somethingto be entered on the debit, not the credit, sideof the family ledger.

It was then that a change came into the marital relationsof Mr. and Mrs. Nag Hong Fah.

Not that the former disliked the baby daughter, calledFanny, after the mother. Far from it. He loved herwith a sort of slow, passive love, and he could be seen onan afternoon rocking the wee bundle in his stout armsand whispering to her crooning Cantonese fairy-lilts: allabout the god of small children whose face is a candiedplum, so that the babes like to hug and kiss him and, ofcourse, lick his face with their little pink tongues.

But this time there was no christening, no gorgeousmagenta-lettered invitations sent to the chosen, no happyprophecies about the future.

This time there were no precious presents of greenjade and white jade heaped on the couch of the youngmother.

She noticed it. But she did not complain. She saidto herself that her husband’s new enterprise was swallowingall his cash; and one night she asked him how the newrestaurant was progressing.

“What new restaurant?” he asked blandly.

“The one up-town, Toodles—for the baby—”

Nag Hong Fah laughed carelessly.

“Oh—I gave up that option. Didn’t lose much.”

Fanny sat up straight, clutching little Fanny to her.

“You—you gave it up?” she asked. “Wottyamean—gave it up?”

Then suddenly inspired by some whisper of suspicion,her voice leaping up extraordinarily strong: “You meanyou gave it up—because—because little Fanny is—agoil?”

He agreed with a smiling nod.

“To be sure! A girl is fit only to bear children andclean the household pots.”

He said it without any brutality, without any consciousmale superiority; simply as a statement of fact. Amelancholy fact, doubtless. But a fact, unchangeable,stony.

“But—but—” Fanny’s gutter flow of words flounderedin the eddy of her amazement, her hurt pride andvanity. “I’m a woman myself—an’ I—”

“Assuredly you are a woman and you have done yourduty. You have borne me a son. Perhaps, if the omensbe favorable you will bear me yet another. But this—thisgirl—” He dismissed little Fanny with a wave ofhis pudgy, dimpled hand as a regrettable accident, andcontinued, soothingly: “She will be taken care of. AlreadyI have written to friends of our clan in SanFrancisco to arrange for a suitable disposal when thebaby has reached the right age.” He said it in his mellow,precise English. He had learned it at a night-school,where he had been the pride and honor of his class.

Fanny had risen. She left her couch. With a swish-swishof knitted bed-slippers she loomed up on the ringof faint light shed by the swinging petroleum lamp inthe center of the room. She approached her husband, thebaby held close to her heart with her left hand, her righthand aimed at Nag Hong Fah’s solid chest like a pistol.Her deep-set, violet-blue eyes seemed to pierce throughhim.

But the Chinese blood in her veins—shrewd, patient—scotchedthe violence of her American passion, herAmerican sense of loudly clamoring for right and justiceand fairness. She controlled herself. The accusinghand relaxed and fell gently on the man’s shoulder. Shewas fighting for her daughter, fighting for the drop ofwhite blood in her veins, and it would not do to lose hertemper.

“Looka here, Chinkie-Toodles,” she said. “You callyerself a Christian, don’t yer? A Christian an’ an American.Well, have a heart. An’ some sense! This ain’tChina, Toodles. Lil Fanny ain’t goin’ to be weighed an’sold to some rich brother Chink at so many seeds perpound. Not much! She’s gonna be eddycated. She’sgonna have her chance, see? She’s gonna be independentof the male beast an’ the sorta life wot the male beastlikes to hand to a skoit. Believe me, Toodles, I knowwhat I’m talkin’ about!”

But he shook his stubborn head. “All has been settled,”he replied. “Most satisfactorily settled!”

He turned to go. But she rushed up to him. Sheclutched his sleeve.

“Yer—yer don’t mean it? Yer can’t mean it!” shestammered.

“I do, fool!” He made a slight, weary gesture as ifbrushing away the incomprehensible. “You are a woman—youdo not understand—”

“Don’t I, though!”

She spoke through her teeth. Her words clicked andbroke like dropping icicles. Swiftly her passion turnedinto stone, and as swiftly back again, leaping out in agreat, spattering stream of abuse.

“Yer damned, yellow, stinkin’ Chink! Yer—yer—Wottyamean—makin’ me bear children—yer own children—an’then—” Little Fanny was beginning tohowl lustily and she covered her face with kisses. “Say,kiddie, it’s a helluva dad you’ve drawn! A helluvadad! Look at him—standin’ there! Greasy an’ yellowan’— Say—he’s willin’ to sell yer into slavery tosome other beast of a Chink! Say—”

“You are a—ah—a Chink yourself, fool!”

“I ain’t! I’m white—an’ square—an’ decent—an’—”

“Ah!”

He lit a cigarette and smiled placidly, and suddenlyshe knew that it would be impossible to argue, to pleadwith him. Might as well plead with some sardonic,deaf immensity, without nerves, without heart. Andthen, womanlike, the greater wrong disappeared in thelesser.

“Ye’re right. I’m part Chink myself—an’ damnedsorry for myself because of it! An’ that’s why I knowwhy yer gave me no presents when lil Fanny was born.Because she’s a girl! As if that was my fault, yer fat,sneerin’ slob, yer! Yah! That’s why yer gave me nopresents—I know! I know what it means when aChink don’t give no presents to his wife when she givesboith to a child! Make me lose face—that’s wottya callit, ain’t it? An’ I thought fer a while yer was savin’ upthe ducats to give lil Fanny a start in life!

“Well, yer got another guess comin’! Yer gonna dowot I tell yer, see? Yer gonna open up that there newrestaurant up-town, an’ yer gonna give me presents!A bracelet, that’s what I want! None o’ yer measlyChink jade, either; but the real thing, get me? Gold an’diamonds, see?” and she was still talking as he, unmoved,silent, smiling, left the room and went down the creakingstairs to find solace in the spiced cups of the Palace ofSweet Desire and Heavenly Entertainment.

She rushed up to the window and threw it wide. Sheleaned far out, her hair framing her face like a glorious,disordered aureole, her loose robe slipping from hergleaming shoulders, her violet eyes blazing fire andhatred.

She shouted at his fat, receding back:

“A bracelet, that’s what I want! That’s what I’mgonna get, see? Gold an’ diamonds! Gold an’ diamonds,yer yellow pig, yer!”

It was at that moment that Yung Long passed herhouse. He heard, looked up, and greeted her courteously,as was his wont. But this time he did not go straight onhis way. He looked at her for several seconds, taking inthe soft lines of her neck and shoulders, the small, paleoval of her face with the crimson of her broad, generousmouth, the white flash of her small, even teeth, and theblue, sombre orbit of her eyes. With the light of thelamp shining in back, a breeze rushing in front past theopen window, the wide sleeves of her dressing-gownfluttered like immense, rosy butterfly-wings.

Instinctively she returned his gaze. Instinctively,straight through her rage and heartache, the old thoughtcame to her mind:

Swell looker—that Chink!

And then, without realizing what she was doing, herlips had formed the thought into words:

“Swell looker!”

She said it in a headlong and vehement whisper thatdrifted down, through the whirling reek of Pell Street—sharp,sibilant, like a message.

Yung Long smiled, raised his neat bowler hat, andwent on his way.

Night after night Fanny returned to the attack, cajoling,caressing, threatening, cursing.

“Listen here, Chinkie-Toodles—”

But she might as well have tried to argue with thesphinx for all the impression she made on her eternallysmiling lord. He would drop his amorphous body intoa comfortable rocker, moving it up and down with the tipsof his felt-slippered feet, a cigarette hanging looselyfrom the right corner of his coarse, sagging lips, a cupof lukewarm rice whisky convenient to his elbow, andwatch her as he might the gyrations of an exotic beetlewhose wings had been burned off. She amused him.But after a while continuous repetition palled the amusementinto monotony, and, correctly Chinese, he decidedto make a formal complaint to Brian O’Neill, the Bowerysaloon-keeper, who called himself her uncle.

Life, to that prodigal of Erin, was a rather sunnyarrangement of small conveniences and small, pleasantvices. He laughed in his throat and called his “nephew”a damned, sentimental fool.

“Beat her up!” was his calm, matter-of-fact advice.“Give her a good old hiding, an’ she’ll feed outa yerhand, me lad!”

“I have—ah—your official permission, as head ofher family?”

“Sure. Wait. I’ll lend ye me blackthorn. Sheknows the taste of it.”

Nag Hong Fah took both advice and blackthorn.That night he gave Fanny a severe beating and repeatedthe performance every night for a week until she subsided.

Once more she became the model wife, and happinessreturned to the stout bosom of her husband. Even MissRutter, the social settlement investigator, commentedupon it. “Real love is a shelter of inexpugnable peace,”she said when she saw the Nag Hong Fah family walkingdown Pell Street, little Brian toddling on ahead, thebaby cuddled in her mother’s arms.

Generously Nag Hong Fah overlooked his wife’s pettywomanish vanities; and when she came home one afternoon,flushed, excited, exhibiting a shimmering braceletthat was encircling her wrist, “just imitation gold an’diamonds, Chinkie-Toodles!” she explained. “Boughtit outa my savings—thought yer wouldn’t mind, see?Thought it wouldn’t hurt yer none if them Chinks hereaboutsthink it was the real dope an’ yer gave it to me”—hesmiled and took her upon his knee as of old.

“Yes, yes,” he said, his pudgy hand fondling the intensegolden gleam of her tresses. “It is all right. Perhaps—ifyou bear me another son—I shall give you areal bracelet, real gold, real diamonds. Meanwhile youmay wear this bauble.”

As before she hugged jealously her proclaimed freedomof asphalt and electric lights. Nor did he raise theslightest objections. He had agreed to it at the time oftheir marriage and, being a righteous man, he kept to hispart of the bargain with serene punctiliousness.

Brian Neill, whom he chanced to meet one afternoon inSeñora Garcia’s second-hand emporium, told him it wasall right.

“That beatin’ ye gave her didn’t do her any harm, mebeloved nephew,” he said. “She’s square. God helpthe lad who tries to pass a bit o’ blarney to her.” Hechuckled in remembrance of a Finnish sailor who hadbeaten a sudden and undignified retreat from the backparlor into the saloon, with a ragged scratch crimsoninghis face and bitter words about the female of the speciescrowding his lips. “Faith, she’s square! Sits there withher little glass o’ gin an’ her auld chum, Mamie Ryan—an’them two chews the rag by the hour—talkin’ aboutfrocks an’ frills, I doubt not—”

Of course, once in a while she would return home alittle the worse for liquor. But Nag Hong Fah, being aChinaman, would mantle such small shortcomings withthe wide charity of his personal laxity.

“Better a drunken wife who cooks well and washesthe children and keeps her tongue between her teeth,than a sober wife who reeks with virtue and breaks thehousehold pots,” he said to Nag Hop Fat, the soothsayer.“Better an honorable pig than a cracked rosebottle.”

“Indeed! Better a fleet mule than a hamstrung horse,”the other wound up the pleasant round of Oriental metaphors,and he reënforced his opinion with a chosen andappropriate quotation from the “Fo-Sho-Hing-Tsan-King.”

When late one night that winter, a high wind boomingfrom the north and washing the snow-dusted Pell Streethouses with its cutting blast, Fanny came home witha jag, a chill, and a hacking cough, and went downwith pneumonia seven hours later, Nag Hong Fah wasgenuinely sorry. He turned the management of hisrestaurant over to his brother, Nag Sen Yat, and sat byhis wife’s bed, whispering words of encouragement,bathing her feverish forehead, changing her sheets, administeringmedicine, doing everything with fingers assoft and deft as a woman’s.

Even after the doctor had told him three nights laterthat the case was hopeless and that Fanny would die—evenafter, as a man of constructive and practical brain,he had excused himself for a few minutes and had satdown in the back room to write a line to Yung Quai, hisdivorced wife in San Francisco, bidding her hold herselfin readiness and including a hundred dollars for transportation—hecontinued to treat Fanny Mei Hi with theutmost gentleness and patience.

Tossing on her hot pillows, she could hear him in thelong watches of the night breathing faintly, clearing histhroat cautiously so as not to disturb her; and on Mondaymorning—he had lifted her up and was holding herclose to help her resist the frightful, hacking cough thatwas shaking her wasted frame—he told her that he hadreconsidered about little Fanny.

“You are going to die,” he said placidly, in a way,apologetically, “and it is fitting that your daughter shouldmake proper obeisance to your departed spirit. A child’sdevotion is best stimulated by gratitude. And little Fannyshall be grateful to you. For she will go to a goodAmerican school and, to pay for it, I shall sell your possessionsafter you are dead. The white jade bracelet,the earrings of green jade, the red sables—they willbring over four thousand dollars. Even this littlebauble”—he slipped the glittering bracelet from her thinwrist—“this, too, will bring a few dollars. Ten, perhapstwelve; I know a dealer of such trifles in MottStreet who—”

“Say!”

Her voice cut in, raucous, challenging. She hadwriggled out of his arms. An opaque glaze had comeover her violet-blue eyes. Her whole body trembled.But she pulled herself on her elbows with a terrible,straining effort, refusing the support of his ready hands.

“Say! How much did yer say this here bracelet’sworth?”

He smiled gently. He did not want to hurt herwoman’s vanity. So he increased his first appraisal.

“Twenty dollars,” he suggested. “Perhaps twenty-one.Do not worry. It shall be sold to the best advantage—foryour little daughter—”

And then, quite suddenly, Fanny burst into laughter—gurglinglaughter that shook her body, choked her throat,and leaped out in a stream of blood from her torturedlungs.

“Twenty dollars!” she cried, “Twenty-one! Say,you poor cheese, that bracelet alone’ll pay for lil Fanny’seddycation. It’s worth three thousand! It’s real, real—goldan’ diamonds! Gold an’ diamonds! Yung Longgave it to me, yer poor fool!” And she fell back anddied, a smile upon her face, which made her look like asleeping child, wistful and perverse.

A day after his wife’s funeral Nag Hong Fah, havingsent a ceremonious letter, called on Yung Long in thelatter’s store. In the motley, twisted annals of Pell Streetthe meeting, in the course of time, has assumed the characterof something epic, something Homeric, somethingalmost religious. It is mentioned with pride by boththe Nag and the Yung clans; the tale of it has driftedto the Pacific Coast; and even in far China wise menspeak of it with a hush of reverence as they drift downthe river on their painted house-boats in peach-blossomtime.

Yung Long received his caller at the open door of hisshop.

“Deign to enter first,” he said, bowing.

Nag Hong Fah bowed still lower.

“How could I dare to?” he retorted, quoting a linefrom the “Book of Ceremonies and Exterior Demonstrations,”which proved that the manner is the heart’s innerfeeling.

“Please deign to enter first,” Yung Long emphasized,and again the other gave the correct reply: “How shouldI dare?”

Then, after a final request, still protesting, he enteredas he was bidden. The grocer followed, walked to theeast side of the store and indicated the west side to hisvisitor as Chinese courtesy demands.

“Deign to choose your mat,” he went on and, afterseveral coy refusals, Nag Hong Fah obeyed again, satdown, and smiled gently at his host.

“A pipe?” suggested the latter.

“Thanks! A simple pipe of bamboo, please, with aplain bamboo mouthpiece and no ornaments!”

“No, no!” protested Yung Long. “You will smokea precious pipe of jade with a carved amber mouthpieceand crimson tassels!”

He clapped his hands, whereupon one of his youngcousins entered with a tray of nacre, supporting an opium-lamp,pipes and needles and bowls, and horn and ivoryboxes neatly arranged. A minute later the brown opiumcube was sizzling over the open flame, the jade pipe wasfilled and passed to Nag Hong Fah, who inhaled the gray,acrid smoke with all the strength of his lungs, then returnedthe pipe to the boy, who refilled it and passed itto Yung Long.

For a while the two men smoked in silence—men ofPell Street, men of lowly trade, yet men at whose backthree thousand years of unbroken racial history, racialpride, racial achievements, and racial calm, were sittingin a solemn, graven row—thus dignified men.

Yung Long was caressing his cheek with his righthand. The dying, crimson sunlight danced and glitteredon his well-polished finger-nails.

Finally he broke the silence.

“Your wife is dead,” he said with a little mournfulcadence at the end of the sentence.

“Yes.” Nag Hong Fah inclined his head sadly; andafter a short pause: “My friend, it is indeed reasonableto think that young men are fools, their brains hot andcrimson with the blinding mists of passion, while wisdomand calm are the splendid attributes of older men—”

“Such as—you and I?”

“Indeed!” decisively.

Yung Long raised himself on his elbows. His obliqueeyes flashed a scrutinizing look and the other winked aslow wink and remarked casually that a wise and old manmust first peer into the nature of things, then widen hisknowledge, then harden his will, then control the impulsesof his heart, then entirely correct himself—then establishgood order in his family.

“Truly spoken,” agreed Yung Long. “Truly spoken,O wise and older brother! A family! A family needsthe strength of a man and the soft obedience of a woman.”

“Mine is dead,” sighed Nag Hong Fah. “My householdis upset. My children cry.”

Yung Long slipped a little fan from his wide silkensleeves and opened it slowly.

“I have a sister,” he said gently, “Yung Quai, a childlesswoman who once was your wife, O wise and olderbrother.”

“A most honorable woman!” Nag Hong Fah shut hiseyes and went on: “I wrote to her five days ago, sendingher money for her railway fare to New York.”

“Ah!” softly breathed the grocer; and there followedanother silence.

Yung Long’s young cousin was kneading, against thepipe, the dark opium cubes which the flame graduallychanged into gold and amber.

“Please smoke,” advised the grocer.

Nag Hong Fah had shut his eyes completely, and hisfat face, yellow as old parchment, seemed to have grownindifferent, dull, almost sleepy.

Presently he spoke:

“Your honorable sister, Yung Quai, will make a mostexcellent mother for the children of my late wife.”

“Indeed.”

There was another silence, again broken by Nag HongFah. His voice held a great calmness, a gentle singsong,a bronze quality which was like the soft rubbing of anancient temple gong, green with the patina of the swingingcenturies.

“My friend,” he said, “there is the matter of ashimmering bracelet given by you to my late wife—”

Yung Long looked up quickly; then down again as hesaw the peaceful expression on the other’s bland featuresand heard him continue:

“For a while I misunderstood. My heart was blinded.My soul was seared with rage. I—I am ashamed toown up to it—I harbored harsh feelings against you.Then I considered that you were the older brother ofYung Quai and a most honorable man. I considered thatin giving the bracelet to my wife you doubtless meant toshow your appreciation for me, your friend, her husband.Am I not right?”

Yung Long had filled his lungs with another bowlfulof opium smoke. He was leaning back, both shoulderson the mat so as the better to dilate his chest and to keephis lungs filled all the longer with the fumes of the kindlyphilosophic drug.

“Yes,” he replied after a minute or two. “Your indulgentlips have pronounced words full of harmony andreason. Only—there is yet another trifling matter.”

“Name it. It shall be honorably solved.”

Yung Long sat up and fanned himself slowly.

“At the time when I arranged a meeting with themother of your children,” he said, “so as to speak to herof my respectful friendship for you and to bestow uponher a shimmering bracelet in proof of it, I was afraid ofthe wagging, leaky tongues of Pell Street. I was afraidof scandal and gossip. I therefore met your wife in theback room of Señora Garcia’s store, on the Bowery.Since then I have come to the conclusion that perhapsI acted foolishly. For the foreign woman may have misinterpretedmy motives. She may talk, thus causing youas well as me to lose face, and besmirching the departedspirit of your wife. What sayeth the ‘Li-Ki’? ‘What iswhispered in the private apartments must not be shoutedoutside.’ Do you not think that this foreign womanshould—ah—”

Nag Hong Fah smiled affectionately upon the other.

“You have spoken true words, O wise and olderbrother,” he said rising. “It is necessary for your andmy honor, as well as for the honor of my wife’s departedspirit, that the foreign woman should not wag hertongue. I shall see to it to-night.” He waved a fat,deprecating hand. “Yes—yes. I shall see to it. It is asimple act of family piety—but otherwise without muchimportance.”

And he bowed, left the store, and returned to his houseto get his lean knife.

CRUELTIES

The bell tinkled as Mrs. Tyarck entered the littleshop. She looked about her and smiled pityingly.The dim cases and counters were in dusty disarray, somecards of needlework had tumbled to the floor, a drawershowing a wrinkled jumble of tissue-paper patternscaught the last rays of the setting sun.

“Of all the sights!” was Mrs. Tyarck’s comment.“She needs some one to help her. She needs new taste.Them buttons, now, who’d buy ’em? They belong to theyear one.”

Scornfully the shopper eyed the shelves where wereboxes of buttons dating back to periods of red and blackglass. There were transparent buttons with lions crouchingwithin; there were bronze buttons with Japaneseladies smiling against gay parasols; speckled buttons withsnow, hail, and planetary disturbances occurring withintheir circumscribed limits, and large mourning buttonswith white lilies drooping upon their hard surfaces.Each box had a sample button sewn on its cover, andthese sample buttons, like eyes of a bygone century, glimmeredwatchfully.

Mrs. Tyarck penetrated a screen of raw-coloredworsteds suspended in fat hanks from a sort of clothes-linestretched above the counter. She sought the proprietorof the little shop. In the back of the store, barricadedby a hodge-podge of scattered merchandise, was a doorleading to a private room. Toward this door she directeda commanding voice:

“Frenzy! Frenzy Giddings! How long I got to waithere?”

There was an apologetic stir in the back room, the genteelclick of a spoon in a saucer, soft hurried creakings,then a bony hand pushed back a faded curtain. MissFrances Giddings, known among her acquaintances as“Frenzy,” peered from the privacy of her kitchen intothe uncertainties of the shop.

“I shall be with you presently.”

When the tall figure finally emerged, her feet shuffledin carpet-slippered indecision, her glasses glimmered irresolutely.In another woman there might have been, outof recognition of Mrs. Tyarck’s impatience, bustling hasteand nervous despatch. In Miss Frenzy Giddings therewas merely slow, gentle concern.

“I am at a loss to explain my unreadiness,” said thepunctilious, cracked voice. “Usually on prayer-meetingnights I am, if anything, in advance of the hour, but to-nightI regret exceedingly that, without realizing the extentof time, I became over-absorbed in the anxieties ofmy garden. Now select the article you desire and I willendeavor to make amends.”

“What ails your garden?” asked Mrs. Tyarck, carelesslyadding, “I come in for some new kitchen toweling;that last I got down to the other store was slazy.”

Miss Frenzy, with careful inefficiency, lifted down andarranged on a dusty counter three bolts of toweling.With deliberation as unconscious as it was accustomed,she unwrapped the three, the cracked voice explaining,“The perturbation to which I allude is the extraordinaryclaims made upon me by rose-worms.”

Mrs. Tyarck, peering in the dim light, carefully examinedthe toweling. She pulled a few threads from onebolt and, with the air of one who protects herself againstsystematic fraud, proceeded ostentatiously to chew them.

“This here toweling gone up any?” The threads ofthe assayed linen still lingered on her thin lips as shedecided. “If it’s the same price it was, I’ll take twoyards.” Then, returning to the question of lesser importance,“Well, I can’t help you none with them wormsuntil you tell me whether they’re chewers or suckers.”

Miss Frenzy, putting on a second pair of glasses overthose she habitually wore, now essayed the project of cuttingoff the two yards of toweling.

“Chewers or—er—ahem, suckers? I really cannotsay. Shall you be astonished at my negligence when Itell you that I have not yet taken the measures to determinewhether these worms are, as you so grotesquelyterm them, chewers or—er—ahem, suckers?”

Mrs. Tyarck laughed sarcastically. “For Heaven’ssake, Frenzy Giddings! it’s a wonder to me you knowanything, the time you take with your words! You ain’tacquainted with your own stock, I see, for here you’vecut me off two yards of the twenty-cent when I asked forthe ten-cent. Well, it’s your mistake, so I’ll take it asif ’t wuz what I’m payin’ for; but look here, Frenzy, you’veno call to be wool-gatherin’ your time of life.”

The rough criticism had no effect upon the native eleganceof the old shopkeeper. She smiled at Mrs.Tyarck’s outburst with an air of polite, if detached, sympathy.Dropping her scissors, she turned to the window,poking her head between hanging flannel nightgowns toremark:

“Pleasant weather and many taking advantage of it;were I not occupied I, too, should promenade.”

Mrs. Tyarck meanwhile creaked about the little storeon a tour of inspection. Some especially frivolous setsof “Hair Goods” underwent her instant repudiation.“I wear my own, thank God!” she exclaimed, adding,“it’s good enough for Tyarck and me.” Picking up acluster of children’s handkerchiefs, she carried them tothe window for more complete condemnation, muttering:“Ark-animals and butterflies! Now what’s all that foolishnessgot to do with the nose?” As Mrs. Tyarck stoodapostrophizing the handkerchiefs there was a whir outsidethe store, the toot of a claxon, a girl’s excited laugh,the flash of a scarlet jersey and tam-o’-shanter. The twowomen, lowering their heads after the furtive fashionthat obtains in country districts, took the thing in. Theystared after the automobile.

“Pleasure-riding, I see,” remarked the near-sightedMiss Frenzy. “Young folks appreciate the automobiles;the extreme velocity seems peculiarly to gratify theirfancy!”

Mrs. Tyarck pursed up her lips; she looked with narrowspeculation after the pair, her thin face hardening.

“Them two is going out to the Forked Road SupperHouse,” she prophesied. “No daughter of minewouldn’t be allowed to set foot in that place. Well,you’re lookin’ at two of a kind. That red sweater of hernwon’t help her none.”

Miss Frenzy, now sorting change in slow pensiveness,demurred. “She is young,” she remarked. “She enteredthe store recently for some scarlet wool for thatvery jersey” (Miss Frenzy was at pains to avoid theword “sweater”), “and I observed her young cheeks—quitelike peaches, yes,” insisted Miss Frenzy, sentimentally,“quite like peaches—I could wish that she shouldbe careful of her complexion and not ride too extensivelyin the cold air.”

“There’s more to be thought of than complexions,these days,” said the other woman, coldly. There wasrelentless judgment in her face, but she went on: “Well,’tain’t meetin’-time yet. Say I step back and take a lookat them worms ’n’ see ef there’s anything I canrecommend.”

The thin figure of the shopkeeper preceding her, andMrs. Tyarck casting looks of disparagement on all shepassed, the two took their way into the little garden.Here, enclosed by high palings, shut away from everythingbut sun and air, was Miss Frenzy’s kingdom, andhere there came a sudden change in her manner. Shedid not lose the careful elegance of the polite shopkeeper,but into gesture and voice crept an authority, the subtlesense of ownership and power invariably felt by thosewho own a bit of land, who can make things grow.

“Step judiciously,” she admonished her visitor; “mycucumber-frames are somewhat eliminated by the tallverdure: here and there I have set out new plants. Ishould deplore having my arrangements disturbed.”

Mrs. Tyarck sniffed. “You and your garden!” sheejaculated; but she resolutely made her way, eyes squintingwith curiosity. Settling her hat, whose black wingstuck out with a virtuous swagger, Mrs. Tyarck gave herselfall the married woman’s amusement over the putteringconcerns of a spinster.

Soon, however, as the two women stole farther into thedense square of growing things, the envy of the naturalflower-lover crept into her sharp comments. “My!” shesaid, jealously—“my! ain’t your white duchy doin’good? Say, look at them gooseberries! I suspect youdon’t have no particular use for ’em?” It was said ofMrs. Tyarck that she was skilful at paving the way forgifts of any kind. She made this last suggestion with ahard, conscious laugh.

All around the little garden was a fence like the highfences in London suburbs. Close against it honeysucklepoured saffron cascades, a mulberry-tree showed the beginningof conical fruitage. Blackberry vines sprayedwhite stars over a sunny bit of stone wall. Amid a patchof feathery grasses swayed the prim carillons of canterbury-bells;soft gaieties of sweet-williams and phlox weremassed against the silvery weather-boarding of MissFrenzy’s kitchen. As the two women, skirts held high,paused in front of the white-rose bush the indefatigabilityof the chewers and suckers was revealed. Alreadythousands of young rose leaves were eaten to the greenframework. Miss Frenzy, with a sudden exclamation,bent to a branch on which were clusters of dainty buds.

“Ah-ah! Millions!” she whispered. Then, tremulouslydefying the worms: “No, no, no! How dareyou? Hi, hi, hi! there’s another! Ugh! Look here!Mercy! See that spray!”

With every ejaculation, shudderingly emitted, the bonyhand went out like lightning, plucked something gingerlyfrom a leaf, gave it a swift, vindictive pinch, and abhorrentlytossed it away.

“That’s right,” nodded Mrs. Tyarck. “Squeeze ’emand heave ’em—it’s about all you can do. They’ll try totake advantage of you every time! There’s no gratitudein worms! They ain’t pertikler. It don’t mean nothingto them that roses is pretty or grows good. They want toeat. Squeeze ’em and heave ’em! It’s all you can do!”

There was a distant tinkle of the store bell. MissFrenzy, absorbed in her daily horror, did not hear this.“Ugh! Ugh!” she was moaning. Again the long handwent out in a capturing gesture. “There—there! Itold you so; quantities more, quantities! Yet last nightI was under the impression that I had disposed of thegreater majority.”

Mrs. Tyarck’s attention was diverted from the rose-wormsand concentrated on the deserted shop. “I heardthe bell,” warned that accurate lady. Then, reprovingly:“Don’t you never have any one to keep store when you’reout here? You’ll lose custom, Frenzy. What’s more,if you ain’t careful, you’ll lose stock. Ivy Corners ain’twhat it used to be; there’s them Eastern peddlers thatwalks around as big as life, and speakin’ English to fooleverybody; and now, with the war and all, every otherperson you see is a German spy.”

As she spoke a large form appeared in the back doorwayof Miss Frenzy’s shop and a primly dressed womanentered the garden. She had a curiously large and blankface. She wore a mannishly made suit of slate-gray,wiry material, and her hat had two large pins of greenwhich, inserted in front, glittered high on her foreheadlike bulbous, misplaced eyes. This lady carried a nettedcatch-all distended with many knobby parcels and abundle of tracts. As she saw the two in the garden shestretched her formless mouth over the white smile of recentlyinstalled porcelain, but the long reaches of her facehad no radiance. The lady was, however, furnished witha curious catarrhal hawking which she used parenthetically,like comment. What she now had to say she prefacedwith this juridic hawking.

“Well, there ain’t no responsibility here, I see! Storedoor open, nobody around! Them two young ones ofSmedge’s lookin’ in at the things, rubbin’ their dirtyhands all over the glass case, choosin’ what’s their favoritedry-goods! All I can say is, Frenzy, that eitheryou trust yourself too much or you expect that Seraphamand Cherabum is going to keep store for you.”

Mrs. Tyarck turned as to a kindred spirit, remarking,with a contemptuous wink: “Frenzy’s rose-worms is onher mind. Seems she’s overrun with ’em.”

Mrs. Capron, the newcomer, strode up the little pathto the scene of action, but at the sharp exclamation ofMiss Frenzy she halted.

“Have a care!” said the gaunt shopkeeper, authoritatively.She waved a bony hand in ceremonious warning.“I should have warned you before,” explained MissFrenzy, “but the impediment in your way is my cat-trap.It would seem that I am systematically pestered withmarauding cats. The annoyance continuing for sometime, I am obliged to originate devices that curtail theirpenetrations.”

Mrs. Capron, indignantly whisking her skirt away froma strange-looking arrangement of corset steels and barrelstaves connected by wires, strode into some deep grass,then gave vent to a majestic hawk of displeasure:

“What’s this I got on my shoes? Fly-paper? Forthe land’s sake! Now how in the name of Job do I getthat off?”

Mrs. Tyarck, ingratiatingly perturbed, came to the rescueof her friend; the two wrestled with adhesive bits ofpaper, but certain fragments, affected by contact, fulfilledtheir utmost prerogative and were not detachable. Whenthey were finally prevailed upon to leave the shoe of Mrs.Capron, they stuck with surprising pertinacity to theglove of her friend. The outcries of the two ladies werefull of disgust and criticism.

“Well, Frenzy Giddings! You need a man in here!Some one to clean up after you. All this old paper ’n’stuff around! It’s a wonder you don’t get into it yourself,but then you know where to step,” they said,grudgingly.

Miss Frenzy hardly heard them; she was still peeringcarefully under the leaves and around the many clustersof babyish rosebuds. “Ah-ah!” she was still saying,shudderingly. Out went her hand with the same abhorrentgesture. “After all my watchfulness! Another,and another!”

Mrs. Capron, indignant over this indifference to herfly-paper discomfort, now sought recognition of the damagesshe had sustained:

“I dun’no’ will this plaguey stuff ever come off mymohair! Well, I’ll never set foot in here again! Say,Frenzy, I can send up one of my boys to-morrow andhe’ll clean up for you, fly-paper and all, for ten cents.”

For a moment Miss Frenzy hesitated. She stood talland sheltering over the rose-bush, the little shawl thrownover her shoulders lifted in the breeze. She looked somethinglike a gray moth: her arms long and thin like antennæ,her spectacled eyes, gave her a moth’s fateful lookof flutter and blindness before light and scorching flame.

“You are most kind, but”—with a discouraged sigh—“itcannot be done.”

“It can’t be done?” hawked Mrs. Capron.

Mrs. Tyarck turned a sharp look of disapprovalaround the little garden, saying in a low tone, “It’s reelsloven in here; she’d ought to do something for it.”

“Yes,” insisted Mrs. Capron, “you want cleaning upin here; that’s what. That seedy grass! Them raggedvines! Your flowers overrun you—and that there fly-paper—”

Miss Frenzy sought to change the subject. With anair of obstinacy that sat curiously upon her, she directedthe attention of her visitors to a young tree shooting upin green assurance.

“My mystery,” she announced, with gentle archness.“Not planted by human hands. Undoubtedly a seeddropped by a bird in flight. A fruit-tree, I suspect—possiblycherry, but whether wild or of the domestic speciesremains to be seen; only the fruit will solve the enigma.”

Mrs. Capron and Mrs. Tyarck regarded the little treecarelessly. “Wild,” they pronounced as one woman,adding: “Wild cherry. When it’s big, it will dirty youryard something fearful.”

“I had a friend,” related Mrs. Tyarck. “Her husbandwas a Mason. Seems she had a wild cherry-tree into heryard and she could never lay out a piece of light goodsfor bleachin’ without fear of stains, and then the flies andthe sparrers racketin’ around all summer—why, it nearlydruv her crazy!”

Miss Frenzy ignored these comments. “My mystery,”she repeated, with reflecting eyes. “The seed droppedby a bird in flight. Only the fruit will solve the enigma.”With an air of ceremonious explanation, Miss Giddingsturned to the two visitors. “I should acquaint you,” sheremarked in soft courtesy, “with the fact that, much asI regret the necessity of the fly-paper, it is, as you mightsay, calculated.”

“Calculated!” With a gasp Mrs. Tyarck took off andbegan to polish her glasses; she kept two hard little eyesfixed on the speaker.

Mrs. Capron forgot to hawk. “Calculated?”

“It is to arrest the depredations of ants,” confessedMiss Frenzy. She looked from one to the other withgreat dignity, supplementing: “I have long sufferedgreatly from the onslaughts of ants, both red and black.With the fly-paper, judiciously placed, I have hoped tocurtail their activities.”

It had grown a little grayer of twilight; the two visitors,trapped as it were within the high board enclosures,fenced all about with sweeps of tangled vine, the paleglimmering of ghostly blossoms, felt uncomfortable.With slow suspicion they moved away from one sofrankly the author of gin and pitfall; from one who couldso calmly admit that bits of fly-paper dribbling about hergarden paths were “calculated.” “Who was it,” whisperedMrs. Tyarck, darkly—“who was it once said thatFrenzy was sort of odd?” The two visitors moved instinctivelytoward a way of exit. With one more sighMiss Frenzy reluctantly followed them. As they castabout in their minds for means of final reproof, shepaused at the kitchen door. There, where a rain-barrelstood under a leader, was a bit of soap in a flower-potsaucer; seizing it, the old shopkeeper began vigorouslywashing her hands.

“Five waters,” sighed Miss Frenzy—“five waters,before I can feel that my hands are in any degreecleansed!”

The others stood watching her. Instantly they seizedthe opportunity.

“Well, I should think so.” Mrs. Capron hawked hersuperior virtue. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Frenzy.Nice work indeed you’ve been doin’ with them hands!Murderin’ and slayin’! Why can’t you live and let live(unless, of course, it’s rats or mosquitoes)? Now yougo and get the blood of them innercent worms on yourshoulders! Why couldn’t you let ’em go on feedin’where their Creator wanted ’em to feed?”

They looked at her.

“All them different cruelties,” they commented—“fly-paperto track them ignorant ants onto, and thatthere trap for cats.... Well, you got more spots ontoyour soul than soap can take off. ‘Thou shalt not kill,’it says. Why”—this burst of feeling from Mrs.Tyarck—“why, it’s all I can do to set foot on aspider!”

“And look at me with wasps!” exclaimed Mrs. Capron.“How many wasps I’ve let go for their enjoymentof life, even though, for all I know, next thing theymight sting me or one of mine.”

Mrs. Capron, getting warm and virtuous, sat down inthe kitchen doorway. Opening the netted catchall, shetook out therefrom a bundle of tracts. This lady was theimportant local officer of many humanitarian societiesand lost no opportunity to improve the morale of hercommunity. The tract she selected for Miss Frenzy wasof an impressive blue with the title, “Deal Tenderly withthe Humble Animals that Cannot Speak.”

“Now think of them ants,” exhorted Mrs. Capron.She looked hard at Miss Frenzy Giddings. “Thinkof them thoughtless ants runnin’ onto that fly-paperand not able to call out to the others what’s happenedto ’em!”

“You’re like me,” said Mrs. Tyarck. Taking herhandkerchief, she wet it in the rain-barrel and obsequiouslyattempted to rub off a slight fly-paper stickinessstill on the mohair of her friend. “You’re like me.I’m that tender-hearted I can’t even boil a lobster. Iwas so from a child. Come time the kettle boils it’sTyarck always has to put the lobster in—me all of atremble!”

“And flies,” suggested Mrs. Capron—“there’s amany thinks that flies has got souls (though not theBoard of Health). But even flies—look at me! I keepsugar and molasses for ’em in their own saucer, and ifthey come to their last end that way, why, they must dielikin’ it, and it’s what they chose for theirselves.”

Mrs. Capron drew the string of her netted catchalltight. She hawked, drew her upper lip down over thelower, and buttoned up the tight-fitting coat of mohair.

“Them cruelties of yourn will haunt you, Frenzy,”summed up both ladies; “there’s verses in the Bible forjust such things,” exclaimed the visitors together; thenthey all went in, the two friends turning their attention toMiss Giddings’s household arrangements, offering heradvice and counsel as to her clothes and the managementof her kitchen range.

There were no more words about the cruelties exceptthat that night in the long, wandering prayer in whichMrs. Capron, as leader of the meeting, had ample opportunityto score against any one whom she fancied delinquent,or against whom she had a private grudge, she insertedinto her petition:

“And from all needless cruelties, keep us, O Lord.The bird that hops onto our sill”—Mrs. Capron did notspecify whether sparrow or nightingale, but she imploredfervently—“help us to remember it’s one of Thy birdsand set no snare for it, and the—er—the innercentcreepin’ things mindin’ their own business and praisin’Thee—defend ’em from our impident croolties ... helpus to live and let live and refrain from all light-mindedkillin’ and irreligious trap-settin’.”

Little Johnnie Tyarck, sitting big-eared and thin-facedalongside of his mother’s angular orisons, rubbed puzzledeyes. Johnnie wondered if Mrs. Capron, always severein her attitude toward boys, could possibly have learnedabout those twenty-five hop-toads he had corralled in asewer-pipe, carefully stopping up the ends of the pipewith mud and stones. The interned hop-toads hadhaunted Johnnie—and yet—and yet— Well, there wassomething insolent and forthputting about hop-toads—theybreathed with their stomachs, had morose mouths,and proved themselves crassly superfluous and useless inthe general scheme. Some one, it had seemed to Johnnie,should discipline hop-toads.

Behind Johnnie’s wispy little head was the grizzledone of Mr. Bloomby, the ragman. Mr. Bloomby, it wasunderstood, was invariably haled to prayer-meeting byMrs. Bloomby, a person of extreme virtue.

As Mrs. Capron’s prayer to be defended from crueltiesproceeded, Mr. Bloomby became rather hot under thecelluloid collar he had extracted from recent collectionsof rags—he wondered if it could have possibly gotround that he had once built a fire, a small but provocativefire, under a recalcitrant mule in order to persuadethe mule to draw a load which he, Mr. Bloomby, deemedentirely adapted to the mule’s capacity. Mr. Bloombymentally confronted the inexperienced Supreme Beingwith data as to mules and the way a mule would try toget even with you.

But there was one person on whom Mrs. Capron’sprayer made little, if any, impression. Miss FrancesGiddings bowed her sallow face into her wobbly, glovedhand. “Five waters must I pass my hands through, OLord,” she prayed, “but never will I neglect Thy roses!”Into her mind swept clouds of fresh, heavenly bloom.With a dedication to beauty that she did not know waspagan, she lost herself in the dream of eternal gardening.

Nevertheless, the story of Frances Giddings’s “cruelties”got about. There was much discussion over thedark revelations made by Mrs. Capron and Mrs. Tyarck.Morning wrappers conferred in basements; lead-wrappedcrimps met in cellars; in church there were eyeglassesthat glittered judgment. Just how was the village of IvyCorners to look upon a person whose backyard was fullof contraptions—this one for cats, that one for locusts;pitfalls for inquiring chickens, fly-paper for migratingants! Under the amazing elasticity of village imaginationit was finally evolved and told with indrawn breaththat there had been cruelty like that “in the family.” AGiddings, ancestor of Miss Frances, forgotten till now,but revamped for especial significance, was said to havebeen “dog-catcher,” and in this governmental disguiseto have inflicted incredible torments upon the stray animalsof his impounding. Then came horrified descriptionsof Miss Frenzy, head tied up, a flaming wad ofnewspaper on a broom, attacking the diaphanous intrenchmentsof caterpillars. These recitals, all workingup to an hysterical crescendo, were pounded like so manycoffin-nails in the final burial of a shy, gentle personality.Little by little the impression grew stronger that MissFrenzy, though still out of jail, was both cruel and“queer,” and between these judgments and her sensitiveappreciation of them, the tall, stooping figure wasseen less and less among intimate gatherings of IvyCorners.

Months passed before another name came up for discussion;this time it was the name of the girl in the scarletcap and sweater; a poor enough little country name;a name hardly destined for tragedy, but when the oldertownswomen had finished with it, it had become a foulthing—fouler, poor defenseless young name, than thegreat red-ember names of Catherine de’ Medici or theEmpress Faustine. When autumn dragged its grittybrown leaves into the gutters of Ivy Corners this name,too, had become nearly buried. The little scarlet coat hadvanished from the town, but every door-knob seemed tobe aware of its history, every window was alert and coldto face it down. White curtains, carefully tied back,seemed to wait primly for the moment when they alsowould be called to impress themselves upon any onewho should be so bold as to try to win their immaculatefavor.

Yet one winter night when the wind-blown treesseemed to try to claw the stars out of the sky, the girl inthe scarlet coat did come back. There was a push atMiss Frenzy’s door, the little shop bell jumped with ascared jangle. It was almost midnight; shadows shiveredunder the electric lights and the village streets wereempty; a prickling drift of snow sifted past the bluebleakness of the windows. Things were at the relentlesshour; a second desperate pull sent the store bell into afrightened spasm.

“Who’s there?” quavered Miss Frenzy. She sat up;then, looking like a nut-colored Persian in her strange-figuredwrapper, she got out of bed and held high thelamp that burned all night on her chair. The cold madeher gray face quiver, but she shuffled bravely into thestore where the street light still flickered its bleakquestion.

On the shop floor lay a figure. Its abandon had a starkquality, as if it had been buffeted and abandoned to unappeasedtortures of the elements. The old spinster,lamp in hand, leaned shivering over it. It was a littlescrap of life’s tragedy that had blown like a dead leaf inMiss Frenzy’s path; she was not prepared for it. “Notdead? Not dead?” she quavered. Well, yes, it wasdead. Miss Frenzy could see animation, the thing wecall “life,” but even she knew that it was dead youth,with all its fairy powers lost, that she looked upon. Shebent closely to stricken lips that muttered a tuneless kindof song:

“The night train.... If I go back, if I go back ...”There was a long silence and then the young voicechanted, deliriously, “In Miss Frenzy’s garden ... thefences are high ...”

The girl’s body lay with the stamp of primal woe fixedindelibly upon it. It was wastage in the social scheme,yet it had something of torn petal, of wind-blown butterfly,of wings that had been frozen while fluttering at thevery center of the flower of life. Protest dragged atMiss Frenzy’s heart.

“Young,” muttered the cracked voice. “Young.”The tears tore to the near-sighted eyes. Out of the oldmaid’s defeated being came the curious sense of beingtrue to something; of loyalty to hidden forces life hadhitherto kept her from recognizing. As she might haveraised a vestal virgin struck down by her flame she raisedthe piteous form. Staggering to her deserted bed, MissFrenzy laid the girl in its warmth. She drew off thewrecked red clothing, she made a hot drink and got itsomehow between the locked lips. “There, there!”sobbed Miss Frenzy. She knew that “There, there” waswhat mothers said to their hurt children, and yet she wasnot a mother—and this—oh, this was not a child!

When at last the exhausted frame shuddered down tosleep the old storekeeper moved away, shutting the bedroomdoor. She went back into the shop and roamedrestlessly hither and yon. The electric light had gone outand dawn was stealing in. On every hand some articleof woman’s clothing interrogated her. Lace collars, immaculatein their set pattern, swayed fastidiously fromher absent touch; the cards of buttons eyed her curiously;bolts of smooth, conventional satin ribbon conveyed calmjudgments. With a frightened look, she turned out thelamp and sat sleepless at the store window....

All that winter Miss Frenzy held her little fort alone;her gentle face grew sterner, her careful speech more andmore stilted. To all inquiries, curious, suave, or critical,she returned the invariable statement:

“I have long been in need of an assistant. This younggirl is bright and willing; her friends have, most regrettably,cast her off—” A dark flush would come intoMiss Frenzy’s face as she forced herself to add: “It appearsthat she has had a sad experience.... I intend tobefriend her.”

An attitude like this held by a character already underthe ban of local disapproval seemed to have only one significancefor the leaders of thought in Ivy Corners. Itconveyed to such leaders blatant immorality, the countenancingof a sinner who should be made to pay the fullpenalty for a misstep. Mrs. Tyarck, head held high, wastheatrically outraged. With superb ostentation she tookto patronizing the “other” dry-goods shop, where, inorder to put down vice, she bought things of which shedisapproved, did not want, or already possessed duplicates.At this store she made gloomy remarks, such as,“Ef we ain’t careful we’ll be back ag’in in Godom andSommarah.” No one noticed the slight inaccuracy ofpronunciation, but the angle of the wing on Mrs.Tyarck’s hat proclaimed to the world at large the directionof her virtuous sentiments.

Mrs. Capron, however, laid a loftier plan of attack.Entering the little shop of an evening, she would plantherself before the counter, sigh heavily, and producefrom the knobby catch-all a tract. This she would handto the drooping girl in attendance, saying, solemnly,“There is things, young woman, as will bear thinkin’on.” Several days later the methodical Mrs. Capronwould return with another tract, commanding, as one inauthority, “Give that to your mistaken benefactor.” Shewould then hawk once with juridic deliberation, stareinto the stricken young face, and majestically depart.

But spring, which, when it brings the surge of sap inthe trees, also brings back something like kindness andpity in the withered human heart, came to Ivy Cornerswith its old tender ministry, until the very tufts of grassbetween the village stones had an air of escape from confininglimitations; and until the little store’s isolation waspierced by one or two rays of human warmth. The minister’swife called. One or two mothers of large familiesinvented shopping errands in order to show some measureof interest in the young life Miss Frenzy was helpingback to usefulness and sanity. The girl’s shamed eyes,eyes that would probably never again meet the world’swith the gaze of square integrity, often rested like tiredbirds in looks of sympathy and encouragement. Suchpersons as displayed these qualities, however, weresharply disapproved by the more decided voices in villageconclaves.

“There is things which has limits,” criticized Mrs.Tyarck. This lady, in her effort to convey her idea ofsustained condemnation, even went so far as once moreto enter the little shop to inquire the price of some purpleveiling hanging seductively in the window. Miss Giddingsherself waited on the shopper; the girl sat near bycutting fresh paper for the shelves.

“I ain’t here because I’m any the less scandalized,”began Mrs. Tyarck in a loud whisper. “Your own reputationwas none too safe, Frenzy, that you should go andget a Jezebel to keep store for you. Are you goin’ to reducethat veilin’ any? I know it’s loud, but Tyarckalways wants I should dress young.”

Then there was short silence. The veiling was measuredand cut off. Miss Giddings wrapped up the purplenet without speaking. Under her glasses her eyes shotfire, her long face was suffused, but she spoke no word.Mrs. Tyarck leaned over the counter, her face poked betweenrows of hanging black stockings, taking on a lookof bland counsel.

“It’s on account of them cruelties of yours,” sheexplained—continuing with ostentatious secrecy, “youain’t in no position to take up for this girl, Frenzy.”

Then the whispers grew louder and louder until theywere like hisses. Mrs. Tyarck’s head darted forward likea snake’s. At last in the back of the store the girl’s headfell forward, her weak shoulders were shaken by helplesssobs.

The hands of the old shopkeeper fumbling with thepackage trembled, but Miss Frenzy appeared outwardlycalm. Before counting out change, however, she paused,regarding the shopper musingly.

“Pardon me. Did I rightly hear you use the word‘cruelties’?” she questioned. To an onlooker her mannermight have seemed suspiciously tranquil.

“Yes—cruelties,” repeated the other, patronizingly.“There’s no use denying it, Frenzy—there’s that fly-paperloomin’ up before you! There’s them cat-trapsand killin’ devices, and, as if it wasn’t bad enough, whatmust you do but go and take up with a girl that the wholetown says is—”

There was a sudden curious cessation of the speaker’swords. This was caused by a very sudden action on thepart of Miss Giddings. Desperately seizing on a pair ofthe hanging black stockings, she darted with incredibleswiftness around the end of the counter. With a curioussweep of her long arms she passed the black lengthsaround the shopper’s mouth, effectively muffling her.

“Cruelties!” gasped the old shopkeeper. “Crueltiesindeed! You will [gasp] be so good [gasp] as to takethe word cruelties and go home and reflect upon it.”

“Hey?” gasped Mrs. Tyarck. “Hey? Now, now,now!” Over the black gag her eyes looked frightenedand uncomprehending. She suddenly saw herself in thegrasp of the heaver and squeezer, of the chewers andsuckers, and was full of consternation. “You’ve no callto get excited, Frenzy,” she mumbled through the cottonythicknesses of stocking; then, as she worked hermouth out of its leash, “I’ll have the law on you, FrenzyGiddings!”

“Leave the store!” was Miss Frenzy’s sole response.She said it between set jaws. She suddenly let go of thestockings and they dropped to the floor. She picked upthe parcel of purple veiling and cast it through the doorinto the gutter. She stood, tall and withering, pointingwith inexorable finger; then, as Mrs. Tyarck, the gagremoved, began to chatter fierce intimations of reprisalthe old shopkeeper’s eyes again flashed.

“Cruelties!” repeated Miss Frenzy, dwelling scornfullyupon the word—“cruelties! Yes, I understandyour reference.” She kept on pointing to the open door.“You refer to the worms, to those creatures that ate anddefaced helpless roses; tender young things that couldn’thelp themselves.... Very well. I am still, as it were,inexorable toward worms! So,” with a shrill, excitedlaugh, “I still heave them and squeeze them. Thereforedepart—worm! Leave the store!”

“Worm?” questioned Mrs. Tyarck, faintly. This ladyhad suddenly lost all her assurance, the very upstandingwing in her hat became spiritless. She looked aghast,puzzled. Her eyes, like those of a person in a trance,wandered to the package of purple veiling lying outsidein the gutter, and she tried to rally. “Worm! Now lookhere, Frenzy Giddings, I don’t know whether it’s assaultand battery to call a person such names, or whetherit’s slander, but I tell you the law has had people up forsaying less than ‘worm.’”

“But I said ‘worm,’” repeated the old shopkeeper,firmly—“worms, contemptible and crawling, chewersand suckers of reputations; you and Mrs. Capron, thewhole town (with lamentably few exceptions) are a nestof small, mean, crawling, contemptible worms....Worms, I repeat, worms!”

“Frenzy Giddings!” whispered the shocked Mrs.Tyarck. She stood frozen in horror under the last hissing,unsparing indictment, then turned and fled. As shescuttled, almost whimpering, through the door she wasfollowed by the ceaseless, unsparing epithet, “Worm!”

The shopkeeper’s protégée found her stiff and still unyielding,bowed over the counter, her forehead reddenedwith shame, her hands twisted together in self-loathing.

“Get me some hot tea, my dear,” gasped Miss Frenzy.She still shook and her voice was as the voice of a dyingperson. The fine raiment of courtesy and punctiliousspeech that she had all her life worn had been torn fromher by her own fierce old hands; in her own gentle eyesshe was hopelessly degraded. Yet she smiled triumphantlyat the anxious young face of the girl as she profferedthe steaming tea. “Young,” muttered MissFrenzy, her eyes following the movements of the other.“Young.”

At last she roused herself and went slowly toward thedoor of the little private room, the girl hurrying to assisther. She paused, took the dark young head between herwrinkled hands, and kissed it. “I called her a ‘worm,’my dear,” said Miss Frenzy. “It was a regrettablecircumstance, but she accused me of cruelties—cruelties?... Icalled her a ‘worm.’” The old shopkeeper’seyes twinkled. “On the whole, I am glad I didso.”

Later, when the roses came again and the two sat withtheir sewing in the little garden, Miss Frenzy cheerfullyremarked upon the entire absence of rose-worms. “Withoutconceit,” she remarked—“without conceit, I shouldbe inclined to say that the Lord has endorsed my activities.”She looked affectionately at the slender figure sewingnear the honeysuckle and called attention to theyoung cherry-tree shooting up in green assurance.

“My mystery!” announced Miss Frenzy. “Notplanted by human hands. The seed doubtless droppedby a bird in flight. Whether the fruit will be sweet orbitter is to me a matter of pleasing conjecture.”

BUSTER

Lucien, Mrs. Bellamy’s impeccable chauffeur,brought me home from Mrs. Bellamy’s bridge thatgreen-gold summer afternoon of 1914. Looking downfrom the cliff road, all Gloucester Harbor was a floor ofrippled amethyst. When we turned into the forest drivethe air breathed deep of pine fragrance, heady as newwine.

“How few people are driving to-day, Lucien! Yetit’s so perfect—”

“One driver approaches, mademoiselle.” Lucien’ssolid gray shape bore hard on the wheel. The big carswerved, shot half-way up the bank. I screamed. Pastus like a streak of white lightning tore a headlong whitemonster, muffler cut out, siren whooping. Its hugewheels grazed our hubs; with a roar, it shot round thecurve, plunged down the steep grade toward Gloucester,and vanished. Its shriek rang back to us like the shriekof a lost soul.

“Lucien! That car must have been making eightymiles an hour!”

“Mademoiselle speaks truth.” Lucien, frankly shaken,took off his cap and wiped a very damp brow. “It is thecar of the great Doctor Lake, he who is guest of MadameHallowell, at Greenacres.”

“Doctor Lake! That stodgy old specialist!” I was abit shaken myself. “Nonsense. He never ventures outof a crawl.”

“Pardon, mademoiselle. It is the car of Doctor Lake.But at the wheel sat not monsieur the doctor. Instead,there sat, and drove”—here Lucien forgot himself completely—“thatdemon boy.”

“Buster!” I groaned. For there was only one demonboy on all Cape Ann, and that was my second cousinIsabella O’Brien’s only son, Richard Parke O’Brien, rechristenedBuster since the days of his tempestuous infancy.Isabella (born Sears and Brattle Street, but sheran away and married Octavius O’Brien, descendant ofan unknown race, at eighteen, and has lived ever since inthe wilds of Oklahoma)—Isabella, I say, had sent herchild to visit Aunt Charlotte and myself, while she andher Octavius went camping in the Yosemite. From herletters we had inferred that she needed a vacation fromher Civic League work. Later, we came to realize thather base secret aim had been to win a vacation fromBuster. What we two sedate Back Bay spinsters hadendured from that unspeakable child!

Octavius O’Brien is a large, emphatic man with large,emphatic ideas as to the rearing of children. Buster oncesummarized his father’s method in a few simple words.

“Here in New England, when I want to learn how todo anything, you and Aunt Charlotte say: ‘Dear me,Richard, wait till you grow up. Then you’ll understand.’Down in Oklahoma, dad just gives me a check and says:‘Go to it.’”

Such eclecticism bears startling fruits. The maddeningthing about Buster’s activities was that his blackestcrimes, once sifted down, proved not to be crimes at all.Merely the by-products of his inquiring disposition. Although,to quote Aunt Charlotte, if your house is burntdown over your head, it matters little to you whether itwas fired for malice or from a scientific desire to see howlong it would take to burn.

To-day, as we drove on, I looked back on the summer.As a rule, our months at the shore are compact of slowand tranquil days, but this season had fled past like ademented moving-picture film. Buster had arrived at9 A. M. the 8th of June. By noon he had made his presencefelt. During the next five days he took the gas-rangeapart, to see how it worked, and put it togetheragain, but inaccurately, so that it blew up and all butannihilated a perfectly good cook. I had to raise Louisiana’swages three dollars a week. He drained all thewater out of the fountain pool, to see how long it wouldtake to refill it; then, at sight of a wayfaring organ-grinderhe rushed away, to bribe the man to open up hisinstrument and let him see how its harmonious innardsworked. Thus, he left nine fat, venerable goldfish toflop themselves to a miserable end. To be sure, he sniffledaudibly at dinner that night and almost declined dessert;which didn’t bring back aunt’s beloved Chinese carp,alas! He tried to teach Gulliver, the Leonards’ GreatDane, to do German police-dog stunts. Gulliver, who isyoung, obedient, and muddle-headed, took his trainingseriously to heart and made breath-taking leaps at theLeonards’ gardener’s throat, to the up-blown pride ofboth Buster and the gardener. Unhappily, he saw fit toshow off his new accomplishment on an irascible NewYork banker, to whom Commodore Leonard was tryinghis best to sell his early Pullman place at Beverly Farms.As Buster hotly declared, if the banker hadn’t squealedand acted such a sissy, Gulliver would have stopped witha mere snap at his lapel. But his cries so excited thepoor pup that by the time the horrified commodore cameto his aid most of the banker’s raiment was in tatters, tosay nothing of his dignity. Commodore Leonard lost hisone chance of the year to unload that white elephant of ahouse. At that, he congratulated himself because thebanker didn’t sue him for damages.

Subdued and chastened, Buster took himself off to theharbor to seek diversion among the ancient marinerswho had already found in him a stimulating audience.He spent, I judge, a pleasant afternoon. He rode backon the Magnolia ’bus just at dinner-time. He did notreturn alone. Proudly he strode up the steps, one eyecocked over his shoulder at the bland and tarry skipperwho swaggered, all too jovially, behind. Eagerly he ranto the palsied Aunt Charlotte.

“Aunt Charlotte, this is my friend, Captain Harrigan,of the Lottie Foster. The captain has come to dinnerand to spend the evening, and he’s promised to tell usall his adventures and draw the plans for my racingyacht, when I get one, and teach me how to make hertorpedo-proof and—and everything! Cap Harrigan,meet Aunt Charlotte!”

Well, as Aunt Charlotte and I agreed later, we werebound and helpless. The child was so brimful of gladhospitality. You couldn’t strike him in the face by rebuffinghis friend. But oh, the hours that followed! AsLouisiana put it later, the genman wasn’t plumb drunk,but he cert’ny was happy drunk. The instant dinner wasended Aunt Charlotte fled up-stairs, locked her door, andpushed the bureau against it. I stayed on deck, a quakingCasabianca, till 11 P. M. Then, by way of a mild suggestion,I turned down the lights; and Captain Harrigan,now in mellow tears at the reminiscences of his ownboyhood, kissed my hands and took a fervent leave.

“But Richard, child! The man was intoxicated!Disgustingly intoxicated!”

“Gosh, was he? Well, he was bully and interesting,anyhow. Look at all those sailors’ knots he’s taught me.And the story he told about crossing the equator the firsttime, and the one about the admiral who was always threesheets to the wind and wouldn’t tie his shoe-strings—whatdoes three sheets to the wind mean, anyhow? Andhe’s showed me how to read a compass and all aboutsextants and transits, too. Gee, I bet I could steer adreadnought, after what he’s taught me to-night.”

“He certainly was full of information. But don’t inviteany more drunken sailors to the house, dear. Bringyour friends home whenever you wish, but make surefirst that they’re sober.”

“Well, I will. Though I kind o’ hate to ask ’em.”

With that I let the matter drop. You could not blamethe child. Back of every calamity that he brought uponus lay his ravenous curiosity, his frantic longing to knowhow the world was made and ruled. But to-day wasdifferent. No hunger for knowledge could warrant aboy of fifteen in seizing the sacrosanct car of the mostfamous of Boston specialists, and going joy-riding downthe Gloucester hills. Buster should be seriously rebuked.

Incidentally, I’d been playing bridge all afternoonwith two stern dowagers and one irritable maiden lady,all crack players, while I’m a hopeless amateur. I hadon a tea-rose crêpe de chine and the waitress had spilledcoffee on it. Further, I was wearing brand-new patent-leatherslippers. Yes, Buster would receive his fulldeserts.

Buster pranced home at dusk, afire with triumph fromhis crested red head to his comically massive young feet.Pallid and grave, Aunt Charlotte and I confronted himon the piazza.

“H’lo, Cousin Edith. Say, is dinner ready? Cracky,I could eat a whole barbecue!”

“Richard! Where is Doctor Lake’s car?”

Buster gasped slightly, but his jauntiness neverflinched.

“Over at Mrs. Hallowell’s garage, of course.”

“You have just left it there. Richard, don’t you realizewhat a lawless thing you have done? To take anotherperson’s car without permission—”

“I did too have permission!” Buster’s red crestreared. His black eyes flamed. “I had her opened up,and was studying the engine—gee, some peach!—and Itold the doctor’s chauffeur that I’d bet him a box ofGibraltars I could take that car clear to Doctor Lake’sBoston office and back in two hours and not get pinched.And he said, ‘I’m from Saint Joe, son. You gotta showme.’ So I jumped aboard, and I’d beat it down thedrive before he could say boo. And I made it in onehour and fifty-seven minutes, though I had to waste tenminutes, and a dollar besides, on the doctor’s mutt of adoorman—making him understand why he must signhis name to a card saying I’d reported there at five sharp.The big dummy, I don’t believe the real reason hasdawned on him yet. But you oughter seen that chauffeurwilt when I whizzled her in, two minutes ago!”

“I feel wilted myself. When I think of the apologiesI must make to Doctor Lake—”

“Apologies? What for? He ought to be delighted.It was a corking speed test for his car. Down that stem-windercliff, let me tell you, she just naturally hung on byher eyebrows.”

“Richard, the chauffeur did not mean to give you permission.You know that.”

“W-Well. What if he didn’t?”

“Richard, you are inexcusable.” Aunt Charlotteruffled her feathers and dashed into the fray. WhereatRichard exploded.

“Gee, ain’t it fierce? Ain’t it, now! How’s a fellowto learn about cars and engines and things if folks won’tever give him a chance to try ’em out? And I’ve got tofind out how to do things and make things and runthings; I’ve got to know!”

His solid fists clinched; his voice skittered comicallyfrom a bass bellow to an angry treble crow. I choked.He was so exactly like a pin-feathered young Shanghairooster, hotly contending his right to live his own life,against two glum, elderly hens. But that didn’t determe from marching him over to Madam Hallowell’s later.

“Nonsense, my dear Miss Edith!” Thus DoctorLake, just a bit too Olympian in large white waistcoatand eminent calm. “It was my chauffeur’s doing. Hewill answer to me. I beg you, give the matter no morethought.”

None the less, in his bland eye lurked a yearning toseize on Buster and boil him in oil. Buster saw thatlook.

“Grown-up folks are so darn stingy!” he mused bitterlyas we went away. He aimed a vicious kick at thebox hedge. “You’d think any man would be glad tolet a fellow take his car to pieces and study it out, thentest it for speed and endurance, ’specially when the fellowhas never owned anything better than a measly littlerunabout in all his life. But no. There he stands, alldiked out like a cold boiled owl, with his eyes rolled upand his lip rolled out—‘My chauffeur will answer tome.’ When, all the time, he’d lick the hide off me if hejust dasted. Old stuffed shirt!”

“You need not speak so disrespectfully—”

“I wouldn’t—if folks wasn’t so disrespectful to me.”His eyes began to flash again, his sullen under-lip toquiver. “‘Learn it all,’ they tell you. ‘Investigateevery useful art.’ That’s what everybody pours downyour throat, teachers, and relations, an’ all the rest of ’em.How do they s’pose I’m going to learn about things ifthey lock everything up away from me? And I’ve gotto find out about things; I’ve got to know!”

I didn’t say anything. What was the use? You mightas well scold an active young dynamo for wanting tospark. But mild little Aunt Charlotte was quite sputtery,for her.

“Isabella and her Octavius have reared their child tohave the tastes of a common mechanic. It is too ridiculous.Richard needs to understand problems of finance,not of cogs and axle-grease. If only American parentswould adopt the German methods! They teach theirchildren what is best for them to know. They don’t permittheir young people to waste time and money on wild-gooseflights.”

“N-no.” I shivered a little. For some reason, theannual percentage of school-boy suicides in Prussiaflashed through my mind. When you multiplied that bya nation— “But perhaps it’s as well that we give ourboys more rope.”

“To hang themselves with?” sniffed Aunt Charlotte.I subsided.

So did Buster, for some weeks—weeks so peaceful,they were all but sinister. Across the ocean, a harebrainedstudent murdered a reigning duke and his duchess.It made the newspapers very unpleasant readingfor several days. Across the harbor, the yacht-club gavethe most charming dinner dance of the year. Down EastGloucester way, a lank and close-mouthed youth fromSalem had set up a shack of a hangar and was givingbrief and gaspy flights to the summer populace at fivedollars a head. Whereat Buster gravitated to EastGloucester, as the needle to the pole. He bribed Louisianato give him his breakfast at seven; he snatched amouthful of lunch in the village; he seldom reached homebefore dusk.

“Richard, you are not spending your allowance inaeroplane rides?”

“Say, listen, Cousin Edie. Where’d I get the coinfor five-dollar jitney trips? I’m overdrawn sixty dollarson my allowance now, all on account of that beanerydown the harbor—”

“The beanery? You haven’t eaten sixty dollars’worth of beans!”

Buster jumped. He turned a sheepish red.

“Gosh, I forgot. Why—well, you see, the boss atthat joint has just put in the grandest big new oven ever—ironand cement and a steam-chamber and everything.One day last week he had to go to Boston, and I askedhim to let me fire it for him. It was the most interestingthing, to watch that steam-gauge hop up, only shehopped too fast. So I shut off the drafts, but I wasn’tquick enough. There were forty-eight pounds of beansin the roaster, and they burnt up, crocks and all, and—well,between us, we hadn’t put enough water in theboiler. So she sort of—er—well, she blew up. I wireddad for the money, and he came across by return mail.Dad’s a pretty good sport. But I’ll bet he doesn’t loosenup again before Labor Day.”

Well, I was sorry for the baker. But Buster, penniless,was far less formidable than Buster with money in hispurse.

The green and golden days flowed on. The NorthShore was its loveliest. But the newspapers persisted inbeing unpleasant. Serbian complications, amazing pronunciamentos,rumors that were absurd past credence;then, appalling, half-believed, the winged horror-tale ofBelgium. Then, in a trice, our bridge-tables were pushedback, our yacht dinners forgotten. Frowning, angrilybewildered, we were all making hurried trips to thevillage and heckling the scared young telegraph-operatorwith messages and money that must be cabled tomarooned kinsfolk at Liverpool or Hamburg or Ostend.“This moment! Can’t you see how important it is?”A day or so more and we were all buying shoes andclothes for little children and rushing our first boggledfirst-aid parcels to the wharf. And, in the midst of allthat dazed hurly, up rose Mrs. John B. Connable. Aglowwith panicky triumph, she flung wide the gates of DawnTowers, her spandy-new futurist palace, to the firstbazaar of the Belgian relief!

As one impious damsel put it, Belgium’s extremitywas Mrs. Connable’s opportunity. Seven weary years,with the grim patience of stalwart middle age and seventeenmillions, has Mrs. John B. labored to mount thelong, ice-coated stair that leads from a Montana cow-campto the thresholds of Beacon Hill. Six cruel seasonshave beheld her falter and slip back. But on this, theseventh, by this one soaring scramble, she gained the topmostgliddery round. A bazaar for the Belgians? Foronce, something new. And Dawn Towers, despite itstwo-fisted châtelaine, was said to be a poet’s dream.

Well, we went. All of us. Even to Madam Hallowell,in lilac chiffon and white fox fur, looking like the WickedFairy done by Drian; even to Aunt Charlotte, wearingthe Curtice emeralds, her sainted nose held at an anglethat suggested burnt flannel. I’ll say for Mrs. Connablethat she did it extremely well. The great, beautiful housewas thrown open from turret to foundation-stone. Fortune-tellerslurked in gilded tents; gay contadinas sangand sold their laces—the prettiest girls from the Foliesat that; Carli’s band, brought from New York to playfox-trots; cleverest surprise of all, the arrival, at fiveo’clock, of a lordly limousine conveying three heavenborn“principals,” a haughty young director in puttees, alarge camera. Would Mrs. Connable’s guests consentto group themselves upon the beach as background forthe garden-party scene of “The Princess Patricia”—withAngela Meadow, from the Metropolitan, as thePrincess, if you please, and Lou-Galuppi himself as thevillain?

Mrs. Connable’s guests would. All the world loves acamera, I reflected, as I observed Madam Hallowell driftlanguidly to the centre-front, the chill Cadwalladers fromWestchester drape themselves unwittingly but firmly inthe foreground, the D’Arcy Joneses stand laughinglyholding hands in the very jaws of the machine. ButDoctor Lake was the strategist of the hour. Chucklingin innocent mirth, he chatted with the radiant Angelauntil the director’s signal brought the villain swaggeringfrom the side-lines; then, gracefully dismayed, he steppedback at least six inches. If the camera caught Angelaat all, the doctor would be there—every eminent inch ofhim.

“Ready—camera!”

The joyous chatter stilled. On every face fell smugsweetness, as a chrism. Clickety-click, click-click—

Then, amazingly, another sound mingled with thatmagic tick, rose, drowned it to silence—the high, snarlingwhine of a swift-coming aeroplane.

“Keep your places, please! Eyes right!”

Nobody heard him. Swung as on one pivot, the garden-partyturned toward the harbor, mazed, agape.Across that silver water, flying so low its propellerflashed through diamond spray, straight toward thecrowd on the beach it came—the aeroplane from EastGloucester.

“There, I knew he’d butt in just at the wrong minute!I ordered him for six, sharp!” Mrs. Connable’s voicerang hotly through the silence. “Hi, there! Landfarther down the beach; we ain’t ready for you. Go on,I tell you! Oh, oh, my gracious goodness me! He’sa-headin’ right on top of us—”

That was all anybody heard. For in that second,pandemonium broke. The great, screaming bird drovedown upon us with the speed of light, the blast of ahowitzer shell. Whir-r-rip! The big marquee collapsedlike a burst balloon. Crash! One landing-wheel grazedthe band-stand; it tipped over like a fruit-basket, spillingout shrieking men. Through a dizzy mist I saw thegarden-party, all its pose forgot, scuttle like terrified ants.I saw the scornful Cadwalladers leap behind an infantpine. I saw D’Arcy Jones seize his wedded wife by herbuxom shoulders and fling her in front of him, a livingshield. I saw—can I believe?—the august DoctorLake, pop-eyed and shrieking, gallop headlong acrossthe beach and burrow madly in the low-tide sands. I saw—buthow could my spinning brain set down those thousandspectacles?

However, one eye saw it all—and set it down in cold,relentless truth—the camera. True to his faith, thatcamera-man kept on grinding, even when the monsterall but grazed his head.

Then, swifter even than that goblin flight, it was allover. With a deafening thud, the aeroplane groundedon a bed of early asters. Out of the observer’s seatstraddled a lean, tall shape—the aviator. From thepilot’s sheath leaped a white-faced, stammering boy.White to his lips; but it was the pallor of a white flame,the light of a glory past all words.

“H’lo, Cousin Edie! See me bring her across theharbor? Some little pilot!” Then, as if he saw for thefirst that gurgling multitude, the wrecked tent, the over-turnedband-stand: “Gee, that last puff of wind wasmore than I’d counted on. But she landed like thistledown,just the same. Just thistledown!”

I’ll pass over the next few hours. And why attemptto chronicle the day that followed? Bright and early, Iset forth to scatter olive-branches like leaves of Vallombrosa.Vain to portray the icy calm of the Misses Cadwallader,the smiling masks which hid the rage of theD’Arcy Joneses. Hopeless to depict the bland, amusedaplomb of Doctor Lake. To hear him graciously disclaimall chagrin was to doubt the word of one’s ownvision. Could I have dreamed the swoop of that mightybird, the screech of a panic-stricken fat man gallopinglike a mad hippopotamus for the shelter of the surf?

As for Mrs. John B. Connable—hell hath no furylike the woman who has fought and bled for years tomount that treacherous flight; who, gaining the lastgiddy step, feels, in one sick heartbeat, the ladder giveway from under. I went from that tearful and belligerentempress feeling as one who has gazed into the dusk firesof the Seventh Ledge.

“We’ll have to give a dinner for her, and ask theCadwalladers and Cousin Sue Curtice and the SalemBronsons. That will pacify her, if anything can.” ThusAunt Charlotte, with irate gloom. There are times whenAunt Charlotte’s deep spiritual nature betrays a surprisinggrasp of mundane things.

“Especially if we can get that French secretary, andMadam Hallowell. Now I’m off to soothe the aviator.Where did I put my check-book?”

The aviator stood at his hangar door, winding a coilof wire. His lean body looked feather-light in its tautkhaki; under the leathern helmet, his narrow, dark eyesglinted like the eyes of a falcon hooded against the sun.Blank, unsmiling, he heard my maunder of explanation.Somehow his cool aloofness daunted me a bit. But whenI fumbled for my checkbook, he flashed alive.

“Money? What for? Because the kid scraped anaileron? Forget it. I ain’t puttin’ up any holler. He’sfetched an’ carried for me all summer. I’m owin’ him,if it comes down to that.”

“But Richard had no right to damage your machine—”

“Well, he never meant to. That squally gust put himoff tack, else he’d ’a’ brought her down smooth’s awhistle. For, take it from me, he’s a flier born. Hand,eye, balance, feel, he’s got ’em all. And he’s patientand speedy and cautious and reckless all at once. Andhe knows more about engines than I do, this minute.There’s not a motor made that can faze him. Say,he’s one whale of a kid, all right. If his folks wouldlet me, I’d take him on as flyin’ partner. Fifty-fifty atthat.”

I stiffened a trifle.

“You are very kind. But such a position would hardlybe fitting—”

“For a swell kid like him?” Under his helmet thosekeen eyes narrowed to twin points of light. “Likely not.You rich hill folks can’t be expected to know your ownkids. You’ll send him to Harvard, then chain him upin a solid-mahogany office, with a gang of solid-mahoganyclerks to kowtow to him, and teach him to makemoney. When he might be flyin’ with me. Flyin’—withme!” His voice shook on a hoarse, exultant note.He threw back his head; from under the leathern casquehis eyes flamed out over the world of sea and sky, hisconquered province. “When he might be a flier, thebiggest flier the world has ever seen. Say, can you beatit? Can you beat it?”

His rudeness was past excuse. Yet I stood before himin the oddest guilty silence. Finally—

“But please let me pay you. That broken strut—”

“Nothing doing, sister. Forget it.” He bent to hiswork. “Pay me? No matter if my plane did get aknock, it was worth it. Just to see that fat guy in whitepants hot-foot it for deep water! Yes, I’m paid.Good-by.”

Then, to that day of shards and ashes, add one morerecollection—Buster’s face when Aunt Charlotte laid itupon him that he should never again enter that hangardoor.

“Aunt Charlotte! For Pete’s sake, have a heart!I’ve got that plane eatin’ out of my hand. If thatplaguy cat’s-paw hadn’t sprung up—”

“You will not go to East Gloucester again, Richard.That ends it.” Aunt Charlotte swept from the room.

“Gee!” Buster’s wide eyes filled. He slumped intothe nearest chair. “Say, Cousin Edie! Ain’t I got onefriend left on earth?”

“Now, Richard—”

“Can’t you see what I’m tryin’ to put over? I don’texpect Aunt Charlotte to see. She’s a pippin, all right,but that solid-ivory dome of hers—”

“Richard!”

“But you’re different. You aren’t so awful old. Youought to understand that a fellow just has to know aboutthings—cars, ships, aeroplanes, motors, everything!”

“But—”

“Now, Cousin Edith, I’m not stringin’ you. I’mdead in earnest. I’m not tryin’ to bother anybody; I’mjust tryin’ to learn what I’ve got to learn.” He leapedup, gripped my arm; his passionate boy voice shrilled;he was droll and pitiful and insolent all in a breath.“No, sirree, I ain’t bluffin’, not for a cent. Believe me,Cousin Edith, us fellows have got to learn how everythingworks, and learn it quick. I tell you, we’ve got toknow!”

Well.... All this was the summer of 1914. Threeyears ago. Three years and eight months ago, to beexact. Nowadays, I don’t wear tea-rose crêpe frocks norslim French slippers. Our government’s daily Hints forParis run more to coarse blue denim and dour woollenhose and clumping rubber boots. My once-lily handsclasp a scrubbing-brush far oftener than a hand at bridge.And I rise at five-thirty and gulp my scalding coffee inthe hot, tight galley of Field Hospital 64, then set towork. For long before the dawn they come, that endlessstring of ambulances, with their terrible and preciousfreight. Then it’s baths and food and swift, tense minutesin the tiny “theatre,” and swifter, tenser secondswhen we and the orderlies hurry through dressings andbandagings, while the senior nurse toils like a Turk alongsideand bosses us meanwhile like a slave-driver. Everyday my heart is torn open in my breast for the pain ofmy children, my poor, big, helpless, broken children.Every night, when I slip by to take a last peep at theirsleepy, contented faces, my heart is healed for me again.Then I stumble off to our half-partitioned slit and throwmyself on my bunk, tired to my last bone, happy to thecore of my soul. But day by day the work heaps up.Every cot is full, every tent overflowing. We’re shortof everything, beds, carbolic, dressings, food. And yesterday,at dusk, when we were all fagged to exhaustion,there streamed down a very flood of wounded, eightambulance-loads, harvest of a bombed munitions depot.

“We haven’t an inch of room.”

“We’ve got to make room.” Doctor Lake, sweating,dog-tired, swaying on his feet from nine unbroken hoursat the operating-table, took command. “Take my hut;it’ll hold four at a pinch. You nurses will give up yourcubby-hole? Thought so. Plenty hot water, Octave?Bring ’em along.”

They brought them along. Every stretcher, everybunk, every crack was crowded now. Then came thewhir of a racing motor. One more ambulance plungedup the sodden road.

“Ah! Grand blessé!” murmured old Octave.

“Grand blessé! And not a blanket left, even. Puthim in the coal-hole,” groaned the head nurse.

“Nix on the coal-hole.” Thus the muddy youngdriver, hauling out the stretcher with its long, movelessshape. “This is the candy kid—hear me? Our crackscout. Escadrille 32.”

“Escadrille 32?” The number held no meaning forme. Yet I pushed nearer. Grand blessé, indeed, thatlax, pulseless body, that shattered flesh, that blood andmire. I bent closer. Red hair, shining and thick, thered that always goes with cinnamon freckles. A clean-cut,ashen young face, a square jaw, a stubborn, boyishchin with a deep-cleft dimple.

Then my heart stopped short. The room whirledround me.

“Buster!” I cried out. “You naughty, darling littlescamp! So you got your way, after all. You ran offfrom school, and joined the escadrille—oh, sonny-boy,don’t you hear me? Listen! Listen!”

The gaunt face did not stir. Only that ashy whitenessseemed to grow yet whiter.

“We’ll do our best, Miss Preston. Go away now,dear.” The head nurse put me gently back. I knew toowell what her gentleness meant.

“But Doctor Lake can save him! Doctor Lake canpull him through!”

“Doctor Lake is worn out. We’ll have to managewithout him.”

“Don’t you believe it!” I flamed. Then I, the greenest,meekest slavey in the service, dashed straight to theoperating-room, and gripped Doctor Lake by both wristsand jerked him bodily off the bench where he crouched, asick, lubberly heap, blind with fatigue.

“No, you sha’n’t stop to rest. Not yet!” I stormedat him. Somehow I dragged him down the ward, to myboy’s side. At sight of that deathlike face, the limp,shivering man pulled himself together with all his wearymight.

“I’ll do my level best, Miss Edith. Go away, now,that’s a good girl.”

I went away and listened to the ambulance-driver.He was having an ugly bullet scratch on his arm tied up.He was not a regular field-service man, but a youngY. M. C. A. helper who had taken the place of a drivershot down that noon.

“Well, you see, that kid took the air two hours agoto locate the battery that’s been spilling shells into ourmunitions station. He spotted it, and two others besides.Naturally, they spotted him. He scooted forhome, with a shrapnel wound in his shoulder, and madea bad landing three miles back of the lines, and broke hisleg and whacked his head. Luckily I wasn’t a hundredyards away. I got him aboard my car and gave himfirst aid and started to bring him straight over here.Would he stand for that? Not Buddy. ‘You’ll takeme to headquarters first, to report,’ says he. ‘So let herout.’

“No use arguing. I let her out. We reported at headquarters,three miles out of our way, then started here.Two miles back, a shell struck just ahead and sent a rockthe size of a paving-brick smack against our engine.The car stopped, dead. Did that faze the kid? Not soyou could notice it. ‘You hoist me on the seat and letme get one hand on the wheel,’ says he, cool’s a cucumber.‘There isn’t a car made but will jump throughhoops for me.’ Go she did. With her engine knockedgalley west, mind you, and him propped up, chirk as acherub, with his broken leg and his smashed shoulder,and a knock on his head that would ’a’ stopped his clockif he’d had any brains to jolt. Skill? He drove that carlike a racer. She only hit the high places. Pluck? Hewrote it.

“We weren’t fifty yards from the hospital when hecrumpled down, and I grabbed him. Hemorrhage, Iguess. I sure do hope they pull him through. But—Idon’t believe—”

Soon a very dirty-faced brigadier-general, whom Iused to meet at dances long ago, came and sat down ona soap-box and held my hands and tried to comfort me,so gently and so patiently, the poor, kind, blunderingdear. Most of his words just buzzed and glimmeredround me. But one thought stuck in my dull brain.

“This isn’t your boy’s first service to his country,Miss Edith. He has been with the escadrille only amonth, but he has brought down three enemy planes,and his scouting has been invaluable. He’s a wonder,anyhow. So are all our flying boys. They tell me thatthe German youngsters make such good soldiers becausethey’re trained to follow orders blindfold. All very wellwhen it comes to following a bayonet charge over thetop. But the escadrille—that’s another story. Takeour boys, brought up to sail their own boats and runtheir own cars and chance any fool risk in sight. Coupleup that impudence, that fearlessness, that splendid curiosity,and you’ve got a fighting-machine that not onlyfights but wins. All the drilled, stolid forces in creationcan’t beat back that headlong young spirit. If—”

He halted, stammering.

“If—we can’t keep him with us, you must rememberthat he gave his best to his country, and his best was anoble gift. Be very glad that you could help your boyprepare himself to bestow it. You and his parents gavehim his outdoor life and his daring sports and his fearlessoutlook, and his uncurbed initiative. You helpedhim build himself, mind and body, to flawless powersand to instant decisions. To-day came his chance togive his greatest service. No matter what comes now,you—you have your royal memory.”

But I could not hear any more. I cried out that Ididn’t want any royal memories, I wanted my dear, bad,self-willed little boy. The general got up then andlimped away and stood and looked out of the window.

I sat and waited. I kept on waiting—minutes ongray minutes, hours on hours.

Then a nurse grasped my shoulders, and tried to tellme something. I heard her clearly, but I couldn’t stringher words together to make meaning. Finally, she drewme to my feet and led me back to the operating-room.

There stood Doctor Lake. He was leaning against thewall and wiping his face on a piece of gauze. He camestraight to me and put out both big, kind hands.

“Tell me. You needn’t try to make it easy—”

“There, there, Miss Edith. There’s nothing to tell.Look for yourself.”

Gray-lipped, whiter than ashes, straight and movelessas a young knight in marble effigy, lay my boy. But ashadow pulse flickered in that bound temple, the cheek Ikissed was warm.

“No,” said Doctor Lake very softly. “He won’t die.He’s steel and whipcord, that youngster. Heaven bepraised, you can’t kill his sort with a hatchet.”

He leaned down, gave Buster a long, searching look.His puffy, fagged face twisted with bewilderment, thenbroke into chuckles of astonishment and delight.

“Well, on my word and honor! I’ve just this momentrecognized him. This blessé is the imp of Satan whoused to steal my car up the North Shore. He’s the chapwho steered that confounded aeroplane into thegarden-party.... I’ve always sworn that, let me once layhands on that young scalawag, I’d lick the tar out ofhim!”

“Well, here’s your chance,” snivelled I.

He did not hear me. He had stooped again overBuster. Again he was peering into that still face. Overhis own face came a strange look, mirthful, then deepwith question, profoundly tender; then, flashing through,a gleam of amazing and most piteous jealousy, the bitter,comic jealousy of the most famous of all middle-agedAmerican surgeons for insolent, fool-hardy, gloriousyouth.

Then he turned and went away, a big, dead-tired,shambling figure. And in that instant my boy’s heavyeyes lifted and stared at me. Slowly in them awoke adrowsy sparkle.

“Hello, Cousin Edith. When did you blow in?”

I didn’t try to speak. I looked past him at DoctorLake, now plodding from the room. Buster’s eyes followedmine. Over his face came a smile of heaven’s ownlight.

“Old stuffed shirt,” sighed Buster with exquisite content.He turned his gaunt young head on the pillow;he tucked a brawny fist under his cheek. Before I couldspeak he had slipped away, far on a sea of dreams.

THE OPEN WINDOW

“It happened just as I have said,” Fernet reiterated,tossing the wine-dregs from his glass.

The company at the table looked instinctively towardthe kitchen. Berthe was bringing a fresh pot of coffee.They all followed Fernet’s example, lifting their emptyglasses for her to serve them in their turn.

The regular boarders of the Hôtel de France, after thefashion of folks who find their meal a duty to be promptlydespatched, had departed, but the transients still lingeredover their café noir and cognac in the hope that somethingexciting might materialize.

As the sound of Fernet’s voice died away, a man whohad been sitting in an extreme corner of the room scrapedback his chair and rose. Fernet looked up. The manwas a hunchback, and, instead of paying for his meal andleaving, he crossed over and said to Fernet, in the mostperfect French imaginable:

“I see, my young fellow, that you are discussing somethingof interest with your friends here. Would it beimpertinent for me to inquire into the subject?”

Fernet drew out a chair for the newcomer, who seatedhimself.

“By no means. We were discussing a murder andsuicide. The murdered man was an Italian fishermanwho lodged at the Hôtel des Alpes Maritimes, the suicidewas a musician named Suvaroff.”

“Ah,” said the hunchback, cracking his fingers. “Whya murder and suicide? Why not two murders?”

“Because,” returned Fernet, pompously, “it was abundantlyproved to the contrary. This man Suvaroff sufferedfrom neuralgia; the Italian fisherman was given toplaying the accordion at all hours of the night. Suvaroffwas, in addition, a musician—a high-strung person.The Italian’s playing was abominable—even his landladysays as much. In short, Suvaroff deliberately killedthis simple-minded peasant because of his music. Then,in a fit of remorse, he killed himself. I leave it to anyone here to dispute the fact. Besides, I was on the coroner’sjury. I should know what I am talking about.”

“Oh, without doubt,” agreed the hunchback, smilingamiably. “But, as I remember, the knives in both caseswere plunged hilt-deep into the backs of the victims. Onedoes not usually commit suicide in this fashion.”

Fernet coldly eyed the curiously handsome face of hisantagonist. “It seems you know more about this thingthan a coroner’s jury,” he sneered.

“It seems I do—granting that such an important itemwas left out of the evidence.”

“Then, my good sir, will you be good enough to tellme who did kill Suvaroff, since you do not admit that hedied by his own hand?”

The hunchback cracked his fingers again. “That issimple enough. Suvaroff was killed by the same personwho stabbed the Italian.”

“And who might that be, pray?”

The hunchback rose with a malignant smile. “Ah, ifI told you that you would know as much as I do, myfriend.”

And with that he walked calmly over to the proprietor,put down thirty-five cents for his meal upon the counter,and without another word left the room.

A silence fell upon the group. Everybody staredstraight ahead, avoiding the eye of his neighbor. It wasas if something too terrifying to be remarked had passedthem.

Finally, a thick-set man at Fernet’s right, with a purplewart on his cheek, said, uneasily, “Come, I must begoing.”

The others rose; only Fernet remained seated.

“What,” said another, “haven’t you finished?”

“Yes,” returned Fernet, gloomily, “but I am in nohurry.”

He sat there for an hour, alone, holding his head betweenhis hands. Berthe cleared off the soiled plates,wiped the oilcloth-covered tables, began noisily to lay thepewter knives and forks for the morning meal. At thisFernet stirred himself and, looking up at her, said:

“Tell me who was the hunchback who came and satwith us? Does he live here—in San Francisco?”

“His name is Flavio Minetti,” she replied, setting thelid back upon an uncovered sugar-bowl. “Beyond thatI know nothing. But they tell me that he is quite mad.”

“Ah, that accounts for many things,” said Fernet,smiling with recovered assurance. “I must say he isstrangely fascinating.”

Berthe looked at him sharply and shrugged. “For mypart, he makes me shiver every time I see him come inthe door. When I serve him my hand shakes. And hecontinually cracks his fingers and says to me: ‘Come,Berthe, what can I do to make you smile? Would youlaugh if I were to dance for you? I would give half mylife only to see you laughing. Why are you so sad?’ ... No,I wish he would never come again.”

“Nevertheless, I should like to see him once more.”

“He comes always on Thursdays for chicken.”

“Thanks,” said Fernet, as he put on his hat.

Fernet walked directly to his lodgings that night. Hehad a room in an old-fashioned house on the east side ofTelegraph Hill. The room was shabby enough, but itcaught glimpses of the bay and there was a gnarledpepper-tree that came almost to its windows and gaveFernet a sense of eternal, though grotesque, spring.Even his landlord was unusual—a professional beggarwho sat upon the curb, with a ridiculous French poodlefor company, and sold red and green pencils.

This landlord was sitting out by the front gate as Fernetentered.

“Ah, Pollitto,” said Fernet, halting before the old manand snapping his fingers at the poodle who lay crouchedbefore his master, “I see you are enjoying this fine warmnight.”

“You are wrong,” replied the beggar. “I am merelysitting here hoping that some one will come along andrent my front room.”

“Then it is vacant?”

“Naturally,” replied the old man, with disagreeablebrevity, and Fernet walked quickly up to his room.

“Why do I live in such a place?” he asked himself,surveying the four bare walls. “Everything about it isabominable, and that beggar, Pollitto, is a scoundrel. Ishall move next week.”

He crossed over to the window and flung it open. Thepepper-tree lay before him, crouching in the moonlight.He thought at once of Flavio Minetti.

“He is like this pepper-tree,” he said, aloud, “beautifuleven in his deformity. No, I would not trade thispepper-tree for a dozen of the straightest trees in theworld.” He stepped back from the window, and, lightinga lamp, set it upon a tottering walnut table. “Ah,André Fernet,” he mused, chidingly, “you are alwayssnared by what is unusual. You should pray to God thatsuch folly does not lead you to disaster.”

He went to the window and looked out again. Thepepper-tree seemed to be bending close to the ground, asif seeking to hide something. Presently the wind partedits branches and the moonlight fell at its feet like a silvermoth before a blackened candle.

André Fernet shivered and sighed. “Yes,” he repeated,again and again, “they are alike. They both areat once beautiful and hideous and they have strange secrets....Well, I shall go on Thursday again, andmaybe I shall see him. Who knows, if I am discreet hemay tell me who killed this ridiculous musician Suvaroff.”

And with that he suddenly blew out the light.

On the next Thursday night, when Fernet entered thedining-room of the Hôtel de France his glance rested immediatelyupon Flavio Minetti. To his surprise thehunchback rose, drawing a chair out as he did so, andbeckoning Fernet to be seated next him. For a momentFernet hesitated, Berthe was just bringing on the soup.

“What! Are you afraid?” she said, mockingly, asshe passed.

This decided Fernet. He went and sat beside Minettiwithout further ado.

“Ah, I was expecting you!” cried the hunchback, genially,as he passed the radishes.

“Expecting me?” returned Fernet. His voice trembled,though he tried to speak boldly.

“Yes. Women are not the only inquisitive animals inthe world. What will you have—some wine?”

Fernet allowed Minetti to fill his glass.

Other boarders began to drift in. Minetti turned hisback upon Fernet, speaking to a new-comer at his left.He did not say another word all evening.

Fernet ate and drank in silence. “What did I comefor and why am I staying?” he kept asking himself.“This man is mocking me. First of all, he greets me asif I were his boon companion, and next he insults meopenly and before everybody in the room. Even Berthehas noticed it and is smiling. As a matter of fact, heknows no more than I do about Suvaroff’s death.”

But he continued to sit beside the hunchback allthrough the meal, and as fruit was put on the table hetouched Minetti on the arm and said, “Will you join mein a café royal?”

“Not here ... a little later. I can show you a placewhere they really know how to make them. And, besides,there are tables for just two. It is much moreprivate.”

Fernet’s heart bounded and sank almost in one leap.“Let us go now, then,” he said, eagerly.

“As you wish,” replied Minetti.

Fernet paid for two dinners, and they reached for theirhats.

“Where are you going?” asked Berthe, as she openedthe door.

Fernet shrugged. “I am in his hands,” he answered,sweeping his arm toward Minetti.

“You mean you will be,” muttered the hunchback, inan undertone.

Fernet heard him distinctly.

“Perhaps I had better leave him while there is yettime!” flashed through his mind. But the next instanthe thought, contemptuously: “What harm can he dome? Why, his wrist is no bigger than a pullet’s wing.Bah! You are a fool, André Fernet!”

They stepped out into the street. A languorous notewas in the air; the usual cool wind from the sea had notrisen. A waning moon silvered the roof-tops, making apretense of hiding its face in the thin line of smoke aboveTelegraph Hill.

The hunchback led the way, trotting along in a fashionalmost Oriental. At the end of the second block heturned abruptly into a wine-shop; Fernet followed. Theyfound seats in a far corner, away from the billiard-tables.A waiter came forward. They gave their orders.

“Be sure,” said Minetti to the waiter, “that we haveplenty of anisette and cognac in the coffee.”

The man flicked a towel rather contemptuously andmade no answer.

“Now,” Minetti continued, turning a mocking facetoward Fernet, “what can I do for you, my friend?”

Fernet was filled with confusion. “I ... you ...” hestammered. “Really, there is nothing. Believeme—”

“Nonsense,” interrupted Minetti. “You wish to knowwho killed Suvaroff. But I warn you, my friend, it is adreadful thing to share such a secret.”

He looked at Fernet intently. The younger man shuddered.“Nevertheless, I should like to know,” Fernetsaid, distinctly.

“Well, then, since you are so determined—it was Iwho killed him.”

Fernet stared, looked again at the hunchback’s punywrists, and began to laugh. “You! Do you take me fora fool?” And as he said this he threw back his head andlaughed until even the billiard-players stopped their gameand looked around at him.

“What are you laughing at?” asked the hunchback,narrowing his eyes.

Fernet stopped. He felt a sudden chill as if some onehad opened a door. “I am laughing at you,” heanswered.

“I am sorry for that,” said Minetti, dryly.

“Why?”

The hunchback leaned forward confidentially. “BecauseI kill every one who laughs at me. It—it is a littleweakness I have.”

The waiter came with two glasses of steaming coffee.He put them down on the table, together with a bottle ofcognac and a bottle of anisette.

“Ah, that is good!” cried the hunchback, rubbing hishands together. “The proprietor is my friend. He isgoing to let us prepare our own poison!”

Fernet felt himself shivering. “Come,” he thought,“this will never do! The man is either mad or jesting.”He reached for the anisette.

“Let me pour it for you,” suggested Flavio Minetti.“Your hand is shaking so that you will spill half of it onthe floor.”

The hunchback’s voice had a note of pity in it. Fernetrelinquished his hold upon the bottle.

“Don’t look so frightened,” continued Minetti. “Ishall not kill you here. The proprietor is a friend ofmine, and, besides—”

“What nonsense!” cried Fernet, with a ghastly smile.“But I must confess, you did make my blood run coldfor a minute.”

Minetti stirred some cognac into his glass. “And,besides,” he finished, coldly, “I give everybody a sportingchance. It adds to the game.”

That night André Fernet was restless. He lay on hisbed looking out at the blinking lights of the harbor. “Imust stop drinking coffee,” he muttered to himself.

Finally he fell asleep, and when he did he had a strangedream. It seemed that the pepper-tree outside his windowsuddenly began to move in the night breeze and itslong green boughs became alive, twisting like the relentlesstentacles of a devil-fish. Its long green boughs becamealive, crawling along the ground, flinging themselvesinto the air, creeping in at André Fernet’s openwindow. He lay upon the bed as he had done earlier inthe evening, watching the harbor lights. Slowly thegreen boughs writhed over the faded carpet, scaled thebedpost and fell upon the bed. André Fernet waited,motionless. He felt the green tentacles close about hislegs, clasp his hands, slide shudderingly across his throat.Yet he made no move to free himself. It was only whenhe felt a breath upon his cheek that he turned slightly,and instead of the tentacle-like boughs of the pepper-treehe fancied himself staring down at the hands of FlavioMinetti.... He awoke with a start. The sun was pouringin at the open window. He got up quickly. A noisyclatter issued from the passageway. Fernet opened hisdoor. Two men were carrying a trunk up the stairs.Pollitto, the beggar, walked behind.

“Ah, I see you have rented your front room,” saidFernet, stepping out.

“Yes,” returned the other. “It was taken as earlyas six o’clock this morning—by a hunchback.”

Fernet stopped breathing. “A hunchback? Was hisname Flavio Minetti?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

Fernet tried to smile. “He is a friend of mine,” heanswered, as he walked back into his room. “Perhaps itwould be better if I moved away,” he thought. “I donot like this room. Heaven knows why I have stayedthis long. Is this fellow Minetti really mad or merelymaking sport of me? I should not like to have him thinkthat I am afraid of him. As for his story about Suvaroff,that is, of course, ridiculous. If I thought otherwise Ishould go at once to the.... No, it is all a joke! Ishall stay where I am. I shall not have it said that alittle, mad, puny, twisted fellow frightened André Fernetout of his lodgings. Besides, it will be curious to watchhis little game. What a beautiful morning it is, after all!And the pepper-tree—how it glistens in the sun! Ishould miss that pepper-tree if I moved away. But Imust stop drinking cafés royal. They upset one. I donot know whether it is the coffee, or the cognac, or theanisette, or all three. Of course, that dream I had towardmorning means nothing—but such dreams are unpleasant.I hate this place. But I shall not move now. No,I shall wait and see what happens.”

Fernet did not see Minetti for some days. Indeed, hehad dismissed the whole thing from his mind, when, onenight, returning home early to get out of a drizzle, whoshould stop him on the stairway but the hunchback.

“Ah, so here you are!” called out Fernet, gaily, inspite of his rapidly beating heart. “I have been waitingfor you to call on me ever since I heard that you werelodging under the same roof.”

“I have been busy,” replied the hunchback, laconically.

Fernet threw open his bedroom door and wavedMinetti in.

“Busy?” he echoed, as he struck a light. “And whatdo you find that is so absorbing, pray?”

“You know my specialty,” replied Minetti, flinging offhis cap.

Fernet looked up sharply. A malignant look had creptinto the hunchback’s face.

“Oh, there is no doubt of it, he is quite mad!” said Fernetto himself. Then aloud: “Yes, I have been wantingto talk to you more about this. Take a seat and I shallmake some coffee. For instance, do you always employthe knife in despatching your—”

“Scarcely,” interrupted Minetti, quickly. “Slow poisonhas its fascinations. There is a very delicate joyin watching a gradual decline. It is like watching agreen leaf fading before the breath of autumn. Firsta sickly pallor, then a yellowing, finally the sap driescompletely, a sharp wind, a fluttering in the air, andit is all over. I have tried nearly every slow way—exceptmental murder. I fancy that, too, would beexquisite.”

“Mental murder.... I do not understand.”

Minetti stretched himself out and yawned. “Accomplishingthe thing without any weapon save the mind.”

Fernet picked up the coffee-pot and laughed. “Why,my dear fellow, it is too absurd! The thing cannot bedone. You see I am laughing at you again, but nomatter.”

“No, as you say, it is no matter. You can die onlyonce.”

Fernet’s laughter stopped instantly. He went on withhis preparation for coffee. Minetti changed the subject.

It turned out that there was no sugar in the crackedbowl. Fernet was putting on his hat to go out for some,when the hunchback stopped him.

“Sugar will not be necessary,” he said. And as hespoke he drew a vial from his vest pocket and laid itupon the table beside the cups. “You know what theseare, of course.”

“Saccharine pellets?” inquired Fernet as he threwaside his hat.

Minetti replied with a grunt. Fernet poured out thecoffee, set a spoon in each saucer, laid three French rollsupon a blue plate. Then he sat down.

“Permit me!” said Minetti, reaching for the vial androlling a tiny pellet into his palm.

Fernet held up his cup; the hunchback dropped thepellet into it. Then he corked the vial tightly and laid itaside.

“You forgot to serve yourself,” said Fernet.

“So I did!” answered Minetti, nonchalantly. “Well,no matter. I very often drink my coffee so—withoutsweetening.”

Fernet drew back suddenly. Could it be possiblethat.... The hunchback was staring at him, an ironicalsmile was on his lips. Fernet shuddered.

“Drink your coffee!” Minetti commanded, sneeringly.“You are on the verge of a chill.”

Fernet obeyed meekly. He felt for all the world likean animal caught in a trap. He tried to collect histhoughts. What had the hunchback been talking about?

“Slow poison!” muttered Fernet, inaudibly to himself.

“What is that you are saying?” demanded the other.

“You were speaking of slow poison. How do you goabout it?”

“Oh, that is easy! For instance, once in London Ilodged next door to my victim. We became capitalfriends. And he was always calling me in for a bite ofsomething to eat. Nothing elaborate—a bun and a cupof tea, or coffee and cake. Very much as we are doingnow. He died in six months. It is no trick, you know,to poison a man who eats and drinks with you—especiallydrinks!”

As he said this the hunchback reached for the coffee-potand poured Fernet another cupful. Then he uncorkedthe vial again and dropped a pellet into the steamingliquid.

“I do not think that I wish any more,” protestedFernet.

“Nonsense! You are still shivering like an old womanwith the palsy. Hot coffee will do you good.”

“No,” said Fernet, desperately, “I never drink morethan one cup at a sitting. It keeps me awake, and nextmorning my hand shakes and I am fit for nothing. Ineed a steady hand in my business.”

“And what may that be, pray?”

“At present I am a draftsman. Some day, if I livelong enough, I hope to be an architect.”

“If you live long enough? You forget that you havelaughed at me, my friend.”

Fernet tried to appear indifferent. “What a droll fellowyou are!” he cried, with sudden gaiety, rubbing hishands together. And without thinking, he reached forhis coffee-cup and downed the contents in almost onegulp. He laid the cup aside quickly. He could feel thesweat starting out upon his forehead.

“There, you see,” said Minetti, “the coffee has doneyou good already. You are perspiring, and that is agood sign. A hot drink at the right moment workswonders.”

The next morning Pollitto stopped Fernet as he swungout the front gate to his work.

“What is the matter with you?” exclaimed the beggar,in a surprised tone.

“Why ... what?” demanded Fernet, in a tremblingvoice. “Do I look so ...? Pray, tell me, is there anythingunusual about me?”

“Why, your face.... Have you looked at yourselfin the glass? Your skin is the color of stale pastry.”

Fernet tried to laugh. “It is nothing. I have beendrinking too much coffee lately. I must stop it.”

It was a fine morning. The sun was shining and theair was brisk and full of little rippling breezes. The baylay like a blue-green peacock ruffling its gilded feathers.The city had a genial, smiling countenance. But Fernetwas out of humor with all this full-blown content. Hehad spent a wretched night—not sleepless, but full ofdisturbing dreams. Dreams about Minetti and his Londonneighbor and the empty sugar-bowl. All night hehad dreamed about this empty sugar-bowl. It seemedthat as soon as he had it filled Minetti would slyly emptyit again. He tried stowing sugar away in his pockets,but when he put his hand in to draw out a lump a scoreor more of pellets spilled over the floor. Then he rememberedsaying:

“I shall call on Minetti’s London neighbor. Maybehe will have some sugar.”

He walked miles and miles, and finally beat upon astrange door. A man wrapped in a black coat up to hiseyebrows opened to his knock.

“Are you Flavio Minetti’s London neighbor?” he demanded,boldly.

The figure bowed. Fernet drew the cracked sugar-bowlfrom under his arm.

“Will you oblige me with a little sugar?” he asked,more politely.

The black-cloaked figure bowed and disappeared.Presently he came back. Fernet took the sugar-bowlfrom him. It struck him that the bowl felt very light.He looked down at his hands. The bowl had disappeared;only a glass vial lay in his palm. He removedthe cork—a dozen or more tiny round pellets fell out.He glanced up quickly at Minetti’s London neighbor; adreadful smile glowed through the black cloak. Fernetgave a cry and hurled the vial in the face of his tormentor.Minetti’s London neighbor let the black cloak fall,and André Fernet discovered that he was staring at himself....He awakened soon after that and found thatit was morning.

When he brushed his hair his hand had shaken so thatthe brush fell clattering to the floor. And he had spilledthe cream for his morning coffee over the faded strip ofcarpet before the bureau. It had ended by his eating nobreakfast at all. But he had drunk glass after glass ofcold water.

After Pollitto’s words he trembled more and more likea man with the ague, and before every saloon-doormirror he halted and took a brief survey of his face.Pollitto was right—his skin was dead and full of unhealthypallor. It was plain that he could not work inhis present condition. His trembling fingers couldscarcely hold a pencil, much less guide it through theprecise demands of a drafting-board. He decided to goto the library and read. But the books on architecturewhich always enthralled him could not hold his shiftingattention. Finally in despair he went up to the librarianand said:

“Have you any books on poison?”

The woman eyed him with a cold, incurious glance.

“Historical or medical?” she snapped out, as she wenton stamping mysterious numbers in the pile of books beforeher.

“Both!”

She consulted a catalogue and made a list for him.

He sat all day devouring books which the librarian hadrecommended. He did not even go out for lunch. Heread historical and romantic instances with a keen, morbidrelish; but when it came to the medical books hisheart quickened and he followed causes and effectsbreathlessly. By nightfall he had a relentless knowledgeof every poison in the calendar. He knew what to expectfrom arsenic or strychnine or vitriol. He learned whichpoisons destroyed tissues, which acted as narcotics, whichwere irritants. He identified the hemlock, the horse-chestnut,the deadly toadstools. In short, he absorbedand retained everything on the subject. It seemed thatthe world teemed with poisons; one could be sure ofnothing. Even beautiful flowers were not to be trusted.

He was so upset by all he had read that he couldscarcely eat dinner. He went to an obscure pension in awretched basement, where he was sure he would be unknown,and, after two or three mouthfuls of soup and aspoonful of rice boiled with tomato, he rose, paid for hismeal, and went out to tramp up and down past thetawdry shops of middle Kearny Street. He was trottingaimlessly in the direction of Market Street when he felta tug at his coat-sleeve. He turned. Minetti was smilinggenially up at him.

“Come,” said the hunchback, “what is your hurry?Have you had coffee yet? I was thinking that—”

Fernet’s heart sank at once. And yet he managed tosay boldly: “I have given up drinking coffee. You cansee for yourself what a wretched complexion I have.And to-day I have scarcely eaten.”

“Pooh!” cried Minetti. “A cup of coffee will do yougood.”

Fernet began to draw away in futile terror. “No!” heprotested, with frightened vehemence. “No, I tell you!I won’t drink the stuff! It is useless for you to—”

Minetti began to laugh with scornful good-humor.“What has come over you?” he drawled, half-closing hiseyes. “Are you afraid?”

And as he said this Fernet glanced instinctively at thepuny wrists, no bigger than a pullet’s wing, and replied,boldly:

“Afraid? Of what? I told you last night I need asteady hand in my business, and to-day I have not beenable to do any work.”

Minetti’s mirth softened into genial acquiescence.“Well, maybe you are right. But I must say you are notvery companionable. Perhaps the coffee you have beendrinking has not been made properly. You should takesomething. You do look badly. A glass of brandy?...No?... Ah, I have it—coffee made in the Turkishfashion. Have you ever drunk that?”

“No,” replied Fernet, helplessly, wondering all thetime why he was foolish enough to tell the truth.

“Well, then,” announced the hunchback, confidently,“we shall cross over to Third Street and have someTurkish coffee. I know a Greek café where they brew acup that would tempt the Sultan himself. Have you everseen it made? They use coffee pounded to a fine powder—ateaspoonful to a cup, and sugar in the same proportion.It is all put in together and brought to a boil. Theresult is indescribable! Really, you are in for a treat.”

“If it is sweetened in the making,” flashed throughFernet’s mind, “at least we shall have no more of thatpellet business.”

“Yes—the result is quite indescribable,” Minetti wasrepeating, “and positively no bad effects.”

And as he said this he slipped his arm into Fernet’sand guided him with gentle firmness toward the Greekcafé in question. Fernet felt suddenly helpless and incapableof offering the slightest objection.

A girl took their orders. She had a freckled nose andwas frankly Irish. Naturally, she did not fit the picture,and Fernet could see that she was scornful of the wholebusiness.

“Two coffees ... medium,” Minetti repeated, decisively.“And will you have a sweet with it? They selltaffy made of sesame seeds and honey. Or you can haveTurkish delight or a pastry dusted with powdered sugar.Really they are all quite delicious.”

Fernet merely shrugged. Minetti ordered Turkishdelight. The girl wiped some moisture from the marbletable-top and walked toward the coffee-shelf.

“So you were not able to work to-day?” Minettibegan, affably. “How did you put in the time?”

“At the library, reading.”

“Something droll? A French novel or—”

“Books on poison!” Fernet shot out with venomoustriumph. “I know more than I did yesterday.”

“How distressing!” purred Minetti. “Ignorance ismore invulnerable than one fancies. Of course we aretaught otherwise, but knowledge, you remember, was thebeginning of all trouble. But you choose a fascinating,subject. Some day when we get better acquainted I shalltell you all I know about it. Poison is such a subtle thing.It is everywhere—in the air we breathe, in the water wedrink, in the food we eat. And it is at once swift andsluggish, painful and stupefying, obvious and incapableof analysis. It is like a beautiful woman, or a great joy,or love itself.”

Fernet glanced up sharply. The hunchback had slidforward in his seat and his eyes glowed like two shadedpools catching greedily at the yellow sunlight of midday.Fernet shuddered and looked about the room. Groupsof swarthy men were drinking coffee, or sipping faintlyred draughts of cherry syrup and sweet soda. At anear-by table a group of six shuffled cards and markedtheir scores upon a slate. And, of course, there werethose who played backgammon, rattling the dice andmaking exaggerated gestures as they spurred on theiradversaries with genial taunts.

The girl came back carrying cups of thick steamingcoffee and soft lemon-colored sweetmeats speared withtwo tiny silver forks. She set the tray down. Minettireached for his coffee greedily, but Fernet sat back in hisseat and allowed the waitress to place the second cupbefore him. As she did so the table shook suddenly andhalf of the hot liquid spilled over on the marble tabletop.Fernet jumped up to escape the scalding trickle;the girl gave an apologetic scream; Minetti laughedstrangely.

“It is all my fault!” cried the hunchback. “Whatstupidity! Pray be seated. My young woman, will yougive the gentleman this coffee of mine? And get meanother.”

“Pardon me,” Fernet protested, “but I cannot thinkof such a thing!” And with that he attempted to passthe coffee in question back to Minetti. But the hunchbackwould have none of it. Fernet broke into a terrifiedsweat.

“He has dropped poison into it!” he thought, in suddenpanic. “Otherwise why should he be so anxious tohave me drink it? He kicked the table deliberately, too.And this cup of his—why was it not spilled also? No,he was prepared—it is all a trick!”

“Come, come, my friend,” broke in Minetti, briskly,“drink your coffee while it is still hot! Do not wait forme. I shall be served presently. And try the sweetmeats;they are delicious.”

“I am not hungry,” replied Fernet, sullenly.

“No? Well, what of that? Sweetmeats and coffeeare not matters of hunger. Really, you are more drollthan you imagine!” Minetti burst into a terrifyinglaugh.

“He thinks I am afraid!” muttered Fernet.

And out of sheer bravado he lifted the cup to his lips.Minetti stopped laughing, but a wide smile replaced hisdiabolical mirth. The girl brought fresh coffee to thehunchback. He sipped it with frank enjoyment, but hedid not once take his gaze from Fernet’s pale face.

“Well,” thought Fernet, “one cup of poison more orless will not kill me.... It is not as if he has made uphis mind to finish me at once. He is counting on the exquisitejoys of a prolonged agony.” And he rememberedMinetti’s words: “It is like watching a green leaf fadingbefore the breath of autumn. First a sickly pallor, thena yellowing, a sharp wind, a fluttering in the air....”He tossed off the coffee in one defiant gulp. “He thinksthat he has me in his power. But André Fernet is notquite a fool. I shall go away to-morrow!”

They went home as soon as Minetti finished his coffee.Fernet felt a sudden nausea; by the time he reached hislodgings his steps were unsteady and his head reeled.Minetti was kindness itself.

“Let me help you into bed,” he insisted. “You musthave a congestion. Presently I shall heat some waterand give you a hot gin.”

Fernet was too sick to protest. Minetti started thegas-stove and filled the kettle and went into his room forgin. Fernet dragged himself out of his clothes andcrawled in between the sheets. Minetti came back. Fernetlay with his eyes half-closed, shivering. Finally thewater boiled, and the hunchback brought Fernet a hugetumbler of gin and water with bits of lemon-peel andcloves floating in it. It tasted so good that Fernet forgothis terror for the moment. But when the tumbler wasempty he felt helpless; he could scarcely lift his arms; sohe lay flat upon his back, staring up at the ceiling. Hetried to recall scraps of what he had been reading allafternoon. What was the name of the poison that leftone paralyzed? He could not remember. He found hismovements becoming more and more difficult; he couldscarcely turn in bed. Minetti brewed another toddy.Fernet could not hold the glass! He tried to push thetumbler away from his lips, but his efforts were useless.Minetti hovered above him with a bland, gentle smile,and Fernet felt the warm liquid trickling into his mouthand down his throat. In the midst of all this he lost consciousness....Once or twice during the night Fernethad a wakeful interlude. Whenever he opened his eyeshe saw Minetti sitting before the open window, gazingdown at the twisted pepper-tree.

“Yes, they are both alike!” passed dimly through hismind. “They both are at once beautiful and hideous andthey have strange secrets! It is no use, I must go away—to-morrow.”

In the morning Minetti was standing by the bed. “Ihave sent for the doctor,” he said. But his voice soundedfar away.

The doctor came shortly after ten o’clock. He was alittle wizened, dried-up old man with a profound air.

“He is a fraud!” thought Fernet. “He knowsnothing!”

“Ah,” said the doctor, putting a sly finger against hissharp nose, “our friend here has a nervous collapse. Heshould have a nurse!”

“A nurse!” exclaimed Minetti, with indignation.“And, pray, what do you call me? Do you not thinkthat—”

“Well, we shall see! we shall see!” replied the doctor,rubbing his hands together. “But he will need allsorts of delicacies and—”

Minetti moistened his lips with sleek satisfaction.“You cannot name a dish that I am not able to prepare.”

“How about a custard? To-day he should eat somethinglight.”

“A custard is simplicity itself,” answered the hunchback,and he cracked his fingers.

Minetti went out with the doctor, and came backshortly, carrying eggs and a bottle of vanilla extract andsugar. Fernet lay helpless, watching him bustling about.Finally the delicacy was made and set away in a pan ofwater to cool. At noon Minetti brought a blue bowl filledwith custard to the bedside. It looked inviting, but Fernetshook his head.

“I am not hungry,” he lied.

The hunchback set the bowl down on a chair so thatFernet gazed upon it all day. The hunchback did notleave the room. He sat before the open window, readingfrom a thick book. Toward nightfall Fernet said to him:

“What do you find so interesting?”

Minetti darted a sardonic glance at his patient. “Abook on poison. I did not realize that I had grown sorusty on the subject. Why, I remember scarcely enoughto poison a field-mouse!”

He rose and crossed over to the bedside. “Do you notfeel ready for the custard?”

Fernet cast a longing eye upon the yellow contents ofthe blue bowl.

“No. To tell the truth, I never eat it.”

Minetti shrugged.

“But I should like a glass of water.”

The hunchback drew water from the faucet. Fernetwatched him like a ferret.

“At least,” thought Fernet, “he cannot drop poisonin the water secretly. It is well that I can see every movehe makes at such a time. I should not like to die ofthirst.”

A little later Minetti removed the bowl and threw outits contents. Fernet looked on with half-closed eyes.

“What better proof could I have?” he mused. “Ifthe custard were harmless he would eat it himself. Imust get away to-morrow.”

But the next day he felt weaker than ever, and whenthe doctor came Minetti said, in answer to questions:

“I made a delicious custard yesterday and he ate everybit.... An oyster stew? ... with milk? I shall seethat he has it at noon.”

“God help me!” muttered Fernet. “Why does he lielike this? I must get the doctor’s ear and tell him howthings stand. I shall eat nothing—nothing! ThankHeaven I can drink water without fear.”

At noon the oyster stew was ready. But Fernet wouldhave none of it. “Oysters make me ill!” he said.

Minetti merely shrugged as he had done the previousday, and set the savory dish upon a chair before the bed.It exuded tantalizing odors, until Fernet thought hewould go mad with longing. Toward evening Minettithrew out the stew. And as before, when the doctorcalled the hunchback said:

“He ate a quart of stew and there were plenty of oystersin it, I can tell you. Do you think that a chicken friedin olive-oil would be too hearty?”

Fernet groaned. “This is horrible—horrible!” hewept to himself. “I shall die like a starving rat withtoasted cheese dangling just beyond reach. God helpme to rouse myself! Surely the effects of the poison hehas given me must soon wear off.... There he is,reading from that big book again. Perhaps he is contrivinga way to put poison in my water even though Iam able to watch him when he draws me a drink....Poison—poison everywhere. It can even be administeredwith the prick of a needle. Why did I read aboutit? Chicken fried in olive-oil ... what torture!”

The chicken fried in olive-oil was a triumph—Fernetknew all this by the wisps of appetizing fragrance whichdrifted from the sizzling pan. Minetti made a great stirover the preparations. The tender flesh had to be rubbedthoroughly with garlic and well dusted with salt andpepper. And a quarter of a bottle of yellow-green olive-oilwas first placed in the pan. When everything wasready and the chicken cooked to a turn, Minetti carried itto Fernet with a great flourish. Fernet gritted his teethand turned his face away. He did not have the courageto invent an excuse. Minetti laid it on the chair as usual.For two hours Fernet was tortured with the sight ofthis tempting morsel, but at the sound of the doctor’sstep upon the stair the hunchback whisked away thechicken.

“His appetite?” Minetti said, echoing the doctor’squery. “Why, one could not wish for better! Only thismorning he despatched a chicken as if it had been nomore than a soft-boiled egg. As a matter of fact, he isalways hungry.”

“Well, well,” beamed the doctor, “that is the best ofsigns, and it happens that way very often in nervouscases. You are a capital nurse, my good man, and by theend of the week, if you keep feeding him up in this fashion,he should be as hearty as a school-boy.”

At that moment Minetti was called down-stairs by hislandlord. Fernet struggled to lift himself; the doctorbent toward him.

“This hunchback,” Fernet gasped, “he is trying topoison me. Already I have drunk four or five of his concoctions,and that is why I am in this condition ... helpless.And he is lying when he says that I have eaten.I have touched nothing for three days.”

The doctor laid the patient back upon the pillow.

“Poison you, my friend? And for what reason?”

“Because I laughed at him. In God’s name, Doctor, seethat you keep a straight face in his presence or else—”

The doctor patted Fernet’s hand and straightened thesliding bedclothes. By this time Minetti had come back.The doctor and the hunchback whispered together in afar corner. Minetti laughed and tapped his head. Atthe door Fernet heard the doctor say:

“Just keep up the good work and the idea will pass.It happens that way very often in nervous cases. Ishall not look in again until the first of next weekunless....”

Fernet groaned aloud.

“I must get away to-morrow.... I must get awayto-morrow!” he kept on repeating.

By the end of the week the smell of food held notemptations for Fernet. Minetti stopped cooking. Andwhen a glass of water was drawn from the faucet Fernethad difficulty in forcing his vision to answer the strainof a searching gaze.

“When my sight fails me,” Fernet thought, dimly,“I shall either die of thirst or take the consequences.”

When the doctor finally came again Fernet closed hiseyes and pretended to be asleep.

“He seems thinner,” remarked the doctor, as if he hadmade an important discovery.

“Well, to tell the truth,” replied the hunchback, “hehas lost his appetite. I have fed him milk and eggs,but—”

“There is nothing to do but be patient,” said the doctor.“Medicine will do him no good. Just rest andfood. Even a little starvation will not hurt him. Peopleeat too much, anyway.”

At this Fernet opened his eyes and broke into a laughthat startled even Minetti. The doctor looked offended.

“Well, he is in your hands,” the old fraud said, pompously,to the hunchback. “Just keep up the goodwork—”

Fernet laughed again.

“He is hysterical,” proclaimed the doctor, with an airof supreme wisdom. “It happens that way very often innervous cases.”

And he walked out with great solemnity.

“Ah, I have offended him!” thought Fernet. “Well,now they will finish me—together!”

There followed days of delicious weakness. Fernet layfor the most part wrapt in the bliss of silver-blue visions.It seemed as if years were passing. He built shiningcities, received the homage of kings, surrendered himselfto the joys of ripe-lipped beauties. There were lucid intervalsshot through with the malignant presence ofMinetti and the puttering visits of the doctor. But thesewere like waking moments between darkness and dawn,filled with the half-conscious joy of a sleeper secure inthe knowledge of a prolonged respite. In such momentsFernet would stir feebly and think:

“I must get away to-morrow!”

And there would succeed almost instantly a languidecstasy at the thought that to-morrow was something remoteand intangible that would never come.

At times the hunchback seemed like nothing so muchas a heartless gaoler who, if he would, might open thedoor to some shining adventure. Gradually this ideabecame fixed and elaborated. Fernet’s sight grew dimmerand dimmer until he followed the presence ofMinetti by the sounds he made.

“He is jingling something,” Fernet would repeat,weakly. “Ah, it must be his keys! He is searching forthe one that will set me free!... Now he is oiling thelock.... He has shut the door again. I am to be heldawhile longer.... I am a caged bird and just beyondis the pepper-tree. It must be glistening now in the sunlight.Well, let him lock the door, for all the good it willdo him. Is not the window always open? When thetime comes I shall fly out the window and leave him here—alone.Then we shall see who has the best of thisbargain.”

And all the silver-blue visions would steal over himagain, to be pierced briefly by the arrival of the wizeneddoctor.

“It is he who keeps me here!” Fernet would say tohimself. “If it were not for him I could fly away—forever.Well, presently even he will lose his power.”

One day a strange man stood at his bedside. Minettiwas there also, and the old fraud of a doctor. The strangeman drew back the covers and put his ear to Fernet’sfluttering heart and went through other tiresome matters....Finally he smoothed back the covers again,and as he did so he shook his head. He spoke softly,but Fernet heard him distinctly.

“It is too late.... You should have called mesooner. He wishes to die.... There is nothing to bedone.”

“Yes, yes—it happens this way very often in nervouscases.”

“I have done my best. I have given him food anddrink. I have even starved him. But nothing seemed todo any good.”

“No,” said the stranger; “it is his mind. He hasmade up his mind that.... You can do nothing with aman when....”

Fernet closed his eyes.

“A man! They think I am a man. What stupidity!Can they not see that I am a bird?... They have goneout. He is locking the door again.... I can hear thekeys jingle.... Well, let him lock the door if itgives him any pleasure. The window is open andto-night....”

The footsteps of the departing visitors died away. Achuckling sound came to André Fernet and the thump ofecstatic fists brought down upon a bare table-top. Thevoice of Flavio Minetti was quivering triumphantly likethe hot whisper of a desert wind through the room:

“Without any weapon save the mind! Ha! ha! ha!”

Fernet turned his face toward the wall. “He is laughingat me now. Well, let him laugh while he may....Is not the window open? To-morrow I shall be free ... andhe?... No, he cannot fly—he has a brokenwing.... The window is open, André Fernet!”

BLIND VISION

Four months of pleasant meetings led to the superficialintimacy that war makes possible, so that I regrettedthe moving of the hospital and the need of a restwhich took me to Paris.

It was there, one dreary evening in late November, thatMarston’s name was brought to my dim little apartment,with the request that, if possible, I receive him at once.I was about to sit down to a lonely dinner, and the prospectof his company delighted me. Then he came intothe room.

I had last seen him with his friend Esmè as they stoodtogether waving me good-by, the rich, heavy summer sunshineall about them, though something more than a trickof golden light flooded their faces. They were bothvitally alive in widely different ways; and yet theystrangely seemed to be merely parts of each other. Esmèwas an erratic dreamer and seer of visions, and lackedalways, even in the unimportant aspects of living, anysense of the personal, the concrete; Marston, in curiouscontrast, was at all times practical, level-headed, full ofthe luster of life.

The man who stood hesitatingly just inside my doorwas not Marston, but some stone-sculptured image of thegay, glad boy I had known.

The cry I could not choke broke through his terribleimmobility, and he spoke, the words sounding unreal, asthough he had memorized them for a lesson and rehearsedtheir very intonation.

“I had to come. I had to tell some one. Then I willgo away. I don’t know where; just away. You knewhim, knew I loved him. Will you let me tell you? Then Iwill go away.”

It flashed across my mind in the second before I foundwords that I had half wondered why Esmè was not withhim. It seemed impossible that even their bodies couldbe separated.

I tried to lead him to the fire and remove his overcoat,but he pushed me from him.

“No, no; don’t touch me. You don’t know, don’tunderstand. I’ve hunted two weeks trying to find someone—you, any one who knew us to whom I could tellit.” He hesitated, and I waited. His voice took on a curiousquality of childlike appeal as he went on: “You knowI loved him, know I’d given my life for his, don’t you?”Such phrasing was utterly unlike Marston, but I had seentheir friendship in all the glory of its intensity, and Iknew no sacrifice would have been too great. I assuredhim of this, and, remembering my nursing, insisted thathe eat, promising to listen to anything he wanted totell me.

We sat facing each other across the spread table, butneither of us thought of the food after the first fewmouthfuls. Twice in the early part of his story I filledhis glass with claret, but I cannot recollect his drinkingany.

“You must think this strange of me, but I’m not reallymad, not now. You see, I’ve lived with the horror eversince they gave me leave—just afterward, trying to findsome one I could talk to, some one who would help me goon and finish the things we’d—

“I want to make it all as clear as possible, but I’ve gotto tell it my own way, and that isn’t clear.

“Do you remember Brander? We brought him overonce or twice. He was a mighty decent sort of fellow.Somehow, though, I hated his being such friends withEsmè, I’d been his only one for so long, you see. Branderwas born in India, and somehow Esmè found it out; fromhearing him curse in a dialect, I think. They used to talksome unheard-of jargon to each other and enjoyed it.

“Well, one day Brander got smashed in a fight up thelines, along the British front, and was dying. He keptasking for Esmè, calling his name, and when Esmè gotword of it, of course he started at once. He took one ofthe baby Nieuports; they’re fast, and not much of a targetfrom below. He knew the Germans had a maskedbattery which he’d have to cross.

“I thought I’d like to see him across the enemy country,so I let him get a good start, and then I went up. Ilost sight of him in a cloud-bank, and must have flownbeyond him, for when I cleared it, he was behind andbelow me, and coming toward him a big German fighting-plane.

“Esmè’s wasn’t a fighting-machine, and he should havetried to get away; but he must have seen the German asecond after I did and judged it too late. He fired hisrevolver once, then suddenly seemed to lose control of hismachine, and dropped to the level of the other. He musthave thought he was done for and made his decision onthe instant, counting it better to try to ram the Germanplane and go down to death together than to take themillionth chance of landing and let the enemy escape. Hewent head on at the other, and they fell, woven as onemachine, just inside the German lines.

“Somehow I got back to our fellows; God knows Iwish I hadn’t.

“Every man in our escadrille paid in his own way unconscioustribute to Esmè’s memory. We were awfullyand justly proud of him,—it’s something to have diedfor France,—but for all of us the fun, the excitement, ofthe work had gone, been snuffed out. No one turnedcorkscrew somersaults, Esmè’s great stunt; no one did anyof his special tricks any more, not even to show off beforethe new men.

“We got one of those French immortelle wreaths, tiedto it his name and the number of the machine he was drivingand dropped it inside their lines. The next morningjust at sunrise one of their men flew over our hangars andthrew down a stone. Painted on it in German was,‘Your dead sends thanks’! That’s just like them, brutal,and the last word on their side.

“There’s always work to be done in war, each day’seffort to be made, and the mercy of constant doing helpedme. I used to try to forget the fighting and the horrorsand go back to the old days.

“Esmè never was like other men in certain ways—allthe early things that were unconsciously part of him, Isuppose. Even as a little shaver at school he couldn’t bemade to understand the ‘why’ of a school-boy’s code.He used to rush headlong into anything and everything,and he generally came out on top. He did the most outrageousthings calmly, unthinkingly, and we always madeexcuses, forgave him, because he was Esmè. At collegethe men were sometimes rather nasty to him, partlybecause he couldn’t understand their points of view;and he used to stare a minute and then loll away. Henever hurried,—perhaps it was his Oriental blood,—buthe always got there, and could make his very lollingan insult.

“I used to wonder just what it was that made Esmè agreat aviator. He was a phenomenally good pilot, althoughhe himself never seemed to realize his remarkableability. His losing control of his machine that day wasinexplicable. But one can’t tell. That high up the slightestthing uncounted on means death. Those days after—

“A month went by. One morning our anti-aircraftersstarted, and we rushed to see what was doing, and there,just a blot against the unclouded sky, was a plane turningcorkscrew somersaults one after another as it came lowerand lower. I went mad for a few minutes; only Esmècould turn corkscrews in such a way. I got the captain,and begged him to give orders for our gunners to stop.I must have made him feel the certainty of the wild thingI believed, for he gave the order. It was one of our ownmachines, in it Esmè, alone—Esmè in the flesh beforeus, drawn and haggard and old, but Esmè.

“At first he couldn’t speak. We called it strain; perhapsin any other man we shouldn’t, even in our minds,have given it its real name—emotion. He was like agirl. When I put my arm across his shoulders in the old,familiar way, he began to weep silently.

“The fellows were awfully decent and drifted away outof kindness, leaving him alone with me. We went to ourtent, the one we’d shared together, and there, after a littlewhile, he told me how it all happened.

“When the two machines fell together in a tangledheap, by some miraculous chance he was unhurt. TheGerman was dead before they landed, he thought.

“Then began the slow, torturing weeks. They kept athim day and night, night and day. They never left himalone, not just guards, but some one always near himwhose only business it was to watch him.

“He was a marked man. The Germans knew him tobe our best, perhaps the best aviator in all the Alliedarmies, and they needed him. They tried every sort ofhellish torture on him, things one mustn’t think about, toget him to take up one of their photographers over theFrench trenches, knowing he could do certain notorioustricks which would prove him our man and so renderthe taking of the necessary pictures comparatively safe.He stuck it out, growing weaker and weaker, until theorder came that he was to take up their man in his ownmachine (they’d used their diabolical skill to reconstructit), or— Perhaps if it had been an order to shoothim then and there, his courage would have held out;but the other— He was broken, weakened, driven; hegave in.

“They’d taken photographs for miles along the Frenchand British fronts when Esmè noticed the strap whichheld the camera man was loosened. The man was busyadjusting the films for a new set. Esmè pulled, the strapgave way; he lurched the machine suddenly, and turnedit over,—his famous somersault trick,—and then, withoutlooking back or down, made for our camp.

“Sometimes one forgets to guard one’s expression. Isuppose mine showed the horror I couldn’t help feeling.He put his hand out to touch me, but I jumped up andmoved away. ‘Marston,’ he said, ‘what’s the matter?Aren’t you glad? There wasn’t any other way but togive in to them. You don’t know what it’s like to feelyourself dying by inches, a little piece more every day, allthe time knowing you can’t die enough, and then thechance to be free once more, in the air, clean; you onlyfifty miles away, and one man between us—one man.What was his life among so many? It’s war, Marston;war.’

“I failed him then. I didn’t stop to think of his overwroughtcondition, mentally and physically. He simplywasn’t responsible. I had a quick vision of the way theother men would take it, of how I’d try and try to explainEsmè’s action because it was Esmè’s, and all the time I’dknow the explanations weren’t any good. We have acode all our own; no rules, no mention ever made of itsinterpretation—just an aviator’s honor.

“Now, looking back, I can’t think why Esmè’s droppingthe man out seemed so hideous. It did, though, and Ifailed him. He wanted to hear me say the words of welcomehe’d counted on, and I just stood and looked athim. He was making queer, whimpering little noises,with his mouth wobbling all over his face, and I watchedhim. He was suffering, and I looked on.

“After a while the whimperings turned into words,and the words started with giggles. ‘A-aren’t you g-glad,Marston? A-aren’t you g-glad? A-aren’t you?’

“I turned on him, all the friendship and the memoriesof the years behind swept away. I didn’t know what Iwas saying. I’m not sure now; something about thethings one doesn’t do, that it wasn’t war the way wefought it to drop a man thousands of feet who was onlydoing his duty. It was murder. Over and over I said it—thatword murder. He wasn’t my friend; he was amurderer!

“I went out of the tent to escape his staring, pleadingeyes—child’s eyes. Even while I was saying the wordsI knew he didn’t understand. He had done what hethought justifiable, necessary, he wanted to get back tome, and I called him a murderer.

“Once just as I started for the mess to get him somethingto eat I thought I heard him call my name; but Iwent on. I needed more time.

“I was gone perhaps ten minutes. When I reënteredthe tent it was empty. Esmè was nowhere about, but Ididn’t think of looking for him then, for I thought he’dprobably joined one of the other men. Later I got worried,and we started a search. He wasn’t in our camp.No one had seen him.

“We waited and wondered. I prayed. Then I founda little scribbled note knocking about among my things.

“We never found any trace even of him or the smallestclue, just the note; that’s all I have left of Esmè. Hereit is:

‘You’ve tried to tell me your opinion of the trick I played on anenemy. In any other arm of the service what I did would have gone,been all right, been smart. Isn’t that what you meant, Marston? Butwith our boys, because we’ve chosen to have a different, a higherstandard, because we fight cleanly, what I did was—dirty. Well, Iunderstand. You and the other men are different; I’m not, but I canpay. I’m going back. Don’t try to stop me before I reach their lines.You can’t. I go to render unto Cæsar. A life for a life. To give themat least my death, since I can no longer offer even that proudly toFrance.’

“There has been bravery and heroism in the war, butEsmè went back; he knew to what—yet he went.

“God grant he is dead! I tried to make words expressan inexpressible thing. All my life to live out—remembering,knowing I killed my friend!”

Perhaps Marston went on speaking; I don’t know. Ionly remember the broken stem of his glass, the stainthat was spreading slowly over the white cloth, and thedripping, dripping red of his hands.

IMAGINATION

As I gave my coat and hat to the boy, I caught sightof Orrington, waddling into the farther reaches ofthe club just ahead of me. “Here’s luck!” I thoughtto myself, and with a few hasty strides overtook him.

It is always good luck to run upon Harvey Orringtonduring the hour when he is loafing before dinner. Inmotion he resembles a hippopotamus, and in repose heproduces the impression that the day is very hot, even inmidwinter. But one forgets his red and raw corpulencywhen he has settled at ease in a big chair and begun totalk. Then the qualities that make him the valuable manhe is, as the literary adviser of the Speedwell Company,come to the surface, and with them those perhaps finerattributes that have given him his reputation as a critic.Possibly the contrast between his Falstaffian body and hisnicely discriminating mind gives savor to his commenton art and life; but in any case his talk is as good in itsway as his essays are in theirs. Read his “RetrospectiveImpressions” if you wish to know what I mean—onlydon’t think that his colloquial diction is like the fine-spunphrasing of his essays. He inclines to be slangy inconversation.

I overtook Orrington, as I say, before he had reachedhis accustomed corner, and I greeted him with a becomingdeference. He is fifteen years my senior, after all.

“Hello,” he said, turning his rather dull eyes full uponme. “Chasing will-o’-the-wisps this afternoon?”

“I’ve been pursuing you. If you call that—”

“Precision forbids! It can’t have been will-o’-the-wisps.”Orrington shook his head with utter solemnity.“I don’t know just what their figure is, but I’m sure it’snot like mine. Come along and save my life, won’t you?”

“With pleasure. I hoped you might be free.”

“Free as the air of a department-store elevator—yes.I’ve got to meet Reynolds here. He’s waiting for meyonder. You know Reynolds?”

“Yes, I know him.”

Every one knows Reynolds, I need hardly say—everyone who can compass it. The rest of the world knows hisbooks. Reynolds makes books with divine unconcernand profuseness: almost as a steel magnate makes steel.He makes them in every kind, and puts them out with afine flourish, so that he is generally regarded as masterof all the literary arts. People buy his output, too, whichis lucky for Reynolds but perhaps less fortunate for literature;they buy his output—that is the only word to use—bythe boxful, apparently. An edition in his sight isbut as the twinkling of an eye before it is sold out. Onecan’t wonder that Reynolds is a little spoiled by all this,though he must have been a good fellow to begin with.He’s really a kind-hearted and brave man now, but hetakes himself too seriously. He is sometimes a bore.Only that he would never recognize the portrait I ammaking of him, I should hardly dare to say what I amsaying. Physically, he is undistinguished: he looks likea successful lawyer of a dark athletic type who has kepthimself fit with much golf and who has got the habit ofwearing his golfing-clothes to town. It is his mannerthat sets him apart from his fellows.

“I’m glad you know him.” Orrington chuckled as wedrew near the corner where Reynolds was already seated.“I’d hate to be the innocent cause of your introduction.”

Reynolds rose and extended gracious hands to the twoof us. “You add to my pleasure by bringing our friend,”he said to Orrington.

I fear that I acknowledged the compliment by lookingfoolish. It was Orrington’s corner that we were invading,if it was any one’s, and, in any case, Reynolds doesn’town the club.

“I need tea to support my anæmia,” said Orringtongruffly. “If the rest of you wish strong drink, however,I’m not unwilling to order it. They’ve got a new lot ofextremely old Bourbon, I am informed, that had to besmuggled out of Kentucky at dead of night for fear of apopular uprising. I should like to watch the effect of iton one or both of you.”

“I’m willing to be the subject of the experiment,” Isaid. “What about you, Reynolds?”

Reynolds cocked his head slightly to one side.“Though I dislike to deprive our good friend of any æstheticpleasure, I think I will stick to my own specialScotch. I do not crave the dizzy heights of inebriety.”

“First time I ever knew you to be afraid of soaring,Reynolds,” commented Orrington. “I trust you won’tlet caution affect your literary labors. It is one of thebiggest things about you, you know, that you aren’tafraid to tackle any job you please. Most of us waitabout, wondering whether we could ever learn to managethe Pegasus biplane, but you fly in whatever machine ishandy.”

“Perhaps you think I adventure rashly.” It wasneither question nor positive statement on the part ofReynolds, but a little compounded of both. He seemedhurt.

“Not at all.” Orrington’s tone was heartily reassuring.“You get away with it, and the rest of us get nowherein comparison.”

“I have always believed,” said Reynolds, “that aproper self-confidence is a prime requisite for literarysuccess. In all seriousness, I am sure both of you willagree with me that none of us could have reached hispresent position in the world without some degree ofboldness. We have seized the main chance.”

“Then it got away from me,” I felt impelled to say.I could see no reason for accepting the flattery that Reynoldsintended.

“You may believe it or not, as you please, Reynolds,but I’m incapable of seizing anything.” Orringtonpaused to direct the waiter, but went on after a moment,with a teacup in his fat hand. “As a matter of fact, I’venever collared anything in my life except a few goodmanuscripts. Some mighty bad ones, too.” He chuckled.

“Ah! You know the difference between the good andthe bad better than any one else in the country, I fancy.I always feel diffident when I send copy to you.” Reynoldssomehow conveyed the impression, rather by hismanner than by his words, of insufferable conceit. Hemade you certain that he was ready to challenge the assemblyof the Immortals in behalf of anything he wrote.

“Oh, you’re in a position to dictate. It’s not for usto criticise,” Orrington answered very quietly. “By theway, I ventured to suggest our meeting here partly becauseI wished to know when your new book would beready. Speedwell’s been worrying, and I told him I’dsee you. Thought it would bother you less than a letteror coming round to the office.”

“My book!” Reynolds struck an attitude andwrinkled his forehead. “My dear fellow, I wish Iknew.”

Orrington set down his cup and looked at Reynoldsquizzically. “You must know better than anybody else.”

“It’s a question of the possibilities only.” Reynoldslifted his head proudly. “I will not fail you, Orrington.I have never yet left any one in the lurch, but I have beenexceedingly busy of late. You can’t realize the pressureI am under from every side. So many calls—my time,my presence, my words! I must have a fortnight’s clearspace to get my copy ready for you. Within the month,I feel sure, you shall have it.”

“That’ll do perfectly well. We don’t wish to botheryou,” said Orrington briefly, “but you know as well asI do that the public cries for you. Speedwell gets restiveif he can’t administer a dose once in so often.”

“What is the book to be?” I ventured to ask.

Reynolds bridled coquettishly. It was too absurd of afellow with his physique and general appearance: I haddifficulty in maintaining a decent gravity. “My book!”he said again. “It isn’t precisely a novel, and it isn’tprecisely anything else. It is a simple story with perhapsa cosmic significance.”

“I see.” I didn’t, of course, but I couldn’t well sayless. I knew, besides, pretty well what the book wouldbe like. I had read two or three of Reynolds’s things.The mark of the beast was on them all, though variouslyimprinted.

“By the way of nothing,” said Orrington suddenly, “Ihad an odd experience to-day.”

“Ah! do tell us,” urged Reynolds. “Your experiencesare always worth hearing. I suppose it is because yourimpressions are more vivid than those of most men.”

Orrington pursed his mouth deprecatingly and lighteda cigarette. “There’s no stuff for you fellows in this.You couldn’t make a story out of it if you tried. But itgave me a twinge and brought back something that happenedtwenty years ago.”

“What happened to-day?” I asked, to get the storyproperly begun.

“Oh, nothing much, in one way. I’ve been talkingwith a young chap who has sent us a manuscript lately.The book’s no good, commercially—a pretty crude performance—butit has some striking descriptive passagesabout the effects of hunger on the human body and thehuman mind. They interested me because I thought theyshowed some traces of imagination. There isn’t muchreal imagination lying round loose, you know: nothingbut the derived and Burbankized variety. So I sent forthe fellow. He came running, of course. Hope in hiseye, and all that sort of thing. I felt like a brute beastto have to tell him we couldn’t take his book, though Icoated the pill as sweetly as I could.

“He took it like a Trojan, though I could see that hewas holding himself in to keep from crying. He was amere boy, mind you, and a very shabby and lean one. Inoticed that while I talked encouragingly to him, and Ifinally asked what set him going at such a rate aboutstarvation. I might have known, of course! The kidhas been up against it and has been living on quarterrations for I don’t know how many months. Therewasn’t an ounce of imagination in his tale, after all: hehad been describing his own sensations with decent accuracy—nothingmore than that.”

“Poor fellow!” I interrupted. “We ought to find himsome sort of job. Do you think he’d make good if hehad a chance?”

Orrington shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I don’tknow, I’m sure. I talked to him like a father and uncleand all his elderly relations, and I asked more questionsthan was polite. He’s in earnest at the moment,anyhow.”

“But if he’s actually starving—” I began.

Orrington looked at me in his sleepy way. “Oh, he’shad a good feed by this time. You must take me for across between a devil-fish and a blood-sucking bat. Icould at least afford the luxury of seeing that heshouldn’t try to do the Chatterton act.”

Reynolds took a sip of whiskey, then held up his glassto command attention. “Dear, dear!” he said slowly,with the air of settling the case. “It’s a very great pitythat young men without resources and settled employmenttry to make their way by writing. They ought notto be encouraged to do so. Most of them would be betteroff in business or on their fathers’ farms, no doubt; andthe sooner they find their place, the better.”

“Still, if nobody made the venture,” I objected, “thecraft wouldn’t flourish, would it? I think the questionis whether something can’t be done to give this particularyoung man a show.”

“I’ve sent him to Dawbarn,” said Orrington almostsullenly. “He wants a space-filler and general utilityman, he happened to tell me yesterday. It’s a rottenjob, but it will seem princely to my young acquaintance.I shall watch him. He might make good and pay back myloan, you know.”

“It does credit to your heart, my dear Orrington—grub-stakinghim and getting him a job at once.” Reynoldsfrowned judicially. “I doubt the wisdom of it,however. A young man ought to succeed by his ownefforts or not at all. Of course I know nothing of thisparticular case except what you’ve just told us, but Ican’t see from your account of him that he has muchchance to lift himself out of the ranks of unsuccessfulhack writers. You admit that he shows littleimagination.”

“Not yet; but he doesn’t write badly.”

“Ah! there are so many who don’t write badly, butwho never go beyond that.”

Orrington laughed, shaking even his heavy chair withhis heavier mirth. “Excuse me,” he murmured.“You’re very severe on us, Reynolds. You mustn’t forgetthat most of us aren’t Shakespeares. Indeed, tobe strictly impersonal, I don’t know any member of thisclub—and we’re rather long on eminent pen-pushers—whois. It won’t do any harm to give my youngfriend his chance. To tell the truth, I think it’s adamned sight better for him than the end of a pier andthe morgue.”

I wondered how the mighty Reynolds would take thesnub, and I feared a scene. But I knew him less wellthan Orrington. He merely nursed his glass in silenceand looked sulky. After all, Orrington’s argument wasunanswerable.

To break the tension, I turned to Orrington with aquestion. “What happened twenty years ago?” I asked.“You said you were reminded of it.”

Orrington was silent for a minute as if deliberating.He seemed to be reviewing whatever it was he had inmind. “Yes, yes,” he said at last, “that’s more of astory, only it hasn’t any conclusion. It’s as devoid of adénouement as the life-history of the youth whom Reynoldswishes to starve for his soul’s good.”

“You are very unjust to me,” Reynolds protested.“You speak as if I had a grudge against the young man,whereas I was merely making a general observation. Itis no real kindness to encourage a youth to his ultimatehurt.”

Orrington looked at him doubtfully. “I suppose not,”he said after a moment’s pause. “I’ve often wonderedwhat happened in this other case I have in mind.”

“What was it?” asked Reynolds.

“It was a small matter,” Orrington began apologetically;“at least I suppose it would seem so to any outsider.But it was a big thing to me and presumably tothe other fellow involved. I never knew anything abouthim, directly.”

“I thought you said you had dealings with the otherman,” I interjected.

“I did,” said Orrington, “but I never met him. It wasthis way. I was editing a cheap magazine at the time, thekind of thing that intends to be popular and isn’t. Theman who published it was on his uppers, the wretchedmagazine was at death’s door, and I was getting abouthalf of my regular stipend when I got anything at all—somethinglike forty cents a week, if I remember correctly.I was young, of course, so all that didn’t so muchmatter. I was rather proud of being a real editor, evenof a cheap and nasty thing like—but never mind thename. It died many years ago and was forgotten evenbefore the funeral. I suspect now that the publishertook advantage of my youth and inexperience, but Ibear him no grudge. I managed to keep afloat, and Iliked it.

“Of course I had to live a double life in order to getenough to eat—a blameless double life that meant allwork and no play. A fellow can do that in his twenties.After office hours I got jobs of hack writing, and occasionallyI sold some little thing to one of the reputablemagazines. It was hard sledding, though—a fact I emphasizenot because my biography is interesting, but becauseit has its bearing on the incident in question.

“Well, one fine day I got hold of a job that was thebest I’d ever landed. I suspect I apostrophized it, in thelanguage of that era, as a ‘peach.’ It was hack work,of course, but hack work of a superior and exalted kind—thespecial article sort of thing. I went higher thana kite when I found the chance was coming my way.I dreamed dreams of opulence. Good Lord! I evenlooked forward to getting put up for this ill-run clubwhich we are now honoring by our gracious presences.”

Orrington stopped and shook with silent laughter tillhe had to wipe his eyes. The joke seemed less good tome than to him, for I had been only six months a memberof the club and had not yet acquired the proper Olympiandisdain of it. Reynolds smiled. I fancy that he still regardsthe club as of importance. In spite of his vast renown,he is never quite easy in his dignity.

“One has no business to laugh at the enthusiasms ofyouth,” Orrington went on presently. “I suppose it’sbad manners to laugh even at one’s own, for we’re notthe same creatures we were back there. It’s a temptationsometimes, all the same. And I was absurdly set up, Iassure you, by my chance to do something of no conceivableimportance at a quite decent figure. But I never didthe job, after all.”

He nodded his head slowly, as if he had been some fatgod of the Orient suddenly come to torpid life.

“You don’t mean that you came near starving?” Iasked incredulously. The pattern of the story seemed tobe getting confused.

“No, no. I wasn’t so poor as that, even though Igave up the rich job I’m telling you about. The point isthat I was chronically hard up and needed the money. Icouldn’t afford to do without it, but I had to. It was likethis, you see. On the very day the plum dropped into mymouth, a story came into the office that bowled me overcompletely. I hadn’t much experience then; but I feltsomehow sure that this thing wasn’t fiction at all, thoughit had a thin cloak of unreality flung about it. It was acheerful little tale, the whole point of which was that theimpossible hero killed himself rather than starve to death.It was very badly done in every respect, as far as I remember,but it gave me the unpleasant impression thatthe man who wrote it knew more about going withouthis dinner than about writing short stories. Of course Icouldn’t accept the thing for my magazine, though Icould take most kinds of drivel. Our readers didn’texist, to be sure, but we thought they demanded bright,sunshiny rubbish. I used to fill up our numbers withsaccharine mush, and I shouldn’t have dared print agloomy story even if it had been good.

“This wasn’t good. It was punk. But it botheredme—just as the youngster’s book has been botheringme lately. I suppose I’m too undiscriminating andsentimental for the jobs I’ve had in life.”

“You!” Reynolds objected. “Every one’s afraid ofyou. Haven’t I said that I tremble, even now, when Isend copy to you? It makes no difference that I havethe contract signed and every business arrangementconcluded.”

Orrington’s mouth twisted into a little grimace.“That’s merely my pose, Reynolds, as you know perfectlywell. I’m the terror of the press because I have tobe to hold my job. Inside I’m a welter of adipose sentiment.My physical exterior doesn’t belie me. Whiledining, I quite prefer to think of all the world as wellfed; and, in spite of many years’ training, I can’t seeanything delightful in the spectacle of a fellow goingwithout his dinner because he’s ambitious. As a rule, Iprefer to discourage authors who are millionaires.That’s a pleasant game in itself, but not very goodhunting. All of which is beside the point.

“I did hate, as a matter of fact, to turn down the littlestory I speak of; and while I was writing a gentle notethat tried to explain, but didn’t, I had a brilliant idea.I suppose I was the victim of what is known as a generousimpulse. I’ve had so little to do with that sort ofthing that I can’t be sure of naming it correctly, but Idare say it could be described in that way. I said tomyself: ‘That son of a gun could do those special articlesjust as well as I can, and it’s dollars to doughnuts he’llgo under if he doesn’t get something to do before long.’

“If you’ve ever had anything to do with generousimpulses, you know that they’re easier to come by than toput into practice. When I began to think what I shouldlose by turning over my job to the other fellow, I balkedlike an overloaded mule. After all, how could I be surethat the man wasn’t fooling me? He might have imaginedeverything he had written, after eating too muchpâté de foie gras. I should be a fool to give a leg up tosomebody who was already astride his beast. I couldn’tafford to do it. You know how one’s mind would work.”

“I regret to say,” I put in, “that I can see perfectlyhow my mind would have worked. It would have persuadedme that I had a duty to myself.”

Orrington laughed quietly. “Don’t you believe it.Your conscience or your softness—whatever you chooseto call it—would have played the deuce with your peaceof mind. Mine did. I tore up my note and went outfor a walk. Naturally I saw nothing but beggars andpoverty: misery stalked me from street to street. Iwriggled and squirmed for half a day or more, but Icouldn’t get away from the damnable necessities of thestory-writer.

“In the end I wrote him, of course—the flatteringnote I had intended, and something more. I told himabout my fat job and said I was recommending him forit. By the same mail I wrote to the people who’d offeredme the chance, refusing it. I said I regretted that Icouldn’t undertake the commission as I had expected,but that I found my other engagements made it impossible.I thought I might as well do the thing in grandstyle and chuck a bluff while I was about it. I added thatI was sending a friend to them who would do the articlesbetter than I could hope to. I didn’t give the fellow’sname, but I told them he’d turn up shortly.”

“What happened then?” I asked, for Orringtonlighted another cigarette and seemed inclined to rest onhis oars.

He turned his dull eyes on me and smiled a littlesadly. “What happened? Why, nothing much, as faras I know. I suppose the other fellow got my job andsaved his body alive. I never inquired. I somehowexpected that he’d write to me or come to see me—hehad my address, you know—but he never did. I wasa little annoyed, I remember, at his not doing so afterI’d cut off my nose for him, which is probably why Inever tried to follow him up. I never even looked upthe articles when they were published. But I’ve oftenwished I might meet the man and learn how he got on.”

“You’ve never seen his name?” I inquired. “Hecan’t have done much, or you’d have spotted him.”

“I suspect,” said Orrington, “that he sent in thatstory of his under a pseudonym and that he may havedone very well for himself since. What do you think,Reynolds? I suppose you consider me a fool for mypains, on the theory that no man ought to be helpedout.”

Reynolds had been silent for some time. As I lookedat him now I could see that he was a good deal impressedby Orrington’s narrative. I wasn’t surprised, for I knewhim to be a generous fellow in spite of his foibles.

“Yes, how about it, Reynolds?” I said.

“It is a very affecting story,” he answered. “Youacted most generously, Orrington, though you makelight of it. I can’t believe that the young man realizedthe sacrifice you made for him; otherwise his failureto thank you, bad enough in any case, would be unspeakable.He can’t have known.”

“But you insist that I’d better have let him alone,”persisted Orrington, clearly with the intention of teasingour magnificent acquaintance.

“That depends altogether on how it turned out, doesn’tit? You can’t tell us whether the young man was worthsaving or not.”

Orrington laughed contentedly. “No. That’s themissing conclusion, but I’m not sorry to have given hima show. Besides, what I did wasn’t such a noble sacrifice,after all. Having basked in your admiration for amoment, I can afford to tell you. I’m not an accomplishedhypocrite, and I’d hate to begin at my age.Let me tell you what happened.”

I felt aggrieved. Had Orrington been working onour feelings for his private amusement merely? “Yousaid there wasn’t any conclusion,” I growled.

“Don’t get huffy,” Orrington returned imperturbably.“The story hasn’t any ending, as I warned you. Onlymy part in it turned out rather amusingly. I hope Ishouldn’t be fatuous ass enough to brag about the incidentif there were anything in it that demanded bouquets.I suspect the bubble of noble actions often bursts just asmine did.”

“What do you mean?” asked Reynolds—reasonablyenough, I thought.

“Only this,” Orrington went on. “It turned out thatthe people who had offered to let me do the articles weretremendously impressed by my turning them down. Theletter I wrote them must have been a corker. Somehowor other they got the notion that I was a very busy manand a person of importance. They ought to have knownbetter, of course, but they evidently adopted that sillyidea. They talked about me to their friends and crackedme up as a coming man. The upshot of it was that Ibegan to be tempted with most flattering offers of onesort and another—before long I had my choice of severalthings. My self-constituted backers were ratherpowerful in those days, so it was useful to be in theirgood books. I left my moribund magazine and got soprosperous that I began to grow fat at once. Sereneobscurity has been my lot ever since; and I’ve never gotrid of the fat.”

“That’s a happy ending,” I remarked lazily. “It’svery like a real conclusion. What more do you want?”

“Oh, for the sake of argument, I’d like to prove thatI was right and that Reynolds’s theory is all wrong.”

“I’m exceedingly glad that it turned out so well foryou,” said Reynolds unctuously. “Then the young manwhom you assisted didn’t need to feel quite so muchunder obligation to you as we’ve been thinking?”

I was outraged. Reynolds was a great gun in literature,at least in the opinion of himself and a huge circleof readers. He was also a dozen years older than I. Atthe same time, I couldn’t allow him to disparage whatOrrington had done, merely because Orrington madelight of it.

“You will observe,” I said with some heat, “that theeffect on Orrington was purely secondary and fortuitous.Orrington didn’t know he could possibly gain by it whenhe took the bread out of his own mouth to feed the youngcur. I hope, for my part, that the fellow eventuallystarved to death or took to digging ditches.”

Reynolds sat up very straight. His black eyes snappedwith anger. “He didn’t,” he burst out. “I happen toknow him.”

“You know him!” I exclaimed, while Orringtongoggled.

“Yes.” Reynolds had grown very red, but he lookeddefiant. “Since I’ve been attacked like this, I may aswell tell you. Not that I think it’s anybody’s businessbut my own. Orrington didn’t suffer by what hedid.”

“You don’t mean—” I began.

“I mean just what I say—no less and no more. Iwas the man in question, and I admit that I ought tohave thanked Orrington for his kindness. I meant to, ofcourse; but I set to work at once on those articles thathave assumed such importance in our discussion, and Iwas very busy. I had to make them as good as I knewhow. I assumed, naturally, that I had merely received auseful tip from a man who didn’t care for the job. I’vealways assumed that till this afternoon. I wanted thejob badly, myself.”

“Oh, well!” Orrington put in soothingly. “It doesn’tmatter, does it? I’ve explained that the incident reallyset me on my feet. You don’t owe me anything, Reynolds.If I’d been a complete pig and kept the chancefor myself, I’d probably have been much worse off for it.You needed it much more than I did, evidently.”

To my surprise, Reynolds was not quieted by Orrington’smagnanimous speech. Instead, he jumped up in apassion and stood before us, clinching and unclinchinghis fists like a small boy before his first fight.

“That isn’t the point,” he said in a voice so loud thatvarious groups of men scattered about the room lookedtoward us with amusement. “I admit that I was gladof the opportunity to do the articles, but I was by nomeans in such straits as you suppose. So much for thecritical sense for which you have such a reputation!”He turned on Orrington with a sneer.

Orrington remained very calm. He seemed in nowise disturbed by the fury of Reynolds’s tirade, nor byhis insufferable rudeness, but puffed at a cigarette twoor three times before he replied. “It’s a poor thing,critical sense,” he murmured. “I’ve never been proudof what mine has done for me. But you must admit thatI paid you a pretty compliment, Reynolds, in believingthat your story was founded on real experience. I don’tsee why you need mind my saying that it wasn’t muchof a yarn. Nobody need be sensitive about something hedid twenty years back.”

“I don’t care a hang what you thought about the storythen, or what you think of it now,” Reynolds snapped.“You might, however, grant the existence of imagination.You needn’t attribute everything anybody writesto actual experience. I never went hungry.”

So that was where the shoe pinched! Reynolds insistedon being proud of his prosperity at all stages. Ilaughed. “You’ve missed something, then,” I put in.“The sensation, if not agreeable, is unique. Every manshould feel it once, in a way. A couple of times I’ve runshort of provisions, and I assure you the experience islike nothing else.”

“That’s different,” said Reynolds a little more quietly.“I’m not saying that I owe nothing to Orrington. Iacknowledge that I do, and I admit that I ought to haveacknowledged it twenty years ago. I was anxious at thetime to get a start in the world of letters, and I waslooking for an opening. Orrington’s suggestion gaveme my first little opportunity; but it certainly didn’t savemy life.”

“Then it was all imagination, after all,” Orringtonsaid gently. “What a mistake I made!”

“Of course it was all imagined!” Reynolds protested,and he added naïvely: “I was living at home at the time,and I had a sufficient allowance from my father.”

A twinkle crept into Orrington’s usually expressionlesseyes. “I must apologize to you, Reynolds, or perhapsto your father, for so mistaking the circumstancesof your youth. You have, at all events, lived down theopprobrium of inherited wealth. You’ve supportedyourself quite nicely ever since I’ve known you.”

“As I remarked earlier,” Reynolds went on pompously,but in better humor, “I have never thought it wise foryoung men to embark on the literary life without sufficientmeans to live in comfort until they can establishtheir reputations. In my own case I should never haveundertaken to do so.”

His declaration of principle seemed to restore him tocomplete self-satisfaction, and it must have seemed tohim the proper cue for exit. As he was already standing,he was in a position to shake hands with Orringtonand me rather condescendingly; and he took himself offwith the swagger of conscious invincibility. I think hebore us no malice.

Orrington looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Itold you I needed you to save my life,” he said. “Ihadn’t any notion, though, that this kind of thing wouldhappen. I’m sorry to have let you in for such a scene.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I answered. “It has been ratheramusing and—well—illuminating.”

Orrington chuckled. “The devil tempted me, and Ididn’t resist him unduly. As a matter of fact, it has beenquite as illuminating to me as to you. I’ve been wishingfor a dozen or fifteen years to try out the experiment.”

“What experiment?” I was puzzled.

“Oh, putting it up to Reynolds, of course. I’ve wonderedwhy he did it and why he didn’t do it and, moreover,how he did it.”

“If you got light on a complication like that, you didbetter than I did. Do you mind explaining?”

“Reynolds has explained sufficiently, hasn’t he? Ofcourse I knew long ago that he faked his story, but—”

“Then you knew it was Reynolds?” I interrupted.

“Knew? Of course I knew. Later, of course, muchlater. I never inquired, as I told you, but I spotted himafter he made his first big hit. The man who had hiredhim to do those articles bragged about it to me—saidhe’d given him his start, but allowed me some credit forestablishing the connection. I blinked, but didn’t let onI hadn’t known that Reynolds and my supposedly starvingyoung author were one and the same person. Bythat time, of course, everybody was fully aware thatReynolds had emerged from heavily gilded circles ofdulness. I don’t know why I’ve never had it out withhim before. I suppose I shouldn’t have sailed in to-dayif he hadn’t been so snippy about the boy of whom Iwas telling you. I couldn’t stand that.”

“I’m afraid,” I ventured to say, “that it won’t doReynolds any special good.”

Orrington rose ponderously from his chair and spreadhis hands in a fantastic gesture of disclaim. “Who amI,” he asked, “to teach ethics to a genius who is also amoralist—‘with perhaps a cosmic significance’? Thedevil tempted me, I tell you, and I fell, for the sake of alittle fun and a little information. I’ve never knownReynolds’s side of the story. Lord, no, it won’t do himany good. All the same, it will take him a week to explainto himself all over again just why he acted withperfect propriety in not acknowledging my little boost.I dare say his book may be a few days later on accountof it, and I shall have to nurse Speedwell through anattack of the fidgets. A dreadful life, mine! No wonderthe business man is tired. You ought to thank God onyour knees every night that you haven’t been sitting allday in a publisher’s office.”

He held out his hand very solemnly, and very solemnlywaddled across the big room, nodding every now andthen to acquaintances who smiled up at him as he passed.

IN MAULMAIN FEVER-WARD

Flood-time on Salwin River, Burma! Pouk treesand stic-lac in flower. By day the rush, the roar ofwater fretting at the knees of Kalgai Gorge, above whichthe Thoungyeen enters the main current. And the musicof the elephants’ bells as they come along the track bounddown or mayhap up to work in the teak forests. Bynight the languorous scent of the serai vines luring themyriad moths, the wail of the gibbons, the rustle of thebamboos chafing their feathery leaves together in thewinds that just falter between rest and motion.

At Kalgai the traders pause in going up or down, overor across. From everywhere they come, and coming,stay to chaffer, to chat, cheat, scheme, love—aye andeven slay! Why not? It’s life—raw life!

Take away the medicine. Give me rice curry andchicken and fish cooked with green bamboo tips andsourish-sweet pilou of river mussels. And then a whiffof bhang or black Malay tobacco that the gypsies of thesea smuggle in....

My name? Paul Brandon will do. My father was aStepney coster. Mother? Oh, a half-caste Mandalaywoman. Yes, they were married at the mission. Hetook her home. I was born in London. But I ran away;came East....

Don’t mind if I babble, ma’am. And forgive me if Ipull at the sheets. Or if the sight of a white woman, old,patient, trying to be kind to me, makes me shy. When myhead clears, I’m white; when the fever mist comes overmy brain, I see things through my brown mother’s eyes.

Thanks for fixing the ice pack on my head. No, thatmark on my forehead is not from an old bruise. AKaren-Laos woman put it there with her tattoo needles.It has a meaning. It is the Third Eye of Siva.

Thanks for pulling-to the shade. Those bamboo thingsthe yellow and brown folk use are not shades. Theyare full of holes where the weaving is that holds themtogether. Why, you can see through them—see the mostunbelievable things....

Oh, yes, the mark on my forehead. A girl put itthere with her needles. Now that you touch it, it is sore.Well, so would your head be sore if a giant python hadsmashed his wedge-shaped head in death stroke againstyour wrinkled brow, executing the Curse of Siva.

How long have I been in Maulmain?... A week?Well, I won’t be here another. But it’s queer how aman will drift—to his own people.

Thanks for the little morphine pills. Yes, I know whatthey are. Give me a dozen, and they may take hold. Aman who has smoked bhang, black Malay tobacco andopium, and who has drunk bino isn’t going to be hurtby sugar pills. They only wake me up, steady me.

Why didn’t I know Pra Oom Bwaht was a liar?...

Karen town on Thoungyeen River! Temple bellschiming or booming through the mystic, potent dusk;mynah-birds scolding in the thy-tsi trees. Frogs croakingunder the banyans’ knees in the mud. Women comingto worship in the temples—women with songs ontheir full red lips and burdens on their heads—andmighty little else on them. And the fat, lazy priests andthe monks going about, begging bowls in hand, withtheir cheelahs to lead them as they beg their eveningrice.

Thanks for the lime juice, ma’am. Let me talk. Iteases me.

To Karen town on Thoungyeen River—Karen townwith its Temple of Siva—I came long before the rains.This year? Mayhap. Last? What do the dead yearsmatter now?

To Karen town I brought wire rods for anklet-making,cloths, mirrors, sweetmeats—an elephant’s load. Oncethere, I let my elephant driver go.

Three days of good trade I had, and my goods wereabout gone, turned into money and antique carved silverand gold work. At the close of the third day, as I sat infront of the zana, smoking, smoking, smoking, listeningto the buzz of the women and children, Pra Oom Bwahtcame.

He was tall for a Karen man of the hills, all of five foottwo. The Karen plainsmen are taller. He sat a spacebeside me in silence—sure mark of a man of degreeamong such chatterers.

“Have you seen the temples of Karen?” he askedfinally.

Lazily I looked him over. He was sturdy—a braveman, I thought. He had a cunning eye, a twisty mouth,and in his forehead’s middle a black mark showing harshagainst his yellow skin.

“What’s that?” I asked him, touching the mark.He winced when I did it.

“Dread Bhairava,” he said, using the Brahman wordfor Siva, Queen of the Nagas. He was a snake-worshiper,then. Mighty little of these people or their talkor dialects I don’t know.

“Come with me, white trader?” he asked me. “I amPra Oom Bwaht.”

Idly I went. So, after visiting the other temples, wecame to the Temple of Siva, perched on its rocks, withthe river running near and its little grounds well kept.It was the hour of evening worship. The worshipers,mostly women, were coming in with votive offerings.

But among them all there was a Laos girl, shapely asa roe deer, graceful, brown, with flashing black eyes andshining black hair neatly coiled on top of her pretty head,and with full red lips. As she passed, Oom Bwaht justnudged me—pointed. She turned off at a fork of thepath, alone.

I glanced at Pra Oom Bwaht. His twisty mouth waswreathed in a smile.

“She lives at the end of that little path,” he tempted.“She is Nagy N’Yang.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

He nodded again and went away. I turned down theside path after the Laos girl....

There was a full moon that night. About the middleof the night we came up the path to the temple again,the Laos girl and I.

“Come,” she had said to me when I had asked her formy heart’s desire, “come to the temple, and I can proveit is folly.”

So we came. The temple door was open. The priestswere gone—no one has to watch a Naga temple at night.The dread of Siva is enough to protect it.

A rift in the temple roof let in a shaft of white moonlight.It struck upon the image of Siva. The image wasseated on a white ox, carved of some white stone. Asash around the image was made up of human heads; ithad six arms, each covered with carved snakes that wereso lifelike they seemed to writhe in the wavering light.In the middle of the god’s forehead was the mark of thethird eye—the scar of Siva.

We went slowly down toward the image. Before itwas a huge chest. Nagy N’Yang motioned me to sit onit. She sat beside me. Again I pleaded with her formy heart’s desire.

She pushed me away.

“You are afraid to be near me,” I mocked.

“Hush,” she pleaded. “I am afraid—of yielding toyou.”

I moved to clasp her, my heart leaping at her confession.She smote her little hands sharply together. Iheard a shuffling of softly shod feet in the passagebehind the image.

Wat Na Yang, chief priest of the temple, stood beforeus with his yellow robes, his yellow skin, his hands calmlyfolded across his paunch. “What seek ye, children?”he asked.

“The way of love,” I laughed. I plunged my hand intomy robe and felt the gold against my middle.

In the great chest on which we sat something awoketo life. I heard a stir, a rustle, a noise as of straining.

“Nagy speaks,” the priest warned.

I felt the Laos girl shudder by my side.

“What is it?” I asked. I stood up. A creepinghorror came over me.

Nagy N’Yang sprang up as I did and flung back thelid of the great chest with a strength I had not expected.Out over her shoulder shot a long coil, then another.When she stood erect in the moon-glow, a great rockpython was wrapped about her matchless form. Themark of Siva on her forehead gleamed against her ivorybrow like an evil blotch, yet it did not take from herbeauty, her alluring grace; nor did the immense bulk ofthe python bear her down.

“The great serpent knows his own,” whispered theyellow priest. He pointed with his fat forefinger. I sawthe red tongue of the python play over the ivory bosomof the girl.

Yet I did not shudder. It seemed fitting. They wereso in harmony with their surroundings.

The eyes of the python blazed in the moon-glowlike rubies of the pigeon-blood hue, then like garnets,then like glow-worms; then they sank to a lower rangeof colors and finally to rest. He was asleep underher caresses. She patted his wedge-shaped head, soothinghim. Ah, that it had been my head she thusfondled!

Suddenly Nagy N’Yang seized the great serpent justback of the head, uncoiled it from her with a free, quicksuccession of movements and cast it into the great chestagain. Then, with a curious indrawing of the breath,as if relieved from a nerve strain, she sat down on thechest.

“Well have I seen,” I said to her. “But little do Iunderstand.”

“I may not wed,” she said. “I am Siva’s.”

“I can kill the snake—”

The thing in the chest stirred its coils uneasily.

“Be silent!” commanded the fat priest. “Would youslay little N’Yang?”

I shuddered. A great bat came in through the rift thatlet in the moon-glow. In the trees over the temple agibbon wailed in his sleep like a sick child—“Hoop-oi-oi-oi”!

Wat Na Yang extended his arm before him in a gestureof dismissal.

“Go!” he commanded. Then he placed a heavy handon my shoulder.

Nagy N’Yang stood up, bowed her head and wentdown the path the moonbeams made, went into theshadow near the door, and out.

The fat priest sat down on the chest beside me. Themottled terror in the chest was still again.

“She was wed,” the priest began, “but on her wedding-daywe claimed her. Her husband cannot claim her. Butif some one unwittingly kills the great python, she willbe free. It must be some one not a friend of the husband.No one will kill the python here. She is temple-boundfor life—”

The bulk inside thrilled to life again. I heard thescales rustling as the great coils rose and fell.

“Go, you!” he ordered. “The goddess likes you not.Even if you take the girl, I can call her back or kill herby touching her flesh with a single scale from the Nagain the chest.”

He walked with me to the door. At the portal westood for a space, silent.

The tiled entrance was flooded with moonlight. In themiddle of it a cobra lay, stretched out, seemingly asleep—asmall cobra, deadly none the less.

“You see,” the gross priest said, pointing to thedeadly serpent there. “Nagy’s spirit watches you here,too. But the girl she did not harm.”

Filled with some spirit of Western bravado I could notstifle, I stepped close to the cobra and stamped on itshead.

“That for all scaly serpents!” I jeered at him. Istood on the cobra’s head while it lashed out its life.

The fat yellow priest watched me, and I could see hatredand horror struggle for mastery on his face.

Coming close to me he began to talk in long, rollingsentences, of which I here and there caught a word.But I caught the sense of what he was saying.

Oh, yes—the fat priest. It was there, in front of thetemple, that he put on me, in Sanskrit, the Curse of Siva,ending:

“With gurgling drops of blood, that plenteous stream

From throats quickly cut by us—”

I laughed at him, threw a yellow coin at his face, kickedthe dead cobra into the door of the temple—and wentdown the path toward the Laos girl’s hut.

At the hut door she sat, silent, wonderful.

“Come!” I commanded.

“Where?” she asked.

“To Kalgai town by Salwin River,” I answered. Itook her in my arms.

Yes, I took her! Why not? She was mine, wasn’tshe? Yes, I took her! Not down the Thoungyeen Riveror the road along it. Why? We feared pursuit. Fivemiles below Karen a little hill stream comes to theThoungyeen River. I never heard its name. We wentup that to its springs and then along to the HlineboayChuang.

We traveled slowly, afoot, on cattle-back, on elephant-back—asthe hill-folk could take us, or as we caredto go. Nagy N’Yang at first was moody, but as weleft her own village far behind and got among thegreater hills, she was gayer and gayer. I think whenwe came to Shoaygoon Plains she was happy. I was.It was in Shoaygoon zana that I let her tattoo myforehead with the mark of Siva, to please her andquiet her superstitious fears. It was wrong, yes, for all-whites;but for me, with a brown mother? Mayhapnot....

And so we came to Kalgai in Kalgai Gorge, and therains were not yet come.

We were early. The traders’ huts were not filled.Only a few were taken. A Eurasian here, a Russianthere, a Tibetan there, and yonder a Chinese.

So I had my choice of the best places and picked thebest house in the gorge—on the rock spit that juts intothe gorge’s biggest bend over the whirlpool.

The house we took was of teak beams and bamboo.For a few gold coins I had its use, entire, with its mats,pots, kettles.

There was a little shilly-shallying of trade, which Idid not get into. Traders came up and down and across.I didn’t care for traffic just then.

Nagy N’Yang was happy, she told me. I believedit. She went about her little household tasks neatly.

“After the big rains,” I told her, “we two take boatfor Maulmain and beyond.” I was due for a trip up pastRangoon for temple brasses and carved ivory. The airwas heavy with the promise of the first of the rains.

“Where you go, I go,” she laughed, stuffing my mouthwith rice and fish.

She cuddled closer to me on the eating mat we hadspread out.

A shadow fell across the open doorway. She screamed.

It was Pra Oom Bwaht, who smiled down on us withhis twisty smile.

“Welcome,” I said.

He came in boldly and sat down.

“You went quickly from Karen,” he said simply.

I could feel my Laos girl wince as she leaned againstme. I clutched the dagger inside my robe.

Pra Oom Bwaht smiled his twisty smile.

“How come you here?” I demanded.

“Why should I not?” he asked. “Especially to seemy sister—” He pointed to Nagy N’Yang.

She sighed and laughed a little nervous laugh.

“I did not know,” I said, “that she was your sister.You are welcome to our poor house.”

Pra Oom Bwaht smiled again, got up and stalked out.As he went, the first patter of the rains came, beating upthe dust in the space before the door for a few seconds,then laying it all in a puddle of mud again as a greatdash of fury came into the storm. But it was only thefirst baby rain, not enough to make Kalgai whirlpool talkout loud.

I turned to Nagy. She was staring out into thestorm.

“I didn’t know he was your brother,” I said to her.

“All Laos are brother and sister,” she replied.

Well, I’ve found it best to keep out of native feudsand family jangles. “Some old village quarrel back ofit,” I thought.

All night it rained, and in the morning the river wastalking to the cliffs in a louder voice. And the water wasup and coming. Bits of drift were floating.

Among the traders I found Pra Oom Bwaht settled ina little hut off by himself. He had scant store of Karencloths, Laos baskets, some hammered brass. He wassitting on a big box, and it was covered with a mat wovenof tree-cotton fiber. He arose to meet me and came tothe door.

“Let us chat here,” he said. “I like the sun betterthan the shade.”

It was queer to deny me a seat beside him, I thought;but I let it pass. I was not paying much attention todetails then.

So we sat in the doorway and watched the rain andheard the river talking to Kalgai Gorge. Trade wasslack and would be until the greater rains came bearingboats and rafts from above and over and beyond, fromup the river and the little rivers coming into it.

I could make nothing of Pra Oom Bwaht, I say. I lefthim and went out to chaffer a bit.

“Who knows the Karen fool?” Ali Beg, just downfrom Szechuan after trading rifles to Chinese Mohammedansfor opium, demanded of me from the door ofhis own place.

“Why?” I asked.

“He trades like a fool, letting a rupee’s worth go fora pice.”

“Let him,” I laughed, “so long as he keeps away fromme.”

“And yours?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Come in and drink of tea with me,” he invited.

So I went in and we sat eye to eye, face to face, acrosshis little teakwood table, each squatting on his heels, anddrank tea and talked of many things.

“Now that we have said all the useless things, tell mewhat is at the bottom of thy heart,” Ali demanded. Upthere the important things are kept for the dessert of thetalk.

He was an old friend, with his coal-black eyes, greathairy arms and rippling black beard.

“Thus it was, heart of my soul,” I said, laying hold ofa lock of his beard up under his green turban, in tokenof entire truth-telling. “Thus it was”—and I tuggedat the lock of beard. So I told him the tale, from thetime of my going to Karen until the time of my comingto Kalgai town and the arrival of Pra Oom Bwaht.

He sat a long time in silence.

Then he reached into his robe and drew out a finedagger of Sikh smithy work, hammered, figured on theblade, keen, heavy of hilt; in the tip of the handle a ballof polished steel, hollow and filled with mercury. It wasa throwing knife.

“Take this,” Ali urged. “I taught thee how to castit at a foe years ago when we first went up the greatriver together. I go from here to-night by boats towardMaulmain. It will fall out with thee as it will fall out.”

I took the dagger because it was Ali’s gift, not becauseI was afraid. Why should I fear anything that walkedon two legs or four? Even though it wore a tail or horns?

At nightfall I went back to my house on the rock spit.The stream was roaring now—like a baby lion.

Nagy N’Yang was sitting in the open doorway as Icame up the path. I saw she had her chin in her handand was thinking deeply.

“I saw him,” I made answer to the question in her eyes.

“Did he receive you well?”

“Except that he did not have me to sit beside him onhis big trader’s box in his hut, but took me to the doorwayto talk. It was not friendly.”

“Aha!” Just like that—soft, thoughtful.

“But what do I care for him, with his Karen cloths orhammered brass?” I chattered at her. “Come to me,Sweet One of a Thousand Delights.”

So the days and the evenings and nights went by, andthe greater rains followed the lesser. The river creptup and up and up, roaring now to the cliffs, like oldlions.

Then came a day when on going home at eve I stoopedat the river’s brim near the house we had on the rockspit, and felt of the water. It was chilled. “The floodis full,” I thought. I had felt the snow-chill from theTibetan Himalayas in hoary Salwin’s yellow flood.When that comes, the utmost sources of the world havebeen tapped for flood water.

“The river will begin to fall to-morrow,” I told NagyN’Yang when I came into the place. “We will go soonafter, when the big trading is over.”

She smiled at me. Then she patted with her soft handthe place where she had tattooed on my brow the mark ofthe third eye of Siva. It was healed.

“I care not where we go, or if we go or stay, so longas you are with me,” she whispered, close against myside.

After the evening meal we sat in the doorway andheard the river talking. Often the big whirlpool sighedor moaned.

“It will almost cover our rock spit,” I said. I knew bythe lift of it by day and the noise of it by night that theflood was a mighty one and would spend its chief forcethat night.

She nodded and nestled closer to me.

Out of the shade before us a greater shade silentlyloomed.

“I greet you, my sister and brother,” Pra Oom Bwahtsaid, standing before us.

Nagy N’Yang shivered against my side. I felt thedagger under my robe.

A single beam from our brazier inside struck acrosshis twisty face. He stretched out his hand toward NagyN’Yang.

“A gift for my sister,” he said.

She half reached her hand out, took it back, reachedagain and took it back; then, as if impelled by a forcetoo strong to resist, reached again. Into her palmdropped something that shone for a tiny space in theyellow gleam of the brazier’s ray. She shut her hand—caughtit to her breast. I thought it was a tiny goldenbangle—then.

“Come,” said Pra Oom Bwaht. “Let us walk apartfor a moment. I have family matters to talk over. Yourhusband will permit.”

I wanted her to protest, but she did not. She got upcalmly and went with him out onto the rock spit. I wasbetween them and the mainland. They could not go awayby river. No harm would come to her, it seemed.“Some tribal custom to be attended to,” I thought. Itis best not to be too curious about such matters up amongthe hills of Burma and Siam, ma’am. If you are, yourwife suffers, not you.

For a long time I could hear them talking out therein the dark, with the river talking in between whiles.Once I heard a sound like a great sigh or sobbing moan.“The whirlpool at the river’s bed,” I thought, “taking ina great tree or raft.”

Soon after that the back mat of the house lifted, andI thought they had come in by that way. I sat, peeringinto the gloom inside, ready to greet them, when somethingcrashed on to the back of my head and I forgot fora time.

I came back to memory in a daze and feeling muchpain in my head. The brazier flared beside me. Bendingover me was Pra Oom Bwaht, with a knife in his hand.

“Son of a pig!” he said.

“Where is Nagy N’Yang?” I asked.

He smiled at me—his cursed twisty smile.

“On the river’s brink she waits, bound to a great teaklog lodged at the end of the spit,” he cried hoarsely.“When the flood comes to its full, she will float away—”

I spat full into his face. I thought it would make himslay me.

He wiped the spittle from his chops calmly. When anOriental takes an insult calmly, beware! There is moreto come.

“She was my wife,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Was or is, it makes no difference to me,” I stormed.“She is mine now.”

“She is Siva’s,” he jeered. “Think you that as sheswirls down into the whirlpool at the river’s bend thegreat river python, mother of all the pythons, will nottake her? Placed I the yellow scale of Nagy in her handfor naught?”

I shuddered. The legend of the great river pythonat Kalgai Gorge had been told to me oft. It slept in thegreat pool where the whirlpool formed in flood-time andonly came out for prey when the depths were stirred bya monstrous flood such as this one, the natives said.

“Why did you tell me she was your sister?” I demanded.

“We made it up, she and I. She was wedded, as thepriest told you, but to me. I was listening in the bambooswhen you planned your trip here from Karen that nightafter the priest cursed you from the door of Siva’stemple. I heard him curse you and saw you turn downthe path to our hut. If you had slain the python in thetemple, without me helping, she would have been freed.We planned that you should make love, a little. Enoughso you would kill the great snake and win her from it;I to come after and take her. But you won her wholeheart, curse you—”

Up went his hand to slay. While he had raved andchattered at me, my head had been clearing. As hestiffened for the death stroke, I reached for the down-cominghand and caught his wrist—the wrist whosesinewy muscles were driving the knife home. I held hisarm back. He clutched for my throat with his otherhand. We strove, and I rolled him and came on top. UpI surged, dragging him with me. With one awful thrustI sent him crashing against the wall.

He had barely come to rest against the teak beamsbefore his hand went up and I dodged—just as his knifewhizzed past my ear. Plucking the great dagger of AliBeg from my bosom, I cast it, in the manner of theInner Mongolian Mohammedans. The great bladeplunged forward. I had pinned him to the wall as abutterfly collector pins a specimen to a card in his collectingbox.

I stepped forward to get my dagger. Pra Oom Bwaht,his throat full of blood, his heart seared with black hatred,glared at me.

“The Curse of Siva remain on you and yours....”

So he died.

Plucking my dagger from him, I kicked over the glowingbrazier and raced for the rock spit’s end as he crasheddown—mere battered clay.

As I came to it, the last of the rain for the nightwhipped my face, reviving me. The moon peeped forth.There was no teak log there!

Another rift in the clouds made plain my error. Theflood was over all former flood-marks. The teak log,as the moon’s second peep showed, was on the point ofrocks, but they were now in the stream, many paces fromthe present shore-line. The log, caught on the jaggedstones, hung and swayed. It was just on the point ofgoing out. I could see a dark mass, midway of the log.“It is Nagy N’Yang,” I thought. The hut was blazingnow from the brazier’s scattered coals, giving me plentyof light.

I glanced about the rock spit. A few paces to the rightsomething black showed in the gloom. I went to itquickly, hoping to find a boat. It was a great chest.Feeling for the key or handle, I clutched a catch. Iturned it, threw up the lid, just as the moon came forth.

Out of the depths of the box reared a great python,hissing horribly. I recoiled in terror. The box, as Isaw in the moon-glow, was the snake box of Karen temple,the one in which Nagy N’Yang’s serpent had beenkept.

Pra Oom Bwaht had had it carried to Kalgai Gorgeand also to our rock spit that night to suit some of hisown black schemes of vengeance. His bearers hadcarried the box unwittingly. While I trembled, the greatsnake glided to the river’s brink and disappeared. I nowhad the big chest and thought to use it as a rough boatto rescue my love.

Then I turned to view the teak log again. I tuggedat the chest. It was too heavy for me. Another fitfulrift of moonlight came, and I saw the giant teak logsway. Without waiting for more ill fortune, I plungedinto the river and swam through the swirling eddies forthe log.

I just made it. But at the touch of my numbed fingeron its root ends, it started. The mere touch was enoughto set it adrift. I clutched, caught a root fiber, held,edged along the rootlet till I had a better hold, drewmyself up on to the root end of the huge log—and thenheard the sobbing moan of Kalgai whirlpool.

Already we were at the pool’s edge. The log beganto whirl and sway. I made a prayer for my Laos girl,that she might be unconscious during the plunge below.If she were, she would live, as she would not be breathing.As for me, I felt I could hold my breath the twominutes necessary. I often had seen the logs go downthe suck-hole and come up. The average time was twominutes for that. What happened to them under thepool I had no means of knowing. I hoped to be able tocling to the log. The girl was bound fast.... The logup-ended and went down!

We swirled through great depths, and often I felt ushit against rocks and other logs in the lower silences.At the pit’s bottom there seemed no sound, but on theway down and up there was a great roaring. It seemedthat my lungs would burst. But I kept my breath, having,as you see, great lung space. We began to rise, andas I felt it, something slowed us down. I felt weak andwas about to drop off when something bound me to thegreat log, pressing me tightly against the mass of roots.So we shot into the moonlight.

I was wrapped in the folds of the mighty python, whohad thrown a coil about the tree-trunk in the lowestdepths of the pool! That immense weight it was thathad kept us from emerging sooner. We had come upbelow the maelstrom upon emerging.

My right arm was free. I reached my belt with it andfound my dagger there. In the moonlight, over the coilsof the monster, I could see the ivory-white face of myLaos girl as she lay out on the huge log like a crushedlily. I could not tell if she still lived or had died.

The motion of reaching for my dagger aroused thepython. It thrust its head back toward my face, questingwith its tongue, that queer organ with which it sees inthe dark. I felt the darting, forked terror on my drippingfeatures. The python threw back its coil a bit and thrustat my forehead with its wedge-shaped head, using thepython’s death stroke. I had still sense enough to drawmy head to one side, but not before the hornlike, roundedhead-front had dazed me with a glancing blow on thebrow, where the mark of Siva had been tattooed byNagy N’Yang.

Again I saw the beast draw back its head for a surerstroke. As it struck, I held the dagger true in front of itsoncoming head. The force of the blow, not my strength,caused the blade of the dagger to sink into the immense,hard, tense neck-muscles, through and through. Thesnake, furious with pain, stricken to death, in one awfulconvulsive struggle cast itself into the raging Salwin,taking the dagger of Ali Beg with it. Why it did nottake me down in its coils, I know not....

Yes, I am sweating now. I feel better. My head isclearer....

I wish Nagy N’Yang were here to lay her cool, ivory-whitehand on my forehead where the python’s wedge-shapedhead crashed against mine—on the black markof Siva....

But my fever is breaking.

Yes, I feel easier, much easier....

Yes, that is all of my story....

What? Ali Beg found us together on a giant teak logat the river’s bend at Maung Haut, where he had stoppedto trade? And, tightly clasped in Nagy’s hand was somethingstrange? Show it me!

It is the belly scale of a great river python.

Burn it! Hold the night taper flame to it! Ah, thatends the fat priest’s evil spell!

Where is Ali Beg? Here! And Nagy? Here, too!!

Wheel our cots together, ma’am!

Only let me clasp her hand again. Thanks; it is warm;she is alive!

No; we won’t go up-country again. Why? Becausewhen our first child comes, I want it born outside—outfrom under the shadow of the dread Curse of Siva!

THE FATHER’S HAND

The Dean and I were sitting after dinner discussingthe shortage of students at Oxford since the warbegan.

“You have no idea,” he was saying, “how strange itis to lecture to a class of four or five when one has beenaccustomed to forty or fifty. This morning, for instance....”

“Well, Dean,” I put in, “after the war there will beno lectures on Latin poetry. The times are changing.”

The old man threw back his head, and his silvery beardwaved in the candle-light.

“Listen,” he began, “you remember the passagewhere a father was trying to carve a picture of his son’sdeath?”

“Bis patriae manus cecidere,” I quoted. “Twice thehands of the father fell. Icarus, was it not, for whom hisfather had made wings, and who flew too near the sunand fell down to earth?”

He nodded. “Bis patriae manus cecidere—twice thefather’s hands fell to his sides. In our village in the firstfew months of the war, there came an old man, a refugeefrom Alsace-Lorraine. By profession, he was a monumentcarver, and out of the exercise of his craft hehad acquired a considerable familiarity with what onemight call Phœnix-Latin, the kind that is only called intobeing when ‘Our Esteemed Fellow-Townsman’ dies.He had all the pedant’s love for the language. Often hewould exchange tags with me when I met him in thestreet.

“‘Quomodo es? How are you,’ he would laugh inthe tiny general store, to the mystification of the littlespectacled proprietress.

“‘Bene, domine,’ was my grave answer,—‘Verywell, sir.’

“Soon he became very popular in the village, thoughhe was regarded as something of a crank. It appearedthat he was of the old days when Alsace-Lorraine belongedto the French. Of his private affairs we couldlearn nothing, except that he had married young and thathis wife had died at the birth of a son. When he wasquestioned about his early life, he would affect not tounderstand—‘Je ne comprend pas, m’sieu’—this anda shrug of the shoulders was all that we could get outof him.

“Well, the old fellow prided himself on his excellenteyesight, and in the fairly frequent air raids, he refusedto go into shelter, preferring instead to remain lying downon the hill outside the village, where he would watch thehostile aeroplane pursued by our guns until it became aspeck in the distance toward London. Then he wouldtrudge back again.

“‘The pigs are gone,’ he would reassure us in ourcellars, shaking his fist at the sky. ‘Ah the cochons!Sus Germanicus!’ and we would crawl out again intoGod’s air, pleased to see him and knowing that there wasno longer any danger even if the ‘all clear’ signal hadnot yet sounded. For he was always right. He knewfrom bitter experience.

“One day I saw him in conference with the little knotof sailors that presided over our anti-aircraft defences.He was pointing to the sky rather excitedly and tellingthem in his broken English something about aeroplanesand ‘it is necessaire that they pass so,’ at the same timeindicating a track of sky.

“‘What is it?’ I asked the petty officer.

“‘He’s got an idea for bringing down the Germans,’explained the man, twitching his thumb rather contemptuouslytoward my old friend. ‘He says they alwayspass over that point above the headland before they turnto London. I never noticed it myself, but there may besomething in it. I’ll tell the captain.’

“‘En hostes,’ cried the old man in Latin to me, pointingto the place. ‘Behold the enemy. It is quite necessairethat he pass by here what you call the landmark,is it not? The German precision, toujours the same.’

“I laughed and took him by the arm, down to the village,marvelling at the intense hatred with which he spatout the words. ‘The German pigs,’ he muttered as wewent along. ‘They have my country.’

“Soon after there came another raid. We heard thegunfire, without paying much attention to it, so customaryhad it become. When the safety siren was heard, weall went back to our occupations as usual. I wonderedwhy the old fellow had not appeared, and began to growanxious, thinking he might have been killed. I was justsetting out to look for him when I caught sight of himrunning toward me over a ploughed field, stopping everyother moment to pick up his battered black hat, and looking,even at a quarter of a mile, as if he was full of newsof some kind. When he came within a hundred yardsor so, still running, he shouted something at me, raisinghis hands to the sky and then pointing to the earth.

“‘Fuit Ilium,’ I heard. ‘Troy is fallen. The Germanis destroyed. They have him shot, so,’ and hebrought his arm from above his head to the ground in amagnificently dramatic sweep.

“‘What is it?’ I asked as I reached him.

“Perspiring and mopping his face with the tricolorhandkerchief that some would-be wag had given him,he told his tale. The gunners had taken his advice, andfired at the spot he told them, and a German aeroplanehad actually been brought down.

“That week the village was jubilant, and my oldfriend found himself suddenly a hero. The local papersbrought out a long account of the affair, with a leaderabout the ‘victim of German autocracy, whom we areproud to shelter in our midst. With the courage thatwe know so well in our brave allies, he stayed out unprotectedand discerned the weak spot in the foe’s armor.We are proud of our guest.’ It was, indeed, a proud timefor our refugee.

“The naval authorities took over charge of the wreckedaeroplane, and the remains of the fallen aviator weregathered together to be buried the following week in thevillage cemetery. We were a simple, kind-hearted community,far away in the country, and many of the villagershad themselves sons fighting at the front. So we decidedthat the village should erect a simple tombstone over thefallen enemy—the resolution being made, I suspect,chiefly as the result of a sermon of the worthy pastor, whopointed out that the dead man was more sinned againstthan sinning, that he was the victim of the German system,and that we ought not to think bitterly of a fallenfoe who died at what he conceived to be his duty.

“The next question was as to the inscription. Theold Frenchman brought out a book, which he explainedwas the ‘Vade mecum for cutters of tombs.’ From it heproduced a marvellous quotation, which he said camefrom Seneca. He was listened to now with respect, butI could see that the idea was not popular. No one likedto oppose him, until I finally remarked that somethingsimpler would perhaps be better, and suggested, ‘Herelies a fallen German,’ with the date. The old refugeewas obviously very reluctant to give up his wonderfulepitaph, but my reading was clearly the favorite, andit was adopted in the end. The obvious man to do thecarving was the old stonecutter who had brought downthe aeroplane. He was given the commission.

“The burial took place, and the village went back to itsnormal routine, the old man being supposed to be workingon the inscription.

“It was about the time of the discussion of the epitaphthat the relics from the recent raid were exposed forview in the little museum at the school. There was noaddress found on the body, and almost the only personaleffect that had survived the terrible fall was aphotograph of a woman, young and fair-haired, withthe inscription, ‘Meine Mutter,’ which I translated tothe admiring villagers as meaning, ‘My Mother.’ Nothingelse. I went to tell the old Frenchman and ask himif he had seen the curiosities. I found him sitting in thegarden of the cottage where he lived, in the little shed hecalled his workshop, where the tombstone had beenbrought. To my surprise, he was lying on the ground,and beside his open hand lay a chisel.

“‘What is it?’ I asked him.

“He started up when he saw me. ‘I was tired,’ heanswered confusedly. ‘Fatigatus opere, weary withlabor. N’est-ce-pas?’ and his poor old face relapsedinto a sad attempt at a smile.

“‘But you have not begun to labor,’ I answered, tryingto joke away an impending feeling of tragedy that I butdimly understood. ‘Why do you not do the work?’

“‘Ah, I cannot. My hands are old, and I can no more.’

“Then I saw that his hands were shaking, and I grewalarmed. I could see that the strain of the last few dayswas telling on him. He seemed years older. So I gentlyhelped him up and took him indoors, where the goodwoman of the house put him to bed. I asked her howlong he had been sick, and she told me that he had goneout that afternoon, looking well, and intending to buya chisel and visit the little museum. She had not seenhim again till I brought him in from the garden.

“From that time the poor old man seemed to growfeebler and feebler, and we began to think that his lastjoke had been cracked and all his troubles ended. Heseemed to lose all wish to live, lying on his bed withouta word, and only taking food when it was almost forceddown his throat. I frequently visited him and tried toconsole him. For the one thing that now troubled himwas that he would not be able to execute his commissionbefore he died. ‘Never have I promised and not perform,’he would say. ‘Oh, for one day of my pristiniroboris—my youthful strength.’

“I comforted him and told him, against my belief,that he would be out cutting the inscription next spring.But he shook his head sorrowfully, and at each visit heseemed to grow weaker and weaker. The climax camequite suddenly. Summer had turned to fall, and I wastaking my usual walk by the light of the harvest moon,passing through the old churchyard, where the Germanhad been buried and the cross had now been put, uncarved.For we boasted no other stonecutter in thevillage. I went up to look at it, and by the moonlight Icaught sight of the figure of a man. Bending down, Isaw my old friend, dead, by the work he had promised.It was not till the next day that they found his chisel bythe tombstone, and about a dozen letters which he hadchiselled. The villagers thought that the old man hadgone out of his mind, for the letters on the stone werenot the beginning of the epitaph we had agreed on. Theythink so yet. For I never told them, and I am the onlyman who can read what is written on the stone.”

Here the Dean was silent a moment or so.

“Well, what had he carved?” I asked.

“Bis patriae m ... Twice the hand of the fatherfailed. The dead man was his son.”

THE VISIT OF THE MASTER

“Have you ever read any of Marian HavilandNorton?”

I didn’t expect, when I put the question, to fall rightinto a mine of information. It was out of my line, moreover,to talk about authors and books at dinner. But thetopic had popped inconsequently into my head, and therewas certainly something about the quiet, sly-looking Jane-Austenishwoman at my left that inspired confidence.

“I’m distinctly curious about her,” I added. “She’ssprung up so soon, so authoritatively. And she’s sonew.”

Up to this point my companion had only listened morequietly, more slyly, than ever; but her eyes now openedwide, her eyebrows went whimsically high, and sheturned to me with a twinkling smile.

“New? You really think so?”

She gave me no time, either, to correct my statement.

“I didn’t suppose any one still thought that—except,possibly— Have you ever read Hurrell Oaks?”

I nodded gropingly.

“Miss Haviland was a teacher of mine at Newfairwhen it happened. That was eight, ten years ago.D’you see?”

“I don’t ‘see’ anything.”

“But you do Hurrell Oaks—you’re, you’re really all‘for’ him, I mean? So you’d adore it. It’s pathetic,too. Though it is funny!” she cried, avid to tell memore about whatever “it” was.

But the inevitable shift in table talk veered us apartat that moment; and it wasn’t until after the long mealwas over that we came together again, and could choosea quiet corner away from interruptions.

“Here goes, now,” she began, “if you’re ready?”

Miss Haviland must have been about thirty when I firstsaw her. She was tall, handsome in an angular way.Her face was large, her features regular, though somewhatheavy, her coloring brilliant, and her dark hairgrayish even then. She was of a stocky leanness, a ruggednessindigenous to northern New England—andperhaps she did “come” from New England; wanderersfrom those climes can flourish so prodigiously,you know—which only made her pretentious garb andmanner the more conspicuous.

To see her at those college parties! She wore blackevening-gowns, and a string—a “rope,” I think youcould call it—of imitation pearls, and carried a fanalways, and a loose wrap with some bright lining, and furon the neck and sleeves, which she’d just throw, as ifcarelessly, over her shoulders. We used irreverently tosay that she had “corrupted” (one of her favoritewords) the premise of the old motto, “When you’re inRome” to “Whether or not you’re in Rome,” so did sheinsist on being—or trying to be—incongruously grandedame and not “of” the milieu she was privileged toadorn. Without ever letting herself mix with those gatheringsreally, she’d show her condescension by choosinga place in the most mixing group, and there carry out heraloofness by just smiling and peering reservedly at—atthe way a man set a glass of water upon the table, forinstance, as if that constituted enough to judge him by;as if he’d laid his soul, also, sufficiently bare to her in theprocess. And she must have been, as you’ve seen, a resourcefulobserver; she had a gift for reacting frompeople; though how much depended upon the people andwhat they did and said, and how much upon what she unconsciously—orconsciously—adapted from HurrellOaks while she gauged them, is a question. The resultat least fits the needs of a gaping public. But I’mdrifting.

All this—in fact, everything about her—took GeorgeNorton by storm when he turned up, fresh from a freshwateruniversity farther west, to fill the Slocum professorship.He found in her the splendor that he’d beenstranded away from in “real life,” and had never hadtime or imagination to find in books. She representedgreat, glorious things beyond his ken—civilization, culture,society, foreign lands across the sea for which hisappetite had been whetted by the holiday tour he took toBermuda after getting his A.B. with highest honors inhistory and government. He was about forty or so, andlived alone with his mother.

Rumor had it (and it may have been well founded, it’sso difficult to tell what goes on in the minds of thosesmall, meek men), that he had always wanted to discoveran “Egeria-like woman,” and that, once he stepped intoMrs. Braxton’s drawing-room and saw—and heard—MissHaviland discoursing on “The Overtones in Swinburne’sProse,” his wildest hope was realized. Be thatas it may, his recognition must have been overpoweringto have won her attention so easily; for her standardswouldn’t have permitted her, by any stretch of imagination,to think of him as an Egeria’s man—however shemay have felt she merited one.

But she wasn’t, with her looks and distinction andlearning, the sort to attract men readily. She was tooself-sufficient and flagrant, to begin with. She left nomedium of approach suggested. She offered no tender,winning moments. Her aspect for men, as well as forwomen, implied that she thought she knew their waysand methods better than they did.... It shows as aweakness in her stories, I think—the temerity withwhich she assumes the masculine role, the possible hollownessof her assumptions not once daunting her. Rememberthe one that begins, “I had just peeked intothe bar of the Savoy Hotel”? I could never, when I readit, think of anything except just how Marian Havilandherself would look, in a black evening gown and herother regalia, “peeking”—as she no doubt longed todo. But I’m drifting again.... Her favor might havefired the heart of a grand seigneur, I don’t know; to themen of Newfair it was too much like a corrective. GeorgeNorton, I guess, was the only one who ever craved it.He courted the slavedom of learning to be her foremostsatellite.

His courting went on at all the assemblages. The momenthe entered a room, you could see her drawing himlike a magnet; and him drawn, atom-like, with his littleround beard and swallow-tail coat and parsonish whitecravat, to wherever she ensconced herself. No soonerwould he get near than she’d address a remark almostlavishly to somebody on the other side, and not deign tonotice until the topic had been well developed, and thenshe would only frown distantly and say:

“Mr. Norton, how are you this evening?”

But he would bob, and smirk consciously, up and downon his toes, and slap one hand against the other in an appreciativemanner; undismayed if she looked away totalk quite exclusively to somebody else for another fiveminutes, just perhaps glancing fugitively over at himagain to suggest:

“It’s too bad you must stand, Mr. Norton.” Or, whenanother pause came, “Can’t you find a chair?”

But you could see her still holding him fast behind herwhile she finished her own chat, and before she hadleisure to release him at last with some cue like:

“That chair, perhaps, over there—no, there, Mr.Norton.”

Nice little man. He would fetch the very one. Hewould even keep it suspended in the air until she pointedout the exact spot and, with eyes and eyebrows tense,nodded approval of her scheme—asking him, however,after he was seated, to stand a moment, so she could moveher own chair a bit farther to the right, away from theperson whose foot had been planted, as she all the timeknew, upon a rung of it.

He would yearn up to her presently and murmur, “Abeautiful room, don’t you think, Miss Haviland?”

At which she would wince, and whisper down in hisear; and he wag his head and roll his eyes surreptitiously,sure of not appearing to observe any details she was kindenough to instruct him on. He would smile gratefully,proudly, after it was over, as if her words had put theminto a state of blissful communion.

I remember well the day I met them together when shetold me Hurrell Oaks was coming to Newfair. I can seeher now as she sauntered across the campus, in slow,longish strides, and the would-be graceful little springshe gave when her feet touched the ground, and her headset conveniently forward on her shoulders. She lookedat me, and then smiled as if to let me know that it wasn’ther fault if she had to take me all in so at a glance. Why,in a glance like that she’d stare you up and down. Ifyour hat was right, she’d go on toward your feet, andif your shoe-lacings were tied criss-cross instead ofstraight, it meant something quite deplorable. And ifshe wasn’t fortunate enough to meet you or anybody elseon the way, she doubtless scrutinized the sky and treesand grass with the same connoisseurship. I actuallybelieve she had ideas on how birds ought to fly, and comparedthe way they flew at Ravenna with the way theyflew at Newfair.

That was autumn of my senior year. Miss Haviland’sfirst book had been published by then, and acclaimed bythe critics. The stories, as they appeared one by one inthe magazines, had each in turn thrown Newfair into apanic of surprise and admiration.

Nobody ever knew, you see, until they began, whatMiss Haviland did during the long periods she shut herselfup in that little apartment of hers in the New Gainsborough.If, as you say, she seemed to burst so suddenly,so authoritatively, into print for you, think whatit must have meant for us when we saw such dexterityand finish unfurled all at once in the pages of the Standard.Unbeknownst she had been working and writingand waiting for years, with an indefatigable and indomitableand clear-sighted vision of becoming an author. Itwas her aim, people have told me since, from the timeshe was a girl.

She had been to Harvard, summers, and taken all thecourses which the vacation curriculum afforded—unnoticed,unapplauded, it is said, by her instructors. Shehad traveled—not so widely, either, but cleverly, eclectically,domineeringly, with her sole end in view. Afterfive minutes with only—say—a timetable, acquired, letus suppose, at Cook’s, Topica, she could as showilyallude to any express de luxe there mentioned—be it forTonkin or Salamanca—as the most confirmed passengerever upon it. She had mastered French and Italian. Andshe had—first and last and betweenwhiles—read HurrellOaks. I venture to say there wasn’t a vowel—orconsonant, for that matter—of the seventy-odd volumesshe hadn’t persistently, enamouredly, and enviously devoured.

At Newfair, people had by this time, of course, comparedher “work” with the “works” of Hurrell Oaks;but you know how few people have the patience or thetaste to “take him in”? And the result of comparisonsalmost invariably was that Marian Haviland was better.She had assimilated some of the psychology, much of themethod, and a little of the charm; and had crossed all herT’s and dotted her I’s, and revised and simplified thestyle, as one person put it, for “the use of schools”; andbrought what Hurrell Oaks called “the base rattle of theforeground” fully into play.

Instead of being accused of having got so much fromhim, she was credited, one thought, with having givenhim a good deal. You might have guessed, to hearpeople at Newfair talk, that she was partly responsiblefor the ovations being tendered him over the country duringthe season of his return—the first time in fifteenyears—to his native land.

“Mrs. ——,” Miss Haviland explained, mentioning awell-known metropolitan name, “has written me” (ofcourse she would be the one literary fact at Newfair towrite to on such matters) “to ask if we can possibly dowith Mr. Oaks overnight.”

I gaped under my handkerchief at the fluency of her“do.”

“But I don’t just know how,” she went on, “we couldmake him comfortable. Mrs. Edgerton won’t be well intime. And he mustn’t stay at the Greens’.” She waxedindignant at the very possibility. “In her guest-room,my dear? With those Honiton laces, and that scorbuticcarpet, and the whirligig pattern on the walls—and thewindows giving on the parti-colored slate roof of thegymnasium?”

I tried, in spite of myself, to think commensurately.

“And Mrs. Kneeland’s waitress wears ear-rings!...No. Now I’ve been thinking—don’t hurry along so,George. You never keep in line! It spoils the pleasureof walking when one constantly outsteps you likethat.”

“Pardon,” said George, and fell back.

Miss Haviland winced and shifted her maroon parasolto the shoulder on his side, and smiled attentively at meto sweeten the interval, and continued:

“Now I, if you’re interested to hear—”

I was very interested, and told her so. It alwayspiqued my curiosity, moreover, to think why Miss Havilandpicked me out—young as I was—for such confidences.I believe it was mostly because I always staredat her so; which she mistook, characteristically, for sheerflattery.

Even as she spoke, I was remarking to myself thefrilled languor of her dress, and her firm rather large-bonedthroat, and the moisture—for it was hot—underthe imitation pearls, and the competent grip of her handon the long onyx handle of her parasol.

She stopped short of a sudden. George took a few stepsahead. She lifted her parasol over to the other shoulderand looked at him, and he fell into line again, a sensitive,pleased, proud smile showing above his little round beard.

“Now I think it would be better—simpler, more dignified,and less ghastly for him—if he came, say, toluncheon, and if we arranged for a small, a very small,group of the people he’d care most to see—he doesn’t,poor fellow, want to see many of us!—a small group, Isay, to come—George! Please! It makes me nervous,it interrupts me, and it is very bad for the path....Cover it up now with your foot. No—here—let medo it.”

“Pardon,” said George, cheerfully.

Miss Haviland winced again. “I don’t know abouttrains,” she went on, “but we can look one out for him”(she facilely avoided the American idiom) “and thenmotor him to town in—in Mrs. Edgerton’s car. Don’tyou think that will be more comme il faut?”

“He’ll be so pleased, he’ll enjoy so much meetingher!” exclaimed George to me, rising on his toes repeatedlyand rubbing his small dry hands together. “Won’the?”

Miss Haviland turned to him severely, and at a signalhe drew his arm up and she slipped hers through it.

“To worry now is a bit premature, perhaps,” she calledback. “We’re off to see the new Discobulus. I fear it’smodeled on a late Roman copy.”

And I saw her, when I glanced over my shoulder asecond later, pause again and withdraw her arm to pointto the Memorial Library.

“What will he think of a disgrace like that, George?”I heard her imprecating.... “What? You don’t see—thatthe architect’s left off a line of leaves from thecapitals? Come on.”

Hurrell Oaks may have been over-fastidious. Yes.But his discernments were the needs of a glowing temperament;they grew naturally out of ideals his incomparablesensitiveness created. Whereas hers—MarianHaviland’s—though derived from him, had all the—whatshall I say?—snobbishness, which his lacked utterly.I can’t estimate that side of her, even now, not inview of all her accomplishments, even, except as being alittle bit cheap.

I didn’t, of course, though, gather at her first mentionof his coming half that it meant to her. And shewouldn’t, I might have known, with her regard for thenuances, have let it baldly appear. But I discoveredafterward that she had made all sorts of overtures—doneher utmost to divert him to Newfair. She didn’t knowhim; had never set eyes on him; but her reputation,which was considerable even then, helped her a gooddeal. For she solicited news of him from her publishers;and she wrote Mrs. ——, whatever her name was, finally,when she learned that that was the real right source toappeal to, a no doubt handsome letter, whence came thereply Miss Haviland had quoted to me, but which, as Ialso afterward found out, only asked very simply, “inview of the uncertainty of Mr. Oaks’s plans,” whether ornot he could, in case he had to, “spend the night there.”

Well, it eventuated, not strictly in accord with her wire-pulling,that Hurrell Oaks’s route was changed so hecould “run through” in the late afternoon “for a look atthe college.” He was to be motoring to a place somewherenear, as it happened, and the Newfair detour wouldlengthen his schedule by only an hour or two. Word ofit didn’t come to her directly, either; that letter was addressedto the president. But it was humbly referred toMiss Haviland in the course of things, and she took thematter—what was left of it—into her own hands.

“No,” she answered, unyielding to the various suggestionsthat cropped up. “But I’ll tell you what I amwilling to do: I will give up my own little flat. Livingin London as he does, he will feel—quite at homethere.”

Funny though it is, looking back over it, it had also,when all was said and done—particularly when all wasdone—its pathetic side. For Hurrell Oaks was the onesincere passion of her life. He was religion and—andeverything to her. The prospect of seeing him in theflesh, of hearing him viva voce, was more than she hadever piously believed could come to pass.

However much she imitated him—and remember,a large following bears witness to her skill—howevershe failed in his beauty and poetry and thoroughbredness,she must have had a deep, a discriminating loveof his genius to have taken her thus far. No wondershe couldn’t, with her precise sense of justice, not be thechosen person at Newfair to receive him. But nobodydared question the justice of it, really. Wasn’t she theraison d’être of his coming?—of his being anywhere atall, as some people thought?

Her very demeanor was mellowed by the prospect.She set about the task of preparation with an ardor asunprofessed as it was apparent. She doffed the need ofimpressing any one in her zeal to get ready to impressHurrell Oaks.

Her tone became warm and affluent as she went aboutasking this person and that to lend things for the greatday: Mrs. Edgerton’s Monet, Mrs. Braxton’s brocades;a fur rug of Mrs. Green’s she solicited one noon on thecampus as if from a generous impulse to slight no one.And even when Mrs. Green suggested timidly that shewould be glad “to pay for having the invitations engraved,”Miss Haviland didn’t correct her. But—

“No, dear,” she said. “I think I won’t let you do thatmuch—really. There aren’t to be so many, and I shallbe able to write them myself in no time.”

I can see her now, fingering her pearls and peering ashospitably as she could manage into Mrs. Green’s commonplaceeyes, and George Norton hurrying across thegrass to catch a word with her without avail. He wasthe only person whom she was, during those perfervidpreliminaries, one bit cruel to.

But him she overlooked entirely. She didn’t seem tosee him that day at all. She just peered obliquely beyondhim, and, engrossed quite genuinely, no doubt, in Mrs.Green’s fur rug, took her arm and strolled off. Shehad lost, for the time being, all use for him. He was leftdeserted and alone at the teas and gatherings, magnetizedfrom one spot to another whither she moved forgetfullyaway.

I met him in the park and pitied his shy, inept effortsnot to appear neglected.

“Well, I kind of think it may rain,” he essayed, halfclasping his small hands behind him and looking sociablyup around the sky for a cloud. “But I don’t know as itwill, after all.” And then, “Have you seen Miss Havilandlately?” he asked out in spite of himself.

“Not since yesterday’s class.”

“How’s the improvements coming?”

“All right, I guess. The new stuff for the walls arrived,I heard. It hasn’t been put on yet.”

“Oh—she’s papering, is she?”

“And painting.”

He tried to sparkle appreciatively. “Well, it takestime to do those things. You never know what you’re infor. She’s well?”

And he swayed back and forth on his heels, andteetered his head nervously. Poor thing! The gap hehad tried so hard to bridge was filled to brimming nowby the promised advent of Hurrell Oaks.

Miss Haviland called me on the telephone one afternoonas the day was approaching to ask if I would lendher my samovar; and she wanted I should bring it overpresently, if possible, as she was slowly getting thingsright, and didn’t like to leave any more than was necessaryto the last moment. So I polished the copper up asbest I could and went ’round that evening to the NewGainsborough to leave it.

The building looked very dismal to me, I recall. Aforlorn place it seemed to receive the great guest. It hadbeen a dormitory once, which had been given over, owingto the inconveniences of the location, to accommodate unmarriedteachers. It was more like a refined factory thanan apartment-house. The high stoop had no railing, andthe pebbles which collected on the coarse granite stepsadded to the general bleakness of the entrance. The innerhalls were grim, with plain match-board wainscots anddingy paint, and narrow staircases that ascended steeplyfrom meager landings. Miss Haviland’s suite was threeflights up.

But when I got inside it, I couldn’t believe myeyes.

Her door was slightly ajar—it was the way Miss Havilandavoided the bother and the squalor of having tolet people in—and at my knock she called out in a restrained,serene tone, “Come!” And I stepped throughthe tiny vestibule into the study.

It was amazingly attractive—Hurrell Oaks himselfwould have remarked it, I’ll wager. Nobody exceptMarian Haviland could have wrought such a change.

Of course there were Mrs. Edgerton’s Monet, and Mrs.Braxton’s brocades, and—yes—Mrs. Green’s fur rug,to say nothing of numberless other borrowed objets, tohelp out the lavishness of the effect; but the synthesiswas magnificent. Everything looked as if it had grownthere. One might have been in an Italian palace. AndMiss Haviland, seated at her new antique walnut deskwith the ormolu mounts, looked veritably like a chatelaine.She had always, too—I ought to have seen it before—alittle resembled a chatelaine, a chatelaine withouta castle.

But she had for the moment her castle now—enoughof it to complete the picture, at any rate. There was alow smoldering fire on the hearth, and the breeze thatplayed through the open window just swayed the heavydamask hangings rhythmically. My samovar, as I setit down on a carved consol near the door, looked toocrude and crass to warrant the excuse of my coming.

She read my dazed approval in a glance and laid downher pen, and, with one experienced coup d’œil over themanuscript before her, leaned back, clasping the edge ofher desk with both hands and staring at me. She waswearing one of those black evening gowns, and a featherfan was in easy reach of where she sat; and I noticed allat once that the string of pearls was dangling from thegas-jet above her head.

“The new fixtures—the electric ones—will bebronze,” she hastened to say.

I shall never forget, not to my dying day, the sight Ihad of her sitting there; in that room, at that desk, ina black evening gown—writing! And the string ofpearls she had slung across the condemned gas-jet byway of subtle disarmament for her task! The wholeplace had the hushed grand air of having been clearedfor action by some sophisticated gesture; as if—thethought whimsically struck me—she might have justrung for the “second man” and bidden him remove “allthe Pomeranians” lest they distract her.

“It’s too lovely, Miss Haviland; I can’t tell you whatI think it is,” I exclaimed, blankly.

She stood up, reached for the rope of pearls, andslipped them over her head.

“I want you to see the hall,” she said. “Isn’t itchic?... And the bedrooms. The men will leave theirhats in the south chamber—my room—in here; andthe women will have the other—this one.”

She preceded me. She was quite simple in her eagernessto point out everything she had done. Her childlikeglee in it touched me. And she looked so tired.She looked, in spite of her pomp and enthusiasm,exhausted.

“How he—how Mr. Hurrell Oaks will love it,” Icried, sincerely. “If he only realized, if he only couldknow the pains you’ve taken for him.”

“Pains?”

She leaned forward and let me judge for myself howshe felt. Her eyes glowed. I had never seen her with allthe barriers down.

“It isn’t a crumb of what’s due him,” she pleaded.“Do you think I expect he’ll love it? No. It’s only thebest I could do—the best I can do—to save him theshock of finding it all awful. Oh, I didn’t, I so don’twant him to think we are—barbarians!”

She gave it out to me from the depths of her heart, andI accepted it completely, with no reservations or comments.It was the one real passion of her life, as I’vesaid. She was laying bare to me the utmost she haddone and longed to do for Hurrell Oaks.

“To think that he is coming here!” she murmured.“I’ve waited and hoped so to see him—only to seehim—it’s about the most I’ve ever wanted. And it’sgoing to happen, dear, in my own little rooms. He iscoming to me! Oh, you can’t know what he’s meant tome in all the years—how I’ve studied and striven tolearn to be worthy of him! All—the little all I’ve got—Iowe to him—everything. He’s done more than anybody,alive or dead, to teach me to be interested in life—tomake me happy.”

She threw her long arms around my shoulders andpressed me to her, and kissed me on the forehead. Thechapel clock struck ten.

“You’ll come, too, won’t you?” she asked, steppingback away from me in sudden cheerfulness. “For Iwant you to see how wonderful he will be.”

She put her arms about me once more, and went withme to the door when I left. In her forgetfulness of allforms and codes she had become a perfect chatelaine.She opened the door almost reluctantly, and stepped outon to the meager landing, and stood there waving herhand and calling out after me until I had got well downthe narrow staircase.

The day dawned at last. The hour had been set at fiveo’clock, as Miss Haviland’s Shakespeare course wasn’tover until three-thirty, and the faculty hadn’t seen fit,after “mature consideration,” to give her pupils a holiday.But the elect of Newfair were talking about the event,and discussing what to wear, and whether they oughtto arrive on the dot of five or a few minutes after, or ifthey wouldn’t be surer of seeing him “at his best” bycoming a few minutes before.

I met Professor Norton again in the park that morning.

“All ready for this afternoon?” I asked him.

His lips went tight together, and quivered in and outover his small round beard as he tried to face me. Andthen he looked down away, and began digging anotherhole in the gravel walk with the broad toe of his congressboot. He shot a glance at me, in a moment, and gazed offat the falling leaves.

“Aren’t you interested in Hurrell Oaks?” I persisted.

“I’m interested in everything Marian Haviland likes,”he declared, boldly, focusing his eyes full upon mine.“But—but the apartment’s small, and—and I reckonthere wasn’t room.”

Room? Was any place too small for him? It mademy blood—even at that age—boil.

“She’s had enough to do to keep half a dozen busy,”I said, tactlessly.

“Has she?” he echoed in hope. “How—how’s shegot on?”

“She’s been wonderful,” I said, feeling kindliertoward her as I spoke. “She’s made that apartmentregal.”

“I’m glad, I’m glad! I knew she had it in her. Didthe new sofa come?”

“Yes. Everything’s come. And you’d better comeyourself at five o’clock. I know she’s just forgotten—perhapsyour invitation got lost like Mrs. Purcell’s. Sheonly got hers an hour ago, I heard.”

“Really, now! Well, I’ll just go home and see. Ineed a little nap, I guess. I haven’t been sleeping verywell. Good-by.”

And he held out his hand, and nodded to me severaltimes, and gave me a sad, cheery, uncertain smile.

It was too bad. I was sure Miss Haviland had forgottenhim. I didn’t think—and I don’t think now—thatshe wilfully omitted to send him an invitation. Itwas only that her cup was too full to remember his small,meek existence. I wondered if I dared remind her. Iwas pretty busy all day, however. And I had to getdressed and out by four, as I hadn’t posted my dailytheme yet, and the time would be up at half-past. But Ithought, even so late as then, that I’d better go by way ofthe New Gainsborough, and if things seemed propitious,drop a hint to her, for I felt free to say almost anythingafter my experience of the other evening.

Things weren’t propitious, though, I can tell you.

I was still some distance from the building—it wasabout fifteen minutes’ walk, I should say—when I heardsomebody calling to me in a distressed voice. I looked’round behind me, and to the right and left; and whenfinally I walked ahead I saw Miss Haviland fly outthrough the swinging door of the New Gainsborough andstand there at the top of the high granite stoop, beckoningfrantically. She had on a mauve-colored kimono,which she was holding together rather desperately infront, and her hair was uncaught behind and streamingin the wind.

“Edith! Edith!” she called out. “Quick!”

She had never called me by my first name before.What could it be?—at this late hour, too? She waiteda second to be sure I was coming, then dodged backunder cover.

I ran. I sprang up the granite steps.

“See if you see anybody!” she commanded, breathlessly,peeping out at me.

“No, I don’t,” I said, looking. “There’s nobody,Miss Haviland.”

“But there must be,” she insisted. “Look again!Look everywhere!”

I did so. “There isn’t, Miss Haviland,” I saidback through the opening. “Why won’t you believeme?”

“Go down again, do go right down,” she kept saying,“and see!”

I shook my head. But at that she leaped out on to thestoop and took me by the shoulder and pushed me.

“Run out behind the building—oh, be quick!” shebeseeched. “Look all along the road, and if you see anybody,stop him and tell me!”

I ran. The road was empty. I came dazedly back.“There’s nobody in sight,” I panted, “not a soul.”

“Run over to that tree where you can see ’round theturn in the avenue!”

I ran again. I stretched my eyes in vain, but therewasn’t a person of any sort or description.

“Once more—please!” She started down the stepsas I started up. “Over by the chapel—you may findsomebody walking. Hurry!”

I hurried. I was out of breath and hardly knew whatI was doing.

“They’re all in, getting ready, Miss Haviland. Howcan you expect me to find anybody now?” I asked, pointlessly,and in some indignation as I reapproached her.

But she rushed down the steps and stopped me halfway,her mauve kimono fluttering open, and the gilt high-heeledslippers she had donned in her haste gleaminggarishly against the unswept stone.

“Listen! Harken!” she whispered. “Do you heara motor? Don’t you? Try again!”

It was still as death.

I stared up at her in terror. Not till then did I realizehow serious it was. But I had never seen a woman looklike that. I had never seen the anguish of helplessness inthe hour of need written so plain. Her eyes seemed toopen wider and wider—I had to turn away—and awfullines came on her forehead. She stretched out both armsand uttered a long Oh-h! that started in her throat andwent up into a high-pitched note of pain. She was to mepositively like a wild woman.

I watched her slowly raise one hand and unclasp it; Isaw within a small, a very small, white paper thing, whichshe held closer to her face and gaped at, as if she couldn’tbelieve the truth of what she saw.

“What is it? What is the matter, Miss Haviland?”I asked.

“Nothing,” she answered, quite calmly.... “Listen!Don’t you hear—”

But she shuddered. “They’ll be coming, Miss Haviland.Really! You’ve no time left.”

“Yes.”

She tried to smile. It was uncanny. It was hardlymore than a distension of her pale wide lips—a relic,merely, of spent resourcefulness. Then the blanknesswent out of her face, her expression collapsed, and shesobbed aloud.

“Miss Haviland! Miss Haviland! Do let me helpyou,” I begged, and I put my arm through hers and ledher inside the swinging door and up the narrow stairs.“Mayn’t I do anything?”

She dragged herself heavily on by my side. But hersobs ceased after the first flight. At the meager landingbefore her door she broke away and stood erect and facedme and held out her hand. The abruptness of the changein her awed me. I watched her push the hair from overher face and tilt her head back and shake it and gatherthe folds of the kimono nonchalantly together; and resumethe old hard connoisseurship I had seen her exercisefrom the beginning. Her eyes dilated tensely, andher eyebrows went tensely up, and she gave me thatenvisaging smile as of yore.

“It was nothing,” she said, “quite nothing. Won’tyou step in and wait?... I’m tired, I expect. I wasalone here, do you see, taking my bath. The servants”(Mrs. Edgerton’s servants!) “hadn’t come. And thatknock on the door upset me. I thought—I thought—itmight be—the—the caterer” (she winced at theword, and the wince seemed to help her to proceed)“with the food. So I hurried out and down likemad.... Thanks awfully, though. You’ll be back,surely? Please do.”

I did go back, of course. I wouldn’t have missed itfor worlds—sad as it was. There wasn’t such a longinterval to wait, either. I wended my way, and found thetheme-box closed, and returned at about quarter past five.

When I entered, the assemblage was in full swing, andMarian Haviland, in the black afternoon toilette she hadsent to New York for in honor of Hurrell Oaks’s visit,was scintillating in the midst. She had donned herpearls, and subdued her cheeks unbecomingly, and tintedher lips; and, going from one person to another, shewould, in response to the indiscriminating complimentsthey bestowed, just tap them each gaily on the shoulderwith her fan and explain that:

“Mr. Oaks was so sorry, but he couldn’t wait. Yes,he was wonderful,” she would say, “perfectly. We hadan immemorial hour together. I shall never forget it—never.”

To this day I don’t blame her for lying. If she hadn’tlied she never could have stood it. And she had to standit. What else could she do? She couldn’t hang a signon the door and turn the guests away after all their generoussacrifices to the occasion.

George Norton, needless to say, wasn’t there. She hadforgotten—I insist upon that much—to ask him. Buttwo days later she announced her engagement to marryhim, and in another month’s time the knot was actuallytied.

My companion stopped short there, and leaned back inher chair, expectantly staring at me.

“Like Marian Haviland Norton’s readers,” I said, “Ishould like some of the T’s crossed and the I’s dotted alittle more plainly. Don’t spare me, either, as far as the‘base rattle of the foreground’ is concerned. But tellme, please, literally just what you think happened.”

She showed her disappointment at that; looked almostaggrieved. Then she laughed out in spite of herself.

“Hurrell Oaks didn’t expect a party,” she declared;“he didn’t, at all events, mean to have one. He didn’t—shewas right about that—‘want to see many of us.’He didn’t want to see anybody. He just wanted to dohis manners. He couldn’t decently get out of that much.And, although he may have been asked to come at exactlyfive—nobody, of course, knows how his invitation wasworded—he reached Newfair earlier, perhaps unintentionallyso, and came instead at four, and knocked politelyfor admittance. But Mrs. Edgerton’s servants, unfortunately,hadn’t arrived, and Miss Haviland was, asshe herself admitted, taking a bath. She was no doubtactually in the tub when Hurrell Oaks slipped his cardunder the door.”

IN THE OPEN CODE

The day’s work was finished and the entire job wellstarted. I felt sure we should meet old Bankard’swishes fully. The rare old Virginia manor and itswooded park were going to look again as the originaldesigner meant them to appear. Gordon, I know, agreedwith me—Gordon, who was to restore the house as Irestored the grounds.

That evening he and I were sitting on a rusted ironbench in a corner of the park that looked off over thehills, watching the summer dusk steal up the eastern sky.I still wanted to talk of the day’s accomplishment, butGordon seemed to have grown—I was going to saydreamy, but he was watchful instead.

Presently he drew out his watch and said, “In justabout four minutes you will hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“See that notch between those two hills about a mileand a half away over there?” He pointed. “Keep youreye on that.”

“A blast?”

“Yes, a blast. But not the kind you think. Justwatch.”

We smoked in silence, and my curiosity was about tobreak into speech again, or ebb altogether, when ithappened.

An ordinary freight train passed, but the locomotive,as it emerged from the flat hillside and traversed thebroad notch, let off a stream of white puffs from itswhistle, and then disappeared behind the other hill, preciselylike an episode on the stage.

In a moment the white puffs translated themselvesfrom a sight in the eye to a sound in the ear. And I tellthe truth when I say that they reproduced, with a mimicrythat was startling, the notes of the last two bars of“Annie Laurie.”

“What do you make of that!” Gordon turned andexulted to me over his odd little discovery.

“How did you get on to it?”

“Oh, stumbled across it the first evening we were here.It goes every day at this time, as regular as clock-work.”

“Some engineer with a sense of humor amusing himself,”I conjectured.

“But regularity isn’t amusement. He blows it everyday at this time. And always in the same way.”

I tried another hypothesis. “A code signal of somesort, most likely.”

“But what an odd code! What a poetic code, for arailroad!”

“Well, I’ve learned to expect a good deal of life inVirginia. It seems to be different here.”

“Yes, it’s a code.... Of course it’s a code!” Gordonamended himself. “But—I wonder if it’s a railroadcode?”

“I see. A lover and his lass, eh? You’re creditingyour railroad engineer with your own romantic soul,Gordon.” I patted his arm, as Jemima, our cook, rangher bell for supper. “Now there’s a code that I canunderstand!” And we hurried in to the table.

By next evening the whole gang had heard of thecurious signal from the freight locomotive and assembledat the opening of the trees to hear it. Precisely at themoment due the obedient freight train crossed the notchin the distant hills, and as precisely as before the enginelet off its string of puffs that in a moment became in ourears those last two bars of the song.

There were as many theories to account for it as therewere men to hear it. In the end the congress bore downGordon and pronounced it a simple railroad code, withthe longs and shorts accidentally resembling the tune,or made so by a whimsical engineer.

Nevertheless the phenomenon was interesting enoughto compel a bit of discussion about the fire in the greathall after we had despatched our supper. The talkdrifted away into the curious tricks that artisans come toplay with their implements—carpenters able to toss upedged tools and catch them deftly, and the like. ButGordon was not to be weaned from the subject of thatwhistle.

“There’s nothing to prevent that engineer from playing‘Yankee Doodle’ on his whistle if he wants to.Haven’t you often lain awake at night listening to theblasts of the locomotives? You can tell when an engineeris ruffled, when he starts behind time out of theyard, and knows he must be extra alert that night. Histoot is sharp and impatient. Or you can tell an engineercoming home from his run. His whistle fairly sighs hisown contentment.”

“La, Gordon,” some one yawned, “you’re a poeticsoul!”

“Well, I believe in that engineer,” he defended.“Next time I go down to the village I’m going to findout who blows that thing and why he does it.”

He did go down to the village and he did learn thesecret of the whistle. It made a neat little story. Thewhistle was a code signal, of a surety, and of preciselythe sort that Gordon figured it was. He knew hisVirginia.

A fellow named George Roberts was the engineer ofthat freight, and his imitation of “Annie Laurie” wastruly a signal—to a sweetheart of his. Rough devil atone time, this man Roberts, a tearing drinker and fighter,he was fast on the way to ruin and discharge, when hefell in love with this girl and braced up. Now everytime he passed the little house where she lived he tootedhis whistle like that in salutation.

“To let her know he’s safe,” Gordon finished.

Of course we charged him with making it up, but inthe end we came to believe him. Every day for fourweeks that whistle blew, always in the same way, alwaysin the same place, and always on the dot. And somehowit had a sobering and softening effect upon the crowd ofwoodsmen that we were. The men quarreled less frequently,I noticed, were more considerate and helpful toeach other. I swear we all felt the influence of thatengineer. I’ll wager every man jack of us meant ongoing home to be a bit the more thoughtful to the wife.It cheered us all, that little touch of honest romance.The world seemed a bit the better for it. We even tookto timing our supper not by Jemima’s bell but by GeorgeRoberts’ whistle.

Then another strange thing happened. The signalceased.

The first time we missed it we could scarcely believeour ears. But on the second day it was silent, and thenext. At the right time the train crossed the notch, butno puffs came from the engine, no sound from thewhistle.

It gave us a drop. The world was as drab as ever.The cynics, of course, spoke up at once.

“Guess your friend the engineer is no better than therest of us,” one of them jeered at Gordon. “He couldn’tkeep it up.”

“Drunk again, probably,” jeered another.

“Maybe it’s only a little lovers’ tiff,” I argued inGordon’s support.

“I’m going to find out,” Gordon finished the discussion.

And he did. Made a special errand to the village tofind out. And returned with a smile.

“They’re married,” he reported. “Off on their honeymoon.They’ll be back in a week. Watch for the signalthen.”

He was right. In a week the signal was resumed, butin another place.

“How’s that?” one of the men still girded at Gordon.“Guess he’s learned to respect his wife’s throwing arm.He pipes up now from a more respectful distance.”

“That’s easy,” Gordon let the caviller down gently.“He’s set her up in a little house farther along the line.Naturally that’s where he would whistle now.”

For three weeks more we heard the faithful signal, atits new place. A little more faintly, but always punctual,always the same. And again the men began to whistleat their work.

By then the job was nearly finished. In two or threeweeks more we should be leaving, and the whole crowdbegan to allege a touch of regret. They protested it wasbecause the old place was so beautiful, but privately Ithink George Roberts and his tooting had something todo with the homesickness. To whatever new place wemight go, however pleasant it might be, there was goingto be a trifle that was lacking.

Then again a strange thing happened. Again thewhistle stopped. For four days it was silent.

“Family jar already!” came the usual good-naturedjeer.

“She’s flung a plate and crippled his whistle arm.”

“Guess you’d better find out what’s the matter, Gordon,”a third man recommended.

“I will,” said Gordon.

That evening he returned from the village without thesmile. Nevertheless, as he was still plodding up the longdriveway, his head down, his step slow, we actually heardthe whistle as we sat waiting for Gordon under theportico. There was no mistaking it. And yet its noteseemed different; there was a new tone to it, somethinglike Gordon’s air. And it seemed to come from stillfarther away.

Gordon paused as he heard it, and stood still, with hishat in his hand, till it died away. Then he came up thesteps and sat down. We all leaned toward him.

“She fell ill,” he said. “They left her in the littlecemetery down the line. She’d always been delicate.And I suppose that’s where he’s whistling now. To—tolet her know he’s safe.”

THE WILLOW WALK

THE STORY VINTON HEARD AT MALLORIE

“There is only one letter for you,” said Ware’s sister,and she turned the handle of the coffee-urn as shewatched him slit the envelope, for Ware had exclaimed:“By Jove! It’s from Vinton.” And then, after a moment:“That’s a nice thing. Roberts posted this lastnight instead of telephoning it up directly it came. He’son the ——nia, due in New York—let me see—you havethe Herald there—look in the shipping, will you? Arethey sighted?”

Abigail took up the paper. “Docked last night atnine,” she said.

“Then he’ll have caught the midnight from New York.If he’s not stopping in Boston he’ll be on the eight fifty-eight.”

“Is he coming here?”

“Yes, he says so. He’ll have quite a bit to tell if Iknow him.” And an hour or so later Abigail Ware sawVinton lift his eyes to the columns of the white porchglistening in the morning sun behind her, and as hesprang out of the motor and took her hand: “My foot ison my native heath and my name is MacGregor!” hecried.

Abigail led the way into the dining-room. “Come inby the fire; I’ve kept some coffee hot,” she said.

Vinton approached the warmth of the pine logs thatwere sending out sparks against the screen of the Franklinstove. “There’s something fearfully penetratingabout the air over here at this time of year,” he began.“Open fires are its saving complement.”

Abigail held out his cup.

“Warm as toast in England; perfect English springthis year.”

“Oh, no doubt of it; spring’s the time for England,”Ware asserted.

“Fall for New England,” said Ware’s sister. “But tellme,” she went on, “you were talking of saving complements.What are the saving complements over there justnow?”

“There aren’t any.” Vinton’s voice was suddenlysombre.

“I should think not!” It came from brother and sisterat once.

A moment passed before Vinton turned from the fireand let his eyes wander from the pale yellow heads of thedaffodils nodding in the easterly May air outside to thecool tints of the Lowestoft bowl on which some Chineseartisan a century before had picked out the initials of amerchant-sailor grandfather in pale tints of blue and goldand which now stood in the centre of the table filled withsprays of the rhodora. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I supposethere are saving complements of a sort if one isheroic enough to find them, but—well, one can hardly— Whatshall I say? Everything over there—I mean allsorts of what you’d call merely material objects—isbeing charged, I believe, with some kind of spiritual essencethat is going to be indefinitely active to futurecontact.”

He looked across the table to where Ware sat with hischair a little pushed back, and laughed. “The intolerantold Puritan thinks I’m off again, doesn’t he?” he saidalmost archly. Then he glanced about the room oncemore. “I think,” he continued, “that there is an extraordinarybeauty of a kind about our old houses over here—acharm, too, although I’ve never been able to analyzeit, for, after all, you know, there’s nothing in them!”

“The Puritan,” he began to explain, “belonged peculiarlyto the race that in England had always opposed allof what one may call the sensory elements that were ofsuch immense appeal to the race of the Cavaliers, for Ibelieve that the two did spring from essentially differentroots.

“‘A primrose by a river’s brim

A yellow primrose was to him,

And it was nothing more.’”

“What more does it need to be?” Ware protested, and“Ah! there you are,” Vinton responded. “But don’t yousee, after all, such negation never created”—he laugheda little again. “Never created an—an—”

“An eschatology?” supplemented Ware.

“A what? What on earth’s an eschatology?” gaspedWare’s sister.

“Say, for brevity, the material manifestation of spiritualthings; not quite theological, but ’t will serve,” Vintonreturned, and was silent; and after a time Abigailasked him what he thought of the legend of the Angelof Mons. Then it was that Vinton began to be trulycryptic. “What’s the use,” he said genially, “of talkingabout these things to two people who are made of stuff assplendidly solid and insensitive to the vibrations of whatthey’d call fantasy as their colonial pieces themselves.”

Abigail sighed. “I’m sorry that I’m too insensitive tohear of these saving complements of horror,” she said.“As for Billy, I suppose he wants the facts.”

“The horror,” returned Vinton, “for the facts are allhorror. If it hadn’t been for the story that the Marquisof Mallorie’s daughter told me I should bring home nothingelse.”

“Is this one of those manifestations you refuse to revealto us?”

“It is the only one. It’s no use before Ware; perhapssome time—if you will listen.”

“Go on,” said Ware; “‘si non e vero, e ben trovato’”.

“Oh, I’m not making it up.”

“Well, what do they say about the Russian advance,over there? Did you see any of the big German guns inaction?”

For days after this the conversation turned on the technicalquestions of war, with which Vinton’s opportunitiesas a war correspondent had made him familiar.

Then one night Vinton had come down from Bostonon a late afternoon train. He had been lunching at oneof the clubs with friends who had listed him to speak attwo or three houses in aid of emergency funds. It wastea-time and suddenly he rose, with his cup and saucerin hand, and went over to one of the dining-room windows.“Hello,” he said. “We’re going to get a northeaster,I’ll be bound.”

“The sheep-shearer’s due,” said Ware from his desk.

And it was that very night, when the great easterly galewas enveloping the whole New England coast and wassending showers of sparks down the big fire-place beforewhich they sat, in a low-ceiled room which had been thekitchen in colonial days, that Vinton told the story as hehad heard it from the Marquis of Mallorie’s daughter.

“It seems,” he began, “that the Mallories are of animmensely ancient family in the southwest of England;the title is one of the oldest in the realm, and one of thepoorest. Away back in the time of the Tudor they becameProtestant under protest, and have remained sounder protest; only their chapel, like the worshippingplaces of the early Christians, was taken down into thebosom of the earth and there it rested, exhaling strangevirtues over all the land above, and, as many thought,harboring much of good that the newer order of thingshad cast out. And so the Mallories are High-Church andwhen the Puseyites began their revolt they were only approachingwhat the Mallories had been for centuries.And about these delightful people there is none of thefanaticism of the convert.

“When war broke out there were two beautiful daughtersliving, most of their time, down there at MallorieAbbey, and a son who went over with the expeditionaryforce as soon as war was declared. This young man waskilled in action, under the most heroic circumstances. Hewas, apparently, the type of young soldier who might havebeen one of Arthur’s men, and I believe the clerical incumbentthere used to quote the lines of the PuritanMilton: ‘Arthur stirring wars under the earth that hideshim,’ or ‘Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earthunseen,’ as having a kind of ironic application to thewhole Mallorie domain. When I came back from FranceI was pretty well used up, and Carteret Lyon asked medown to his place, which stands within four or five milesof Mallorie, in the south. They are, of course, in mourningand fearfully sad, but I met the eldest daughter at teaone afternoon, and, being the most natural people onearth, and as I could tell her some things she wished tohear about France, we became almost friends at once.After that they made me welcome at Mallorie wheneverI dropped in at tea-time, and one day Lady Maurya tookme over the abbey, telling me as we went through the dimold place with its stained and mullioned windows a lot ofits curious, almost supernatural, history. Suddenly shebroke off from the narrative, on which it had seemed tome that her mind had been only lightly fixed, and, sinkingdown on a window-seat in the low, long hall we hadbeen passing through, she looked up at me and said:‘Ah, this is nothing to something that has really happenedhere within the year.’

“I asked her if she could tell me, and she answered thatshe wished to, but that it was all so very extraordinarythat she feared I would be unable to believe it, and shefelt that she could not hear it doubted.

“I said to her that I was the most believing man sincethe Dark Ages, and so she told me.

“It was the anniversary of her brother’s death, and aquarter to three in the morning had just struck from theclock on a kind of tower that rises over the chapel andwhich has a circular stairway running down into themiddle of a small lady-chapel where her brother’s body(which had finally been found after the engagement inwhich he had been killed) had been buried. She and theother members of her family were keeping vigil besidethe tomb by turns while masses were being said, duringthe twelve hours that were passing, and she was justmounting the stairs to go to her room for a little rest,being nearly exhausted with fatigue and emotion, whensuddenly the tower and stairway, which had been in inkydarkness before, became as light as day. She knew in aninstant what it was, and, looking up, straight over herhead she saw a Zeppelin hovering exactly above whereshe stood and so low that it seemed to her that she couldsee the crew and their preparations for the hideous workafoot. Then she looked down and a single shaft of thesearch-light fell directly on the heads of those who weregathered on their knees about the tomb. They werepraying, with their heads bent and their eyes closed, fornot one of them seemed to be aware of it, and the priests,whose chanting came up to her fearfully from the altar,were protected from it by the high reredos. There wassomething so dreadful and so uncanny about it all thatshe was petrified, for she knew that annihilation washanging over her and all her family, without the shadowof a doubt, for the aim was at the tower—which was alandmark for miles around—and that it would fall beforeshe could warn one of her people to safety, when, as ina flash from nowhere, flying at a most terrific rate ofspeed yet without a sound and straight at the Zeppelin,there appeared an aeroplane. It approached almost withinhailing distance of the great thing without firing, andthen, as the Zeppelin started a little, the aeroplane beganswirling about it. She could not tell how long a battlewent on between them without a single shot from either.It seemed as if the aeroplane was winding the monster insome intangible net, in which it turned and twisted andwrithed, trying to get away into the free air; and then,again without a single shot, it fell to earth.

“Every one of the crew had been killed when the menwent out to it, and while she and her sister watched fromthe top of the tower they saw the aeroplane skim downand land just below them. Hastening below she threwback a little door that opened to the ground, and there shecame face to face with the aeronaut. He wore no helmet,and, in this very early light, for it was in the first days ofthe year, he looked as if he stood in a shining black armor.His hair was golden, and the rising sun touched it, andhe was the most beautiful creature that she had ever seen—sobeautiful that she fell back against the wall behindher.

“Then the others came and showered him with thanksand insisted that he should be their guest at Mallorie, and,to every one’s astonishment, Lady Maurya’s mother calledthe man who had served her son for many years anddirected him to take the stranger to her son’s rooms, thathad not been open since the day he fell in battle, and alsoshe said that as they were of about the same height hiswardrobe should be at the stranger’s disposal. He acceptedtheir invitation and stayed at Mallorie Abbey fornearly a week, saying that there were a few things hemust do about his machine. And yet, during his wholestay, no one ever saw him at work on it. In fact, althoughthe Mallories never mentioned it to him, they knew thatthere was much excitement, not only among their ownpeople but in the countryside, because since the momenthe had come to earth no one had been able to find theaeroplane. He would sometimes play tennis with LadyMaurya and her sister the whole morning or afternoon,and at sight of him in their brother’s flannels and with hisgayest kummerbunds and ties they felt no pangs, only agreat comfort in his presence, not exactly as if theirbrother was really back with them, but as if he had powerto fill them with the same sort of happiness they hadalways felt when the young soldier was at home withthem on leave.

“One night during that week a general officer backfrom France on an important mission dined at the abbey.After dinner, something calling the marquis out, the officerand the aeronaut, Lieutenant Templar, as he calledhimself, were left alone. As the officer was bidding LadyMaurya good-by, two hours later, he said: ‘This eveninghas been worth twenty trips from France. I havelearned that which may be of such value to us that it willturn the tide of war. This young saviour of MallorieAbbey may be the saviour of Europe. But how does heknow?’

“Then it was that Lady Maurya took LieutenantTemplar by himself, and she brought him into the veryhall where she told me the story, and she said to him(and how could any creature of earth or heaven have resistedher, for she has all the beauty and all the allurementsof both?): ‘Why were your wings all purple andgold when you came flying to save us that morning?’

“And he answered her: ‘The shadow of the earth uponthe skies, and a touch of dawn.’

“‘But there was no dawn,’ she said. ‘And when youcame to the great monster why did your wings changeto flaming scarlet, so bright that no eyes could rest uponthem?’

“‘The rising sun,’ he said.

“And she answered: ‘But there was no rising sun.’

“And then he looked at her for a long time whileneither spoke, and at last: ‘How could you send the thingto earth without a single shot?’ she asked.

“And he answered, after a moment: ‘Because in me isall the strength of that bright ardor which has led youngwarriors to die in battle for the right since earth began.And now my strength is most mightily renewed with thestrength of all the lads who were the first to die for England.Was not your brother one of these? Such soulsare the stuff of which are made the angels and archangelsand all the heavenly host.’

“And as she looked at him, standing before her, itseemed to her, in the dim light, that instead of the eveningclothes he had been wearing she saw again a glint ofblack armor as on the morning when he had first come tothem, and then, like Elsa, she asked him who he was, andhe, like Lohengrin, was gone.

“But from that day to this there has been no moresorrowing at Mallorie Abbey.”

The great northeaster had stopped its wild howling atthe very moment that Vinton was adding: “They havenever known which of them it was—whether it wasMichael—or Gabriel—or Raphael!”

Ware poked the fire and said nothing.

“Do you believe it?” asked Ware’s sister.

“What an impossible word that word ‘believe’ is!What does it mean?”

“And do you like the idea—the idea of losing one’sidentity in one great superlative being like that?”

Vinton thought a moment, and then he said: “WhenI remember that all the trouble on this earth comes in thetrain of that infernal thing we call the ego it seems to methat the heavenly things must indeed arise from its completesurrender. Yes,” he continued more slowly, “yes,I think I like it very much.”

THE TOAST TO FORTY-FIVE

In this little Vermont town of Paris, on the top floorof the red-brick post-office block, over half a centuryhave been located the quarters of Farrington Post, ParisChapter, G. A. R.

In the rooms of Farrington Post—under a glass casefilled with countless other relics belonging to CaptainJonathan Farrington’s company, that marched away onehundred and seven strong that forenoon in ’61—hasbeen kept a bottle of rare old wine.

That wine was old when those stalwart young Vermonterswho followed Captain John Farrington werechildren. Through half a century it has occupied itsplace in that glass case; during that long time it has beenviewed by many visitors to our town; over and over againhas the story of “The Toast to Forty-five” been tolduntil that double-quart of priceless vintage has becomeone of our chief sights of interest to the stranger withinthe gates. It was not through accident or chance thatthis bottle of wine was saved. Up to last August therewas a pretty sentiment connected with that bottle of wineand why it should have been preserved thus throughoutthe years.

Up to last August, indeed! Because that bottle is nolonger under the glass case in the Grand Army roomsin the post-office block. It has been taken from amongthose relics of yesterday; the seal has been broken; thecontents have been poured out. Glistening red as theblood which those lads of ’61 shed for the principles inwhich they believed, that liquor was consumed in thepledging of a toast.

When the homefolks suggested that the county givea dinner to the returned heroes on the sixteenth day ofAugust, 1866—Bennington Battle Day and a holiday inVermont always—Dashing Captain Jack Fuller was notthe one to quash the suggestion. “Dashing Jack” hadbeen the man to take John Farrington’s place when Johnlost his life at Gettysburg. He was a great dude, wasCaptain Jack; a lover of the dramatic and the spectacular;with the pomp of soldiering verily in his blood and thevanity of many generations of Fullers in his fiber.

On the night of August 16, 1866, “The Toast toForty-five Banquet” was held on the top floor of the oldVermont House. It took place in the big room with thespring dance-floor. That old Paris hostelry was burnedin ’73. In the course of that affair, Dashing Jack aroseand made a speech—likewise a proposal.

The flower of Vermont of the Sixties was gatheredabout those tables. There were young men to whom fameand fortune afterward would come. There were sturdybeautiful girls in quaint dresses that in succeeding yearswould mother sons and daughters who are the pride andglory of Vermont of the present. The lights shone ongloriously happy faces. Two hundred voices turned theroom into vocal pandemonium. It was several minutesbefore Dashing Captain Jack could gain their attentionand make himself heard.

When finally all eyes were turned upon him, they sawthat he was holding high in his right hand a bottle ofwine.

“Ye gallant sons and daughters of Vermont! Tonightis a great night!” cried Jack in ringing, self-confident,magnetic tones. “We are attending a dinner tonightthat will be remembered in the history of our townand State long after the last comrade now within soundof my voice has gone to make his bivouac with the illustriousCompany Forty-five—the name which we havegiven the forty-five brave lads who marched away withus but who were not destined by a higher providence tomarch back. On this night, therefore, beholding thiswine before me, it has occurred to me to propose the inaugurationof a rite—almost a sacred rite—the like ofwhich no Post has ever heard.”

The room was now very quiet. And Captain Jackreveled in the drama of the scene.

“In this room,” he cried, “—in sound of my voice atthis moment, are two boys who will be the very last tojoin Company Forty-five. Sooner or later we shall allbe called to answer to our names in the Great Muster;but some will be called sooner than others. There willcertainly come a day in the years which lie ahead whenthere will be only two remaining of this company of sixty-twohere to-night. Think of it, boys! Just two! Lookinto one another’s faces and ask yourselves—who arethose two—which of you will they be?”

The room was strangely silent. The smiles died on thefaces of many women. Dashing Captain Jack indicatedthe wine he held in his hand.

“Here is the thing which I propose; to make the annualdinners of Farrington Post different from any other reunionswhich shall ever be held:

“I hold in my hand the last unsealed bottle of thevintage which we have tasted to-night in our first toastin peace to the missing lads that have made that peacepossible. Let this last bottle be saved. Year after yearwe will have our annual dinners. Year after year, aswe gather round the board, familiar faces will be missing.Many will fall by the way. At last—will be only twocomrades—of this roomful here to-night. And whenat last those two shall face one another and think back tothis first banquet in the dim and sacred past—when theyalone remain—when sixty have gone to join old Forty-fiveand they realize that perhaps before another year ispassed, they will have joined that illustrious companyalso—let them break the seal on this bottle. Let themfill their glasses. Let them clink those crystal rims togetherand drink the last toast to those who have gone.And when the seal on this bottle thus is broken, let ourreunions be held no more.”

They drank, and the next morning the banquet was athing of history.

Year after year those veterans have gathered aboutthe board and gazed on that rare old vintage, wonderingwhether he was to be one of the two to drink that finaltoast to Forty-five—and under what circumstances.Each has realized that before another August sixteenthcame around, certain familiar faces were to be missing.Dashing Captain Jack started something far more dramaticthan he realized.

Poor Captain Jack! He married one of the Kingsleygirls that year and a little son was born to them. Amonth and a day after the birth of that son he was killedin an accident on the old New York Railroad. He wasthe first to join Forty-five!

Sixty-two men sat down to that first banquet. In 1900the number was thirty—less than half. In 1910 therewere eleven veterans. Since 1910 the old soldiers havebeen going rapidly.

At the Post dinner of August 16, 1912, the ranks ofCaptain Jack’s company had dwindled to four old men.There was Uncle Joe Fodder, the commander; MartinChisholm, who made his money in the grist-mill; HenryWeston, who for seven years had been an inmate ofthe State Soldier’s Home; and—old Wilbur Nieson,who spent his days hanging around the street cornersand stores.

The reunion ended as forty-six other reunions hadended, excepting that they did not talk their battles overagain so vehemently as on former occasions. Indeed,they had talked themselves out. They were “waiting”now, and the old bottle of wine set in the center of theirtable was a symbol of fatalism, mute testimony to theinexorable law of human life. Next day we reported itas usual in our local paper.

At about ten-thirty o’clock of the following evening—tobe exact, the seventeenth day of August, 1912—Mrs.Samuel Hod, wife of the Telegraph’s editor, whileworking in her kitchen, heard a frightful scream comefrom somewhere in the neighborhood.

Mrs. Hod rushed to the door. Outside was a clear,warm summer night. Across the picket fence thatseparated the Hod yard from the rear yards of thehouses facing on Pleasant Street, she could see a light inthe kitchen of the Fuller boy’s house—young JackFuller, grandson of Dashing Captain Jack of years goneby. The neighborhood was very quiet during those twominutes she stood there listening in her fright.

Then suddenly that scream was repeated—sharp,clear, terrible! It came from the home across the picketfence. It was Betty Fuller screaming. From the agonyin the cries something ghastly had happened. Mrs. Hodran through her house and called to her husband. Samhelped his wife over the back fence and they made theirway under the Fuller clothes-line, through the back shed,and into the little sitting-room.

Betty Fuller was down on the floor. She was facedownward, her head protected by her arm. Two feetfrom her, between the reading-table and the door intothe dining-room, was her nine-months-old baby. Holdinghimself unsteadily between the casings of the halldoor was young Jack, his face the color of cold ashes,his lips parched, drops of sweat, heavy as glycerin,standing on his forehead.

“What’s happened?” demanded Sam.

But he saw what had happened; and his wife saw;and so did the neighbors. The baby’s crib was mutewitness to what had occurred. It was overturned—betweenJack and his little family.

“Betty! Betty!” cried Mrs. Hod, kneeling down tothe young mother’s assistance.

“My baby! My only, only, little baby!” moaned thegirl.

“Tell me,” roared Sam to the father, “how did thishappen?”

“I came in—sick—I guess—I guess—I didn’t seethe kid’s crib. I fell over against it! I knocked itover—”

The neighbor woman had picked up the little body.

“It’s—dead!” she whispered hoarsely.

Sam whirled on Jack.

“Sick!” he roared. “Sick! The h—— you was sick!You was drunk! You’re drunk now! See what you’vedone? You’ve killed your own kid—!”

At his words the girl shrieked again, that long agonizingterrible shriek that brought more neighbors.

“It was an accident,” whispered the Fuller boy thickly.

“It wouldn’t have been an accident if you’d behavedyourself and cut out this coming home drunk.”

The woman picked up the girl and got her to the sofa.Over and over she kept moaning: “My baby! My only,only, little baby!”

The place filled with neighbors. After a while cameDoctor Johnson—who was our coroner—and MikeHogan, our chief of police.

Mike was at a loss whether to arrest the father or not.Sam dispelled his doubts.

“When the boy comes to himself and gets the stuff outof his brain, he’ll feel bad enough, Mike,” the fatherlyold editor said. “The memory of it will be enoughpunishment. After all, he didn’t do it intentionally.”

“He’s no good, sorr,” stormed Mike, indicating theyoung father while he grew husky-throated at the pathosof the little mother’s grief.

“Yes, he is, Mike. This is really Dick Fuller’s—hisfather’s—fault. He shouldn’t ever have left the ladten thousand dollars and no balance-wheel. Let thesetwo children alone. It’s for them to settle between themselves.Jack’s got the Fuller blood in him from awayback; and I think this will bring out his manhood. It’sa fearful price for a young father to have to pay, Mike.But maybe, after all, it’s for the best.”

The neighbors left the boy and girl to their tragedy.

The marriage of old Wilbur Nieson’s daughter Elisabethto young Jack Fuller had been talked of in ourtown for a month and a day. Richard Fuller, son ofDashing Captain Jack, had grown to manhood, madeconsiderable money and died, leaving it to his boy, whereuponthe lad started straight for the devil.

Before he had come into his inheritance, he had been“keeping company” with little Betty Nieson, whoworked in the box-factory and lived with her derelictfather in the scrubby old Nieson place out Cedar Streeton the edge of town. The boy drank considerably andthe rumor found its way into our newspaper office that,despite his money, Betty would not marry him until hehad conquered the habit.

A town’s mind is a child’s mind and it readily sympathizedwith the struggle that the Nieson girl was makingin her poor blind handicapped way to climb out ofthe environment which she had always known, and makesomething of herself. Then suddenly one day JackFuller sold his racy automobile. He and Betty weremarried and they furnished a modest home on PleasantStreet. One-half of the town said it was because Jackhad gone through his inheritance. The other half saidthat it was his wife’s influence over him. Certainly toall appearances the girl was making a desperate andcommendable struggle not only to raise herself up butto compel Jack to be a man. Then the half of the home-folkswhich had claimed the way Jack squandered hismoney had been at the bottom of his marriage, wereapparently in the right. For shortly after the pitifullittle marriage the boy was seen frequenting the WhitneyHouse bar as much as ever.

Now came this additional sorrow into the girl’s life.She had married the lad trying to get away from thehereditary taint of the Nieson blood. It had come to hernow that there appeared to be a taint also in the Fullerblood. She had lost her baby. The Hods said that therewas a light burning in the Fuller tenement all that night.

The baby was buried the next day. It was a patheticlittle funeral, just a prayer or two by Doctor Dodd of theMethodist Church, and then Blake Whipple, the undertaker,took care of the interment.

The evening of the day that the poor little shaver waslaid underground, Mrs. Hod entered the tenement toconsole the bereaved girl. She entered without knocking.She paused at the threshold, made rigid by the sightbefore her.

For Jack Fuller was down on his knees before the girlhe had married. His finely-shaped head was buried inher lap. He was sobbing freakishly, for men do notknow how to weep. And the girl seated there on thesofa was staring into unseeing space with a holy lookupon her beautifully plain face; her slender shapelyfingers toying with the boy’s wavy hair.

“Never, never, never—will I touch a drop of the stuffas long as I live, Betty,” he choked between his tears. “Idon’t care—what the provocation is—I won’t ever do it.I’ve been a cad, Betty. I haven’t been a Fuller at all—butI’ll show you I can be. I’ll make up for this.We’ve lost the baby, Betty—but it’s brought me to mysenses. I’m—done! I swear it before God, Betty.I’m—done!”

The girl never knew a neighbor was looking on, unableto withdraw without disclosing her presence.

“If that’s the price, Jack,” she replied softly, divinely,“—if that’s the price—and you’ll keep your word—I’llpay it! Jackie dear—I love you. I’ve loved youall along. But this has always been the way with me.There was Dad. Rum got him—rum stole him awayfrom me. When he was himself he was all right. Buthe drank and then beat me—he made me want to killmyself just because I was a Nieson—because his bloodhalf saturated with rum—was in my veins. I marriedyou, Jackie—because I hoped to pull myself up frombeing a Nieson. I hoped to show folks what I wantedto be—what I tried so hard to be. Every one knowsthe Niesons are worthless trash, the scum of the town.And I thought—being your wife—the wife of a Fuller—thingswould be different. The liquor seemed robbingme of you too, Jack. But if this—has given youback to me—yes—I’ll pay the price. It’s all right,Jack. I’ll take your word that you’ll never, never take adrop of the stuff again.”

Mrs. Hod succeeded in getting out without being discovered.She went home and told her husband. Samshook his head sadly.

“I hope so,” commented the worldly wise old newspaperman, who frequently understood two-legged human folksbetter than they understood themselves. “I hope so,indeed. I’d do anything under God’s heaven to helphim. But I’m afraid for him—afraid for him and thegirl. It sure will be hell for her if the lad breaks hispromise—just once!”

But to his everlasting credit, let it be set down that theFuller blood came uppermost in Jack. He did not breakhis promise. But what the poor boy went through inthat succeeding six months only a reticent God in Hisheaven knows.

Jack had sold his automobile for two hundred dollars.Now he transferred what was left of his legacy from achecking account in the corner bank to the savings department.He went to work for Will Pease mendingautomobiles in the Paris Garage.

He grew thin and haggard with the struggle he wasmaking. Some brainless young roustabouts in our towntried to get him to drink again just for the sake of winninghim back to his old habits. They actually did gethim into a bar one night with a glass of liquor beforehim. Then I guess it came to him what he was doing.The Fuller blood in him made a great convulsion for theupper hand—and won! He smashed the glass into thetempter’s eyes and stumbled out into the raw cold night—andhome.

The boy came home to his childless wife one night andsaid:

“Betty—it’s hell!” he said. “I’m all burned outinside, Betty—”

“Jack,” she cried piteously, “you’re not going to giveway after—after the price—we paid.”

“Not if I can help it, Betty,” he replied. “But I needhelp, girl. I need some sort of discipline that’ll straightenme out and help me physically. Betty—I’ve got achance—to get into the quartermaster’s department ofthe Vermont National Guard—”

“You mean—be a soldier?” she cried.

“And why not, Betty?” he said. “My grandfatherwas a soldier. You know what he did in the Civil War;what he means to the Grand Army men. It’s in myblood, I guess, Betty—”

“Jack!” she cried. “Don’t leave me now! Don’tleave me alone! Don’t! Don’t! There’s too manymemories, Jack. I ain’t—brave enough, Jack!”

He sank down on the sofa and hid his burning face inhis hands.

“God help me!” he groaned. “I want to win out, butI’m all wrong inside. Oh, Betty!”

She tried in her poor pitiful way to help him. Shedid help him—a little bit. But Jack was nearer rightthan he knew. He joined the Y. M. C. A. that winterand went in for athletics. But two nights a week “onthe floor” wasn’t rigorous enough for him.

Pinkie Price, our star reporter, came into the newspaperoffice one forenoon and exclaimed,“Hey, you know that Fuller chap that killed his kidwhen he come home stewed? Well, what do you supposehe’s up to? You know the preparedness scare andthe trouble with Mexico and everything? Well, he’sstartin’ to raise a company right here in Paris—a companyo’ real soldiers—so’s to have ’em ready in casewe get into the Europe scrap. They’re goin’ to drill fournights a week and Sundays in Academy Hall.”

“It isn’t surprising,” commented Sam Hod. “Hecomes from a family of soldiers. Well, I hope he does.If he’s captain of a company of men like his grandaddywas in ’63 he’ll have his position to maintain and thatwon’t mean flirting with whisky. Good for the boy!I said he had the right stuff in him. Go see him andwrite his scheme up, Pinkie. The Telegraph’ll give itall the preferred position it deserves.”

“Hey,” said Pinkie, shifting suddenly to another subjectthrough the association of ideas, “—d’yer knowthat old Martin Chisholm kicked off last night? Yep;heart disease!”

Sam looked around the office at our faces.

“So ‘The Toast to Forty-five’ has narrowed down toHenry Weston, Uncle Joe Fodder, and Wilbur Nieson!Too bad, too bad!”

Jack Fuller, out of regard for the little wife’s feelings,did not take the quartermaster’s job. But he did organizethe Paris Home Guard. Soldier blood ran in his veins.The “Fuller Fire-eaters” as our town named them, wasa crack company. The place Jack held as head of thatcompany was as a tonic to the lad; it gave him somethingto think about, to interest himself in when thehankering for the fellowship of our three saloons becametoo powerful. When the trouble with Mexico becameacute there were weeks when the local boys, catching hisenthusiasm, drilled six nights in succession in their roomsup-stairs in the Cedar Street Engine-house. They hadregular army uniforms and were connected somehowwith the State National Guard—we never could justunderstand the connection.

As for “The Toast to Forty-five,” the climax didn’tcome in August, 1916. When Bennington Battle Dayrolled around that year all three men were still livingwho had been alive the reunion before.

In February the United States severed relations withGermany. In April the United States declared war. InJune ten million young Americans enrolled themselvesfor the draft. And in July, when all the confusion ofthe draft had cleared away, it was found that half of“Fuller’s Fire-eaters” had been called upon to fill theParis quota of Vermont’s two thousand.

But Jack Fuller’s name was not drawn.

On a certain July night in the little tenement whichthey still kept on Pleasant Street, the Fuller boy stoodbeside the table in the same room where his small sonhad been killed in the overturning of the cradle a whilebefore, with his face as white as chalk and Betty beforehim on her knees where she had sunk down in hermisery, clutching him convulsively.

“Don’t go and leave me, Jack,” she moaned. “Oh,Jack, don’t do it. You’re all I’ve got, Jack—and thereare so many unmarried men to go—!”

“My grandfather led the Paris boys in ’63, Betty,”he said hoarsely. “My great-great-grandfather led acompany in the battle of Bennington. The country’scalling again, Betty. It’s up to a Fuller to take his placeat the head of the Paris lads once more. I’ve got thecompany, Betty. They’re wild to enlist as a body and Ican get the regular appointment as their captain—”

“Wait till your turn comes in the draft, Jack. Don’tleave me, now, Jack. There are so many unmarried mento go. If the country wants you so bad that they callall the married men, I’ll try to be brave and give you up,Jack. But wait for that—tell me you will!”

“I can’t stand it to see the boys I’ve drilled marchaway with another chap at their head, Betty.”

“Jack!” she cried hysterically, “it was you that tooklittle Edward away from me! And now—you’re takingyourself. You don’t have to go—yet. You’re takingyourself—yourself—because—you don’t love me—”

It was the first time in two or three years that shehad taunted him with what he had done to their child.It reacted upon him as though she had struck him ablow.

“Betty!” he cried hoarsely. “Don’t say that, Betty.You’re mad over this thing—you’re asking me to hidebehind the skirts of women—”

“Jack—I’ve had so much sorrow—first withMother, then with Father, then losing the baby so—nowwith you going away and leaving me—that I can’t standmuch more, Jack. I’ll go mad—really mad, Jack! Ican’t go back and live again with Father, and see hisstumbling footsteps when he comes home drunk, andhear his talk, and see him gibber—I’ll have nobody, nobody,to live for! Oh, Jack!”

“You can be as brave as millions of other childlesswives all over America, able for a while to care for themselves.You told me once that you hated the Niesonblood in you even if your father was a soldier. You saidafter we were married that you were trying to pull yourselfup and be somebody. You said you were happybecause our kids would have Fuller blood in them. Andnow instead of coming up to the scratch in a real crisis,Betty, you’re showing yellow and groveling round like aNieson. If I’m willing to run the chance of gettingshot—”

But he did not go on. Her screams of hysteria began.And the little wife who had stood so much broke downat last.

Doctor Johnson was called. He attended the girl foreight days. During that time, only regard for Jack madethe boys hold off in enlisting as a unit altogether forFrance. Doctor Johnson said that if Jack volunteeredwith them, and Betty heard he was going, the shockwould kill her. So the boy went around town, tornbetween love and duty.

And during those days something happened in ourcommunity. Wilbur Nieson and Henry Weston died—withina few days of one another. Henry Weston succumbedto kidney trouble which had afflicted him foryears. And old Wilbur Nieson—Wilbur Nieson hadthe “tremors” as we say up here in New England—deliriumtremens—one night in the rear of the WhitneyHouse. The boys in the livery found him. The Sons ofVeterans buried him. So much for the carefully cherishedplans of humankind. For a half-century the members ofFarrington Post had saved that rare old Vintage for“The Toast to Forty-five.” And there were not eventwo old soldiers left of that original company to observethe sentiment. “The Toast to Forty-five” could neverbe pledged, after all!

A couple of weeks slipped away. August sixteenthapproached. The boy came into the office of our littlelocal paper one morning and said:

“I’ve made up my mind; I’m going to France. Insteadof having our ranks broken by the draft, all the‘Fire-eaters’ are enlisting as a body in the NationalGuard. And I—am going—with them.”

“But your wife?”

“It won’t be any harder for her to stay behind than itis for me to leave. But I’ve got to get into this thing.Something inside of me is firing me to do it. She’llbear it—somehow.”

“When are you boys going?” asked Sam.

“We’ll be leaving somewhere around the twentieth.”

“The twentieth!” exclaimed Sam. In that momentsomething occurred to him. “The twentieth!” he exclaimedover again. “And on the sixteenth—the oldarmy men were going to hold their last reunion if onlythose two hadn’t died. Jack—!”

“Yes.”

“Why not—why not—why not have Paris give youboys a royal send-off on that night—the night of thesixteenth—a dinner for you fellows the sixteenth; adinner for you fellows in place of the old Grand Armyreunion!”

“I guess the boys would be willing,” replied Jack witha sad smile.

We printed a long piece in our little local paper about it,that night. Again the Vermont boys were going to war.Again a Fuller was to lead them. Tickets for the farewelldinner were on sale at the Metropolitan Drug-store,five dollars apiece, the proceeds to go to the Red Cross.

Bennington Battle Day came. All preparations forthe greatest banquet Paris ever saw were completed.The time-worn custom of having the dinner in the roomsof Farrington Post was abandoned. The Post roomswould never hold the crowd. The dinner was to be heldin the assembly hall of the new high school. That wasthe largest floor-space procurable in Paris.

Sam Hod had three sons in Captain Jack’s company—morethan any other father in Paris. He was designatedas toastmaster for that epochal dinner. At a long tableat the head of the hall he was to sit with Uncle Joe Fodderon his right and young Captain Jack Fuller on hisleft. Beyond, on either side there were grouped officersof the company. Then the rest of the places were filledup with the privates of Fuller’s Fire-eaters and the public.The dinner was set for eight o’clock and by tenminutes of eight there were hundreds of Parisians in thehallways and on the sidewalk unable to get standingroom in the dining-room, to say nothing of obtaining aseat and a plate.

Promptly on the dot of eight, Otis Hawthorne, leaderof the Paris Band, tapped his baton on his music-stand.

With a great crash the apartment was filled to thefurthermost crevices with the thunderous tumult of“The Star Spangled Banner.”

Every man and woman in that hall rose to his feet.They sang that song. They sang it as they had neversung it before. Because in that moment the real meaningof the words came home to them.

“—Oh, say, does the Star Spangled Banner yet wave,

O’er the land of the Free, and the Home of the Brave?”

Sam Hod looked at his three lean boys in khaki, that inanother week would be only a memory. And his faceshone with an emotion he had never known the meaningof before. Women wept like—women. As the chorusdied away, cheer on cheer arose and floated out thelowered windows into the soft summer night.

They resumed their chairs. Jack Fuller turned to theeditor.

“Who’s this empty chair for on my left?” hedemanded.

“Your wife, my son,” the editor replied simply, andMrs. Hod brought the girl in.

She was white and weak. How the editor’s wife hadbroken the news to her—persuaded her to come to thehall and sit in the place of honor beside her husband—hasbeen something that we bewhiskered males in theoffice of our little local paper have never been ableto explain. Perhaps Mrs. Hod’s sacrifice of those threetall Yankee lads in Fuller’s Fire-eaters had somethingto do with it. Anyhow, Betty Fuller was persuaded tocome in.

She put out her hands blindly before her as she reachedthe head table and heard them cheering her husband’sname—and her own. She felt her way into her place.She glanced down into her husband’s surprised face andgave a terrified semblance of a smile. Then the wholeroom seemed to fuse before her. She has never been ableto recollect connectedly the events of that evening.

The dinner began, progressed, and, after the manner ofall dinners, at last ended. Sam Hod arose. He clinkedon a water-glass with his knife. The hallful saw him andgradually grew quiet.

It was a beautiful speech that the editor made. Hebegan with the part Vermont has played in every war inwhich America has ever engaged. He told the story ofthe boys who marched away in ’61 behind John Farrington.He recounted the story of Captain Farrington’sdeath; the succession of “Jack Fuller the First” to theplace of honor in the Company, the brilliant war-recordof the regiment. He told of the home-coming; of thebanquet fifty-two years before. He told smoothly of theevents leading up to America’s entry into the war. Hisquotation of the President’s famous indictments againstGermany brought ovation after ovation from the home-folks,who were worked up to hysterical pitch. Andwhen it was over the editor said:

“To-night, before sitting down to this farewell banquetto our sons, many of whom are going away fromus never to return—to-night I was the recipient of astrange request. It came from the last survivor of thatfamous Company of Sixty-two who fifty-two years agosaw Dashing Captain Jack Fuller of glorious memory,raise aloft this receptacle of rare vintage and propose adramatic thing.

“This was the request: By some strange fate theevening when the last toast was to be given to the illustriousdead comes at the terrifically tragic moment whenthe sons of many of these men are going forward tooffer their lives in a new democracy. It has been suggestedthat nothing could have more approval fromDashing Captain Jack himself—or from all of thoseone hundred and six brave men who have crossed fromthe battlefields of earthly life into a blessed reward fortheir altruism—than that this toast should be givenafter all—if not by the two survivors, then by theleader of the local heroes who have volunteered to go“Over There” and by their sacrifice make the earth afiner, fairer, better place in which to dwell. “The Toastto Forty-five,” famous for fifty-two years, will be givenat last amid this assembly of another quota of the Union’ssoldiers about to go forth to preserve the same greatprinciple for which their fathers laid their all upon thealtar.”

There was silence for a time. Then came anotherattempt at another ovation. But it died in the excitementof the thing transpiring at that speaker’s table.

Sam Hod was opening the famous vintage.

The seal was broken. Out of that glass retainer camecostly sparkling liquor, fifty-two years the prize relic ofFarrington Post. Sam reached over. The two glasses ofUncle Joe Fodder and Captain Jack he filled to the brim.He stepped back—back from between Uncle Joe andCaptain Jack—that they might click the rims of theirslender goblets together.

“Gentlemen,” cried Uncle Joe in that breathless moment—“TheToast—to—Forty-five!”

Every military man in that room arose to his feet.

Uncle Joe’s withered old lips moved in the sunken face.The skinny hand holding the wine-glass trembled so thatthe beverage spilled over the edge and splashed on thewhite table-cloth like a clot of blood.

“Here’s to the gallant Forty-five,” he cried in a high-pitched,crackly voice. “Here’s to Captain John Farrington.And here’s to the men of Company Sixty-twoand their posterity. Here’s to—here’s to Captain JackFuller and his posterity—”

It was an unfortunate sentence at an unfortunate time.

Jack Fuller’s posterity!

Through the lad’s brain must have flashed a pictureof a scene in his sitting-room months before when hehad paid a fearful price for—something! He had promised— Hehad promised— He looked around theroom. Hundreds of eyes were upon him as he stoodthere, splendid and erect in olive drab. He glancedaround his own table, too. And in that instant he saw—thepale, wan features of his wife!

His arm still holding awkwardly aloft the glass, Jacklooked into the faces of that crowd flanking the tablesand walls of that great hall.

Something came to him—the scenes, the associations—reincarnation,perhaps—the blood of his forefathers—heredity—inthat great instant he was prompted to do agreat and dramatic thing for the joy of the spectacular,the call of the dramatic.

Out of Joe Fodder’s toothless mouth came voicelesswords—

“I’ve—gone and forgot my speech! You say something,Jack. You say it!”

Sam Hod racked his brain for words to save the situation.All Paris waited. And then—in the silence—camea rich, strong, boyish voice:

“I’ll give a toast—to Forty-five!”

It was Captain Jack. Two hundred pairs of eyes werefixed upon him. He knew perfectly that two hundredpairs of eyes were fixed upon him.

This is the thing that he did:

Deliberately into his dirty coffee-cup he poured theblood-red liquid. As his grandfather would have done,with the same exaggerated flourish the boy took fromhis pocket a snow-white handkerchief. With that napkinhe wiped flawlessly the delicate receptacle which hadheld the liquor. Then he leaned over. From a glasspitcher he poured into that cleansed wine-glass its fillof pure cold sparkling water. In an instant he held italoft.

“Fellows!” he cried. “A toast! a toast not withwine—for wine with its blood-color belongs to the timeswhich are going—which we hope are passing forever—I’mdrinking a toast with crystal water—emblematic ofthe clean white civilization which is coming—for whichwe’re going ‘Over There’ to fight and die.

“Here’s to every man who ever did a noble thing;volunteering his strength to help protect the weak!Here’s to every lad who ever fought out the terriblequestion in his heart and put the Greater Good above hislife-hopes and ambitions. Here’s to every soul thatever laid in the dark, thinking of those at home, knowingthat in the charge of dawn he might become to thembut a bitter-sweet memory of days when every hour wasa golden moment and time but a thing to pass away.Here’s to the dead—the illustrious dead—those whofell in battle, those of Forty-five, the men of Sixty-two,the men of every age and every land who fought thegood fight nobly, to the best that was in them—for thethings they believed to be right—and have gone to takefiner and better orders under a Greater General, theCommander of Commanders, the Prince of—Peace!”

He paused. He drew a long breath. He looked downthe table. And he continued: “But along with our toastfor the soldiers of the dead, boys—while the opportunityis ours—why not give also a toast—another kind oftoast—to the soldiers of the living? Not ourselves, boys—butthe ones—we’re leaving behind. It is littleenough we can do for them!”

His gaze wandered up to his glass. In a strange, inspiredvoice, he cried softly:

“A toast!—a toast, also, to the truest and best soldiersof all—the mothers, the wives, and the girls we areleaving behind!

“Here’s to the toil-hardened hands who cared for uswhen as helpless little kids, we were unable to care forourselves. Here’s to the tears they have shed over ourlittle torn clothes; the pillows that have been wet in themidnight with anxiety, longing, and heartache that wemight be spared to do our duty as men. Here’s to theanguish they have suffered, the prayers they have prayed,the sacrifices they have made, the toil they have borne—allto be laid on the altar of war, all to be wiped out in amoment, perhaps, by a splinter of shrapnel or the thrustof a bayonet. Here’s to the nobility of their anguishwhen they come to learn we are no more; and the beautyof their faces when the divinity in their hearts tells thestory upon their care-lined foreheads that they wouldclimb the same weary Golgotha again—go through thesame Gethsemane—bear the same cross—though theyknew all along the end which it meant.

“Here’s to the wives we loved in the days beforeWar came upon us. Here’s to the promises they madeus—to be ours until death came between us. Here’s tothe suffering they have borne for our thoughtlessness;the hours when they have looked into the future andwondered if the love that we promised was worth theprice they were paying. Here’s to the hopes and thefears, the joys and the sorrows that have come to them—thatare coming to them now—that are coming tothem in the years on ahead with ever greater portion.Here’s to their courage and noble endeavor, given sopathetically to us chaps who sometimes—forget. Maywe die as faithfully in the cause to which we havepledged ourselves as they will live in the memory ofwhat-might-have-been in the lean years when there areforms sitting in fantasy beside them in the firelight andour voices are heard in the homes we made with them—nomore.

“And here’s to the girls we are leaving behind!Here’s to the kisses they have given us under the starsof many summers—the memory of their hands andtheir lips and their eyes! Here’s to the weight in theirsouls and the pain that will hallow the memories thatwill haunt them through the years. Here’s to the sighsand the shadows, the heart-hopes and the longing! Godgrant in His goodness their fidelity is rewarded!

“These are the things to which we drink—the menof yesterday—and the memory of their heroism whichhas been—and the women of to-day and whose heroismis to be. With the great incentive of these two in ourhearts, boys—let us drink and go away to fight likemen—to honor the first—to sanctify the second.”

He clinked his glass against that of speechless UncleJoe Fodder’s—and they drank—Uncle Joe drinkinghis wine with a hand which trembled so that the liquidstained his withered claw like a scarlet wound.

The hall was strangely silent.

Sam turned to his wife. “That boy never composedthat beautiful speech alone, Mary,” he said—“not impromptulike that!”

Down the hall an old lady whispered to her daughter:

“Alice! Alice!—His grandaddy made just such aspeech—almost word for word—the night John Farrington’scompany bade us women-folks good-by.”

As the hall was being cleared for the big farewelldance, Sam came to the boy.

“Laddie,” he demanded, “where did you learn thatspeech?”

“What speech?” asked the boy.

“You know what speech—the toast!”

“I don’t know, Mr. Hod. I just looked at the faces—andthe wine—and—and—Betty!—and it just cameout.”

“Is that the truth?”

“Sure, it’s the truth. What was it I said that was soawful wonderful?”

“Don’t you remember what you said?”

The boy laughed ashamedly. “—I couldn’t repeat itif it cost me my life,” he replied. “It—just—came—out!”

Late that night the old editor lay in his bed thinkingof many things.

“The things in life are far stranger than the things instory books,” he said. Then in the velvet dark he whispered:“Strange! Strange!”

Dashing Captain Jack Fuller, true to his blood and hisbirthright, went away on the following day at the headof his sturdy volunteers. They entrained at ten o’clockfor Fort Ethan Allen.

Truly the boy did not remember the words of thattoast which he gave that memorable evening. But onething he does remember. He remembers the words ofthe girl he had married as he took her in his arms inthose last few sweet moments following the final breakfastin the little home:

“It was the Nieson in me that didn’t want you to go,Jack,” she choked brokenly. “Up to last night I didn’twant you to go. But when you wouldn’t drink the wine—whenyou had the courage to do what you did in frontof all those people—I was ashamed of my selfishness.Jackie dear—I’m the proudest, happiest, miserablestwoman in all this town!”

He pressed her to him. He kissed her—an embracethat left her weak and limp.

“And you can count on me, Jack,” she said, “I’ll—do—my—duty—too!Even—if you should nevercome back; remember I said—I was sorry for the wayI’ve acted; I’ll—do—my—duty—too!”

“Good-by, Betty!” he choked.

“Good-by—my soldier!” she lisped—bravely—piteously.

But she sent him away—with a smile!

She’s working now at her old place in Amos Wheeler’sbox-shop. She closed down the little home on PleasantStreet partly because she could not keep up the expense,partly because she could not endure—the memories.She’s living out in her father’s old place at the far endof Cedar Street.

Poor little, dear little, brave little woman!

We know from his letters to our local paper, that JackFuller has reached France. The girl is alone, earningfive dollars a week in the box-factory to support herself.The lad is “Over There” in the Whirlpool and theNightmare—and where the fighting is thickest, therewe believe Jack Fuller will be found.

But somehow, we feel that Jack Fuller will not fall.We feel there is coming a great and a glorious day forour little town of Paris up here in these mountains. Infancy we can see a morning when a great crowd is goingto mill around and through the platforms and the railroadyards of our station. The hour is coming when atrain whistle will sound far down the Greene River valley.The minutes will pass. The whistle will soundnearer. Finally in the lower end of the yards we will seea great furl of seething smoke from an oncoming locomotive.Another and a third whistle will shriek as agreat high-breasted mogul comes bearing down upon us,seeming to cry out to us from the decreasing distance:“I’ve got them! I’ve got them! I’m bringing themback! Every mother’s son of them! They’re in thesecoaches I’m pulling behind me now!” And the trainwill come to a grinding stop, and amid cheer after cheerand the gyrations of the Paris band seeking to blow itselfinside out, down from that train will come the soldiersof Uncle Sam—the boys who never have been andnever can be whipped—great bronzed men with leanjaws, faces the hue of copper and muscles as hard asbillets of steel. Car after car will disgorge them—menwho met the Great Problem, offered themselves, ran therisk, fought the fight, gave their last full measure ofdevotion, and have come back home to women who cannottrust themselves to speak—only hold out their armsmutely.

And we feel certain that in that great day, after theNightmare is over and the world is a fairer, better world,that one of those great bronzed heroes will gather upin his war-hardened arms a slender little girl in theplainest of white shirt-waists and black skirts, with thepaste dried on the poor little workaday clothes and theworn shoes turning her step over cruelly. He willgather her up while the tears fall clumsily, for men donot know how to weep. And there will be no moreweariness in her homeward walk in that twilight. Afterall, not all the boys are going to die. Many are comingback, hundreds of thousands of them. There will beother toasts to Forty-five pledged by the living. It mustbe so, for God still rules in His heaven and will make allright with the world.

Yet just now—for Betty Fuller—the way is lonesomeand her pillow is wet with her tears in the midnight.But—

She sent her man away with a smile.

Poor little, dear little, brave little woman!

All over America her name is legion!

EXTRA MEN

The pretty, peaceful Jersey farm-land slopes gentlyup from the Delaware River to the little hill whichPrinceton crowns. It is uneventful country. The railwaydoes not cross it, nor any of the great motor trunkroads. On the river itself there is no town of considerablesize, though on the map you read the quaint name ofWashington Crossing for a little hamlet of a few houses.This will remind you of the great days when on thesesleepy fields great history was made. But the fields havelain quiet in the sun now for more than a century, andeven the legends of Revolutionary days are for the mostpart forgotten along these country roads.

As for modern legends, the very phrase seems proof oftheir impossibility. And in spite of her spacious and resoundingpast, New Jersey’s name now seems to meanincorporations and mosquitoes and sea-bathing and popcorn-crisprather than either legend or romance. Butwith the coming of the Great War strange things arestirring in the world, and in the farthest corners of theland the earth is shaken by the tramp of new armies. Inthe skies by day and night there is a sign. And the thingsone does not believe can happen may be happening, evenin New Jersey.

The small events on the Burridge Road which are hereset down cannot even be authenticated. There are peopledown by the river who say they saw a single horsemango through the village at dusk, but not one seems to knowwhich way he came. There is no ferry at WashingtonCrossing and the bridge at Lambertville had, since threethat afternoon, been closed for repairs. What facts areset down here—and indeed they are scarcely facts—wereacquired because a chauffeur missed the road and amotor then broke down. What story there is—and indeedthere is perhaps not much story—has been piecedtogether from fragments collected that afternoon andevening. And if the chronicle as now written is vague, itcan be urged that, though it all happened so recently aslast year, it is already as indeterminate and misty as alegend.

We may, however, begin with undisputed facts.When her grandson enlisted for the war old Mrs. Buchanbecame very genuinely dependent on the little farm thatsurrounded the lovely old Colonial house on the BurridgeRoad. (Meadows, and horses, and hay and the qualityand price of it, have much to do with our story—as, indeed,befits a rural chronicle.) The farm had been largeronce, and the hospitality which the old house could dispensemore lavish. Indeed, the chief anecdote in its historyhad been the stopping there once of Washington,to dine and rest on his way to join the army in NewYork. Old Mrs. Buchan, who, for all her gentleness, wasincurably proud, laid special stress on the fact that onthat night the great man had not been at an inn—whichwas in the twentieth century to cheapen his memory by asign-board appeal to automobile parties—but at a gentleman’shouse. A gentleman’s house it still was; somehowthe Buchans had always managed to live like gentlemen.But if George, the gay, agreeable last one of them, couldalso live that way, it was because his grandmother practisedrigid heart-breaking economy. The stories of hershifts and expedients were almost fables of the countryside.When George came home—he had a small positionin a New York broker’s office—there was gaietyand plenty. He might well have been deceived intothinking that the little he sent home from New York wasample for her needs. But when he went back his grandmotherlived on nothing, or less than that. She dressedfor dinner, so they said, in black silk and old lace, hadthe table laid with Lowestoft china and the Buchan silver,and ate a dish of corn-meal mush, or something cheaperif that could be found!

George Buchan’s enlistment—it was in the aviationservice—had been early. And very early he was orderedto France to finish his training there. Two days beforehe expected his ship to sail the boy got a few hours’ furloughand came to the Burridge Road to say good-by tohis grandmother.

What was said we must imagine. He was all the oldlady had left in the world. But no one ever doubted thatshe had kissed him and told him to go, and to hold hishead high as suited an American and a Buchan. Georgiewould perhaps have had no very famous career in WallStreet, but no one doubted that he would make a goodsoldier. There had always been a Buchan in the armiesof the Republic, his grandmother must have remindedhim. And very likely Georgie, kissing her, had remindedher that there had always been a Buchan woman at hometo wish the men God speed as they marched away, andtold her too to hold her old head high.

There must have been some talk about the money thatthere wouldn’t be now; without his little weekly checkshe was indeed almost penniless. It is quite likely thatthey spoke of selling the house and decided against it.Part of the boy’s pay was of course to come to his grandmother,but, as she explained, there were so many warcharities needing that, and then the wool for her knitting— Shemust manage mostly with the farm. Therewas always the vegetable-garden, and a few chickens,and the green meadow, which might be expected to yielda record crop of hay.

We may imagine that the two—old lady and boy—steppedout for a moment into the moonlit night to lookat the poor little domain of Buchan that was left. Underthe little breeze that drifted up from the Delaware thegrass bent in long waves like those of the summer seasthat Georgie was to cross to France. As the Buchanslooked at it they might have felt some wonder at thecentury-old fertility of the soil. Back in the days of theRevolution Washington’s horse had pastured there onenight. Then, and in 1812, and during the great battleof the States, the grass had grown green and the haybeen fragrant, and the fat Jersey earth had out of itsdepths brought forth something to help the nation at war.Such a field as that by the old white house can scarcelybe thought of as a wild, primeval thing; it has lived toolong under the hand of man. This was a Buchan field,George’s meadow, and by moonlight it seemed to wavegood-by to him.

“You aren’t dependent on me now, dear,” he mayhave said, with his arm around his grandmother. “Ijust leave you to our little garden patch and our chickensand the green meadow.”

“You mustn’t worry, dear. They’ll take care of me,”she must have answered.

So George went away; and the night after, the nightbefore he sailed, the horseman and his company came.

It was at dusk, and a gossamer silvery mist had driftedup from the Delaware. He had hitched his horse by thegate. He was in riding-breeches and gaiters and arather old-fashioned riding-coat. And in the band of hishat he had stuck a small American flag which lookedoddly enough almost like a cockade. He knocked at thedoor, quite ignoring the new electric bell which Georgehad installed one idle Sunday morning when his grandmotherhad felt he should have been at church. Asit happened, old Mrs. Buchan had been standing bythe window, watching the mist creep up and the twilightcome, thinking of Georgie so soon to be upon thewater. As the horseman knocked she, quite suddenlyand quite contrary to her usual custom, went herself tothe door.

His hat was immediately off, swept through a noblercircle than the modern bow demands, and he spoke withthe elaboration of courtesy which suited his age; for,though his stride was vigorous, he was no longer young.It was a severe, careworn face of a stern, almost hard,nobility of expression. Yet the smile when it came wasengaging, and old Mrs. Buchan, as she smiled in return,found herself saying to herself that no Southerner, howeverstern, could fail to have this graceful lighter side.For his question had been put in the softer accents ofVirginia and of the states farther south.

“I’ve lost my way,” he began, with the very slightest,small, gay laugh. But he was instantly serious. “It isso many, many years since I was here.”

Mrs. Buchan pointed up the road.

“That is the way to Princeton.”

“Princeton, of course. That’s where we fought theBritish and beat them. It seems strange, does it not, thatwe now fight with them?”

“We must forget the Revolution now, must we not?”This from Mrs. Buchan.

“Forget the Revolution!” he flashed back at her, almostangrily. Then more gently: “Perhaps. If we rememberliberty!” He glanced an instant up the road toPrinceton hill and then went on. “They fought wellthen, madam. As a soldier I am glad to have such goodallies. But I was forgetting. Yonder lies Princeton, andfrom there there is the post-road to New York, is therenot? I must be in New York by morning.”

Mrs. Buchan was old-fashioned, but she found herselfmurmuring amazedly something about railroads andmotor-cars. But he did not seem to hear her.

“Yes,” he continued, “I must be in New York bymorning. The first transport with our troops sails forFrance.”

“I know,” she said, proudly. “My grandson, GeorgeBuchan, sails for France.”

“George Buchan? There was a George Buchanfought at Princeton, I remember.”

“There was. And another George Buchan in the Warof Eighteen-twelve. And a John in the Mexican War.And a William in eighteen sixty-three. There was noone in the Spanish War—my son was dead and mygrandson was too young. But now he is ready.”

“Every American is ready,” her visitor answered. “Iam ready.”

“You?” she broke out. And for the first time sheseemed to see that his hair was white. “Are yougoing?”

“Every one who has ever fought for America is going.There is a company of them behind me. Listen.”

Down the road there was faintly to be heard the clatterof hoofs.

“Some joined me in Virginia, some as we crossed thePotomac by Arlington, where there is a house whichonce belonged to a relative of mine. And there wereothers, old friends, who met me as we came throughValley Forge in Pennsylvania. You would not now knowValley Forge,” he finished, half to himself.

The river mist had crept farther up and was a littlethicker now. The moon had risen and the mist shimmeredand shone almost as if by its own light. The worldwas indeed of the very substance of a dream. The hoofbeatson the road grew nearer, and at last, while old Mrs.Buchan stood in a kind of amazed silence, they came intosight, even then mere shadowy, dim, wavering figures behindthe gossamer silver veil which had drifted therefrom the lovely Delaware. The horses looked lean andweary, though perhaps this was a trick of the moonlight.Yet they dropped their heads and began eagerly to cropthe short, dusty grass by the roadside. The moonlightseemed to play tricks with their riders, too. For in thefog some of them seemed to have almost grotesquely old-fashionedclothes, though all had a sort of military cutto them. Some few, indeed, were trim and modern. Butthe greater part were, or seemed to Mrs. Buchan to be, inshabby blue or worn gray. The chance combination ofthe colors struck her. She was an old woman and shecould remember unhappy far-off days when blue andgray had stood for the fight of brother against brother.Into her eyes the tears came, yet she suddenly smiledthrough them—a pair of quite young men loungedtoward the fence, and then stood at ease there, the blue-cladarm of one affectionately and boyishly thrownaround the other’s gray shoulder.

“These go with you?” asked old Mrs. Buchan, stillheld by her memories.

“Yes. They are of all kinds and all ages, and someof them were not always friends. But you see—” Hesmiled and pointed to the lads by the fence. “One ofthem is from Virginia and the other from Ohio. Virginiaand Ohio fought once. But I only say that I can rememberthat Ohio was part of Virginia once long ago.And is not Virginia part of Ohio and Ohio part of Virginiaagain now? I should be pushing on, however, nottalking. It is the horses that are tired, not the men.”

“And hungry?” suggested Mrs. Buchan.

“The horses, yes, poor beasts!” he answered. “Forthe men it does not matter. Yet we must reach NewYork by morning. And it is a matter of some five-and-fiftymiles.”

“Rest a half-hour and let the horses graze. You canmake it by sunrise.”

Mrs. Buchan went a little way down the path. It waslined with pink and white clove-pinks and their fragrancewas sweet in the night.

“Open the gate there to the left, men,” she called out,and her voice rang, to her, unexpectedly strong and clear.“Let the horses graze in my green meadow if they will.”

They gave an answering cheer from out the mist. Shesaw the meadow gate swing open and the lean horses passthrough, a long, long file of them.

“But they will spoil your hay crop,” objected thehorseman. “And it should be worth a fair sum to you.”

Mrs. Buchan drew herself up. “It is of no consequence,”she answered.

He bowed again.

“But I don’t understand,” she almost pleaded, staringagain at his white hair and the little flag in his hatbandthat looked so oddly like a cockade. “You say you sailto-morrow with my boy?”

“I think you understand as well as any one.”

“Do I?” she whispered. And the night suddenlyseemed cold and she drew her little shawl of Shetlandwool more tightly about her shoulders. Yet she was notafraid.

Her guest stooped and, rising, put one of her sweet-smellingclove-pinks in his button-hole.

“If you permit, I will carry it for your boy to France.We are extra men, supercargo,” he went on. “We shallcross with every boat-load of boys who sail for France—wewho fought once as they must fight now. Theysaid of me, only too flatteringly, that I was first in peace.Now I must be first in war again. I must be on the firsttroop-ship that goes. And I shall find friends in France.We have always had friends in France, I imagine, sincethose first days. Of course, madam, you are too youngto remember the Marquis de la Fayette.”

“Yes, I am too young,” answered old Mrs. Buchan.And she smiled through her tears at the thought of hereighty years.

“You’re a mere chit of a girl, of course,” he laughed—oneof the few times his gravity was relaxed. “ShallI know your boy, I wonder?” Then, without waiting forher answer, “The George Buchan who fought at thebattle of Princeton was about twenty-two, slim andstraight, with blue eyes and brown hair and an honest,gallant way with him, and a smile that one remembered.”

“You will know my boy,” she told him. “And Ithink he will know you, General.”

Even now she swears she does not quite know whatshe meant by this. The magic of the June night hadfor the moment made everything possible. Yet she willnot to this day say who she thinks the horseman mayhave been. Only that George would know him, as shehad.

“I want them all to know that I am there,” he had replied.“They will know. They will remember theircountry’s history even as we remember. And when theshells scream in the French sky they will not forget themany times America has fought for liberty. They willnot forget those early soldiers. And they will not forgetGrant and Lee and Lincoln. The American eagle,madam, has a very shrill note. I think it can be heardabove the whistle of German shrapnel.”

He drank a glass of sherry before he went, and ate aslice of sponge-cake. Perhaps altogether he delayed ascant quarter of an hour. The lean horses came streamingforth from the green meadow, a long, long file; andwhile the moon and the river mist still made it a worldof wonder, the company, larger somehow than she hadthought it at first, clattered off up the Princeton roadtoward New York and salt water and the ships.

The mist cleared for a moment and the great greenmeadow was seen, so trampled that it seemed that a thousandhorses must have trampled it. Al Fenton, dignifiedby Mrs. Buchan as “the farmer,” had now belatedlyroused and dressed himself. He stood by the old lady’sside and dejectedly surveyed the ruin of the hay crop.He is a sober, stupid, serious witness of what had happened.And this is important; for when the sun rose,and Mrs. Buchan opened her window, the breeze fromthe river rippled in long green waves over a great greenmeadow where the grass still pointed heavenward, untrampled,undisturbed. The Buchan meadow could still,as George had believed it would, take care of his grandmother.

This is the story, to be believed, or not, as you like.They do as they like about it in Jersey. But old Mrs.Buchan believes that with each American troop-ship therewill sail supercargo, extra men. And she believes thatwith these extra men we cannot lose the fight. George,too, writes home to her that we shall win.

SOLITAIRE

We were sitting—three Frenchmen, a young Americannamed Homan, and I—in the café of one ofthose small Paris hotels much frequented, even then, byofficers on leave. It was the winter of 1912, when theBalkans were playing out their colorful little curtain-raiserto the great drama which followed—playing it,as they say in the theater, “in one,” using only the verysmallest part of the stage, and failing even in their mostclimactic moments to completely conceal the ominoussounds from behind the curtain where the stage was beingset for the real business of the play.

At the tables a sprinkling of English and Americansof the usual transient type mingled with French from theprovinces, and here and there a swarthy Balkan in uniformaccented the room.

It was the presence of those other Americans—twoor three, I should say, besides Homan and myself, thoughI hadn’t noticed particularly—that gave the special significanceto Homan’s exclamation when he discoveredCorey.

I saw him pause with his glass half raised—he wasgazing straight past me over my shoulder—and a smile,meant for me, came into his eyes.

“Look!” he said, “at the American!”

I turned, because his manner indicated clearly enoughthat I might, squarely round in my chair, and immediatelyit was clear to me why he had said just that. Anyone would have said it—any other American, I mean—whichmakes it more striking—and said it involuntarily,too. You couldn’t have helped it. And yet you wouldencounter a dozen perfectly unmistakable Americansevery day in Paris without feeling the necessity for anyremark. It was simply that Corey was so typically thekind of American you wouldn’t encounter in Paris, orany other place, you felt, outside his own country. Thecurious thing about him was that instantly on seeing him,almost before you thought of America, you thought ofa particular and localized section of America. Youthought of the Middle West. There was somethingwholesome and provincial and colloquial about him. Hewas like a boy you’d gone to grammar school with—thekind of fellow to succeed to his father’s business andmarry and settle down in his home town, with New YorkCity his farthest dream of venture and romance.

Yet there he sat across the table from a dark-visagedBalkan officer who was carrying on the conversation incareful English—it would have been unimaginable thathe should speak in anything but English to him—and itmay have been the brilliance of this man’s uniform whichkept one, just at first, from seeing that he, too, our American,was wearing some sort of uniform, khaki color, veryworkman-like and shipshape, which might, if there hadbeen the least chance of throwing us off, have thrown us.But his round, good-natured, uncomplicated face, hislight brown hair and the way it was brushed—the veryway it grew, like a school-boy’s—the comfortable set ofhis broad shoulders, his kind of energetic inclination tostoutness, and even the way he sat at the table, were pureAmerican Middle West and nothing else, no matter whathis uniform proclaimed. He was as American as theflag, as the opening bars of “The Star-Spangled Banner,”as American as Kansas, Missouri, and Iowa.

And when, at young Homan’s exclamation, I hadturned and found him looking straight toward me, thetwinkle of his eyes had the effect of a friendly wave ofhis hand. He had, of course, as he said afterward,“spotted us,” too. Then he had seen—and it amusedhim—the little play of our discovery.

I was just turning back to applaud to Homan theobviousness of his designation, and to wonder, with him,what the uniform meant, when my eye was caught by athin, brilliantly colored line drawn, it seemed, just abovethe left breast pocket of his coat, and about the samelength.

My first impression of the man, of the familiarity ofhis type, had, I suppose, been so strong as to dull for amoment my reaction to this discovery. I had seen thatvari-colored line often enough before, on the uniforms ofBritish officers or French; I had perhaps seen it on anAmerican, but certainly I had never seen it on an Americanlike this. No wonder the connection was slow toestablish itself. It was a decoration bar, and there musthave been six ribbons at least, if not more.

For sheer incongruous association, I doubt if you’dfind a more pat example in a lifetime than the man I had,on sight, conceived this one to be—the man I may aswell say now he actually was—and that bar of ribbonspinned on his khaki-colored coat.

Young Homan had caught it, too, and was sendingpast me his deliberate stare of amazement.

It was not exactly as if we thought he hadn’t come bythem honestly, but more as if we suggested to each otherthat he couldn’t surely have got them in the way decorationswere usually got; it seemed somehow impossiblethat he understood their importance. And there was stillsomething of that in our attitude when, later on, afterdinner, we had drifted into the salon with the rest forour coffee, and by a kind of natural gravitation had foundourselves in conversation with our compatriot, whosejocose friendliness led young Homan to ask, half in funto be sure, where he had got all the decorations. Heshowed certainly no very proper appreciation of theirimportance by his answer:

“Bought ’em, at the Galleries Lafayette. Get any kindyou want there, y’ know.”

We laughed, all of us, for everybody had seen the casesof medals and decorations at the Galleries. I believe foran instant the youngster was half inclined to think he hadbought them. I know I was. As some kind of outlandishpractical joke, of course. It seemed, absurd as theidea was, so much likelier than that he could have beenthrough the kind of experiences which result in beingdecorated by foreign governments. And such an imposingarray! The scarlet ribbon of the Legion ofHonor, the green of the Japanese “Rising Sun,” the brilliantstripes of Russian and English decorations, andstrange ones I had never seen before!

You see, he had turned out much more Middle Westthan we had imagined. In the first ten minutes of ourconversation he had spoken of “home,” and mentionedthe name of the town—Dubuque, Iowa! And a fewminutes later he gave us, by the merest chance phrase ortwo, involving the fact that his married sister lived “ablock and a half down the street” from his mother’shouse, a perfectly complete picture of that street—broadand shady and quiet, of his mother’s yellow frame house,and the other, white with a green lawn round it, wherehis sister lived. And the point was that he was makingno effort toward such an effect. He was only beinghimself.

His dinner companion, the Balkan officer, came in presentlyand addressed Corey as “Doctor” (I adjusted myselfto that, still with the Dubuque setting, however), andit was in the conversation following upon the new introductionthat the object of his being in Paris came out.He told us, quite by the way, though not in the least depreciatingthe importance of his mission—that he was inParis for a few days looking up anesthetics for the Serbianarmy. He had been working, he said, down in theBalkans since shortly after the outbreak of the war, incharge of a sanitary section. They’d been out of anestheticsfor some time now—impossible to get them in—andthey’d been operating, amputating the poor devils’legs and arms, without anesthetics; and now at last he’dleft things long enough to come up to Paris himself andsee what could be done. He was starting back the nextday or the day after that.

Corey, from Dubuque! In a makeshift Serbian fieldhospital, in that terrible cold, performing delicate anddifficult operations—wholesale, as they must have beenperformed—on wounded Balkan soldiers; probing forbullets in raw wounds—that was a picture to set upbeside the one we had of him in Dubuque!

And yet—it wasn’t at all a question of doubt (we’dread it all in the papers day after day); it wasn’t that wedidn’t believe Corey was telling the truth; his evidencewas too obvious for that—the picture didn’t somehowsucceed in painting itself—I can’t to this day say why.Surely the Balkans just then—operations without anesthetics,the pageantry and blood-red color of war—surelythere was pigment of more brilliant hue than any containedin the mere statement that his married sister liveda block and a half down the street from his mother’s.But the picture wasn’t painted. Corey wasn’t the artistto do it. Not, mind you, that he tried; he was as farfrom trying to impress one, from affectation, as a boy offourteen.

I do remember my imagination taking me far enoughto think that if I were a soldier, and wounded, and had tohave a leg or an arm off, I couldn’t think of a man I’drather have do it than Corey. Oh yes, I believed him; Iknew he’d been down there in the Balkans, as he said,and was going back again to-morrow—but I went righton seeing him in Dubuque, practising his quiet, prosperousprofession in the same suite of offices his father hadused before him.

He himself lent, by the things he said, force and realityto the illusion. He’d like nothing better, he declared,than settling down in Dubuque for the rest of his life,and enjoying a home of his own. He intended, in fact,to do just that when he had finished the Balkan business.“I’m that type,” he said. “I never was meant to knockaround the world like this.”

And he was that type, so much the type that it seemedhardly credible he shouldn’t turn out the exception toprove the rule. He had already, one would think, madea sufficient divergence.

And that, I suppose—the feeling that no personalitycould follow so undeviating a line, so obviously its ownpath—was responsible for my impression, when I camelater to hear how completely he had followed it, of hisbeing because of it much more unique than he could everhave made himself by turning aside. True enough, thereare people who, if they heard the tale, might maintainthat he could hardly have accomplished a more strikingdivergence from type. I’ll have to confess I thought somyself—at the first; certainly I thought so all the whileI listened, long afterward, to the quiet, though somewhatnasal, and thoroughly puzzled voice of the gentle old manfrom Dubuque, who seemed, as he recounted the story,to be seeking in me some solution of Corey’s phenomenon.

I thought it even afterward, until, sitting there wherehe had left me, I began slowly to orient the facts in relationto Corey’s character. And then, all at once, it cameto me that it was exactly because Corey hadn’t divergedthat he did what he did. He went straight through everythingto his predestined end. Any other man would havehad stages, subtleties, degrees of divergence. But Coreyknew none of those things.

It was from old Mr. Ewing of Dubuque that I had myfirst news of Corey after that night in the Paris hotel.

He must have gone back to his army in the Balkans thenext day, for we were to have seen him that night againin case he had to stay over, and when I asked I was toldthat Monsieur had gone.

Things kept reminding me of him. The names ofstreets and places in Paris recalled his flat Americanmispronunciation of them—mispronunciations whichsounded half as if he were in fun and half as if he didn’tknow any better, or hadn’t paid enough attention to learnthem correctly. I believe he saw, or was subconsciouslyaware of, his own incongruity. Still, one would thinkhe’d have become, so to speak, accustomed to himself inthe strange rôle by then.

I think I must have spoken of him rather often topeople, so long as I remained in Paris; and it was, if notexactly curious, at least a little less than one would expect,that I never came in contact with any one else whoknew him, until that day, a little while ago, when I met,in the smoking-car of a west-bound train out of Chicago,the man who told me all there was, or ever will be, forany man to tell about Corey.

He may have been sitting there near me all the time;I don’t know. But then he was not the kind of man onenotices in a smoking-car, or any other place, for that matter.Certainly you would never suspect that so gray anduninteresting an envelope could inclose the manuscriptof a story like Corey’s. You had seen hundreds like himbefore, and you knew what they contained—stereotypedcircular letters full of dull, indisputable facts, nothingyou wanted or cared to know. And it was precisely becauseI wished later on one of those very dull facts thatI came to speak to my man.

The train coming to a sudden stop brought me out ofmy oblivion, and, looking idly out of the window to seewhat place it might be, I was seized by one of those fitsof petty annoyance incident to such interruptions, for thetrain had run so far past the platform that I found it impossibleto see the name of the station. I got myselfout of my comfortable position, and tried, by turningcompletely about, to see back to the station. But we hadgone too far. And then—I haven’t an idea why, for itwas of absolutely no importance to me—I looked aboutfor some one to ask. And nearest me, sitting rather uncomfortablyupright in his big leather chair, the littlerack at his elbow guiltless of any glass, and holding listlesslyin his hand the latest popular magazine, sat a gray-haired,gray-suited old gentleman, looking lonesomelyout of his window.

“I beg pardon,” I said. “Can you tell me what placethis is?”

He turned gratefully at the sound of my voice. “It’s ——,”he told me. I’ve never been able to recall whatname he said, because, I suppose, of what came after.

It was certainly not surprising that he should think,from my manner, that I had some interest in the place,and he went on, after a moment’s hesitating silence, tosay, in his unobtrusive but unmistakable Middle-Westvoice, that the town was a milling center—flour andmeal, and that kind of thing.

I saw that I had committed myself to something morein the way of conversation than my laconic word ofthanks for his information and a lapse into silence. Iwondered what I could say. He was such a nice, kindlyold gentleman, and he would never in the world have addressedany one first. I hit upon the most obvious sequence,and asked if, then, he was familiar with that partof the country. He said, oh yes, he was “a native ofIowa.”

“Indeed?” I said, for lack of anything else to say, andhis statement not having been a particularly provocativeone.

“Yes,” he said. “My home is Dubuque.”

Dubuque! Dubuque! What was it I knew aboutDubuque? The name struck me instantly with a senseof importance, as if it had rung the bell of a targetconcealed out of sight. I sought about in my mind fora full minute before I recalled, with a kind of start—Corey.

So many things had come in between—bigger thingsthan any one man—and overlaid all the pictures thathad gone before. Overlaid them with pigment so crude,so roughly applied, that one neither saw nor rememberedanything else. All the nations of Europe loosed in theGreat War, and America straining hard at her wornleash of neutrality. Small wonder that Corey, of Dubuque,along with countless other memories of that paletime, had faded into a dim, far perspective.

And yet, the sound of that name had brought him—asclearly as I had seen him that night in Paris—before me.I heard his voice, felt the vigor of his personality, sawhim throw back his head and laugh. And here, in thechair next my own, and ready to talk, sat a man who, byevery rule of probability and chance, would be able to tellme about him.

“I know a townsman of yours,” I said, and he evincedat once a kind of mild and flattered surprise.

“From Dubuque?” he said. “Well, well! What’shis name?”

“Corey,” I said. “Doctor Corey.”

It had upon him a most unexpected effect; very much,it seemed, the same effect his announcement had had uponme the moment before. He leaned forward no more thanan inch, but his mild gray eyes kindled with a kind ofexcited intensity.

“You knew Jim Corey! Not here—not in Dubuque?”

“I met him in Paris,” I said, “quite a long while ago.”

“In Paris! Well, well—think of that!”

He shook his head, and regarded me suddenly with astronger and new kind of interest. I was, apparently, thefirst person he had ever encountered who had reallyknown Corey abroad, and I could see that the fact hadestablished me immediately in his mind as an intimatefriend of Corey’s. I suppose I should have told him thatI had only seen Corey once; that I couldn’t, as a matterof fact, claim more than a passing acquaintance. But ifI had, I should never have heard what I heard. And,anyway, it wouldn’t have been, in the sense in which suchthings count, exactly true—for it had never been, forme at least, a one night’s acquaintance. I had seemed toknow Corey better in that one night than one knows mostmen in a month of companionship. Yes, it was somethingmore than the curiosity of a passing acquaintancethat caused me to let the old fellow keep his impression.

“It’s queer,” he said, suddenly, throwing up his head,and pressing open the pages of his popular magazine asif he were about to begin to read, “he was a kind of relativeof mine. His father and I—third cousins on ourmothers’ side.” He broke off and regarded me again silently,and I believe now that he was trying to persuadehimself not to go on, not to say anything more. But thetemptation, the maximum, I might say, of temptation,combined with the minimum of danger that he shouldever see me again, overcame his natural shyness and discretion.He seemed to decide, upon my ejaculation, togo on.

“His house is just ’round the corner from mine. Hiswife lives there now.”

“His wife!” The surprise was plain enough in myvoice. And this seemed, just for a second, to surprisehim, too.

“You knew,” he said, “that he had married?”

I explained that I hadn’t seen Corey for several years,and added that I had, however, understood that he wasthinking of settling down. It put, I could see, a differentface upon what he had to tell, for he seemed to adjusthimself, as if he must now go back to something he hadthought already understood between us.

“You didn’t know, then,” he said, “that he wasdead?”

Dead! Corey dead! So that was what he had to tell.There sprang up in my mind a vague, indefinite vision ofsomething heroic in connection with the Great War.When, I asked, and where did he die?

“A little over three months ago, in Europe. I was hisexecutor.”

There was something in the way he made his last statementwhich lent it a kind of special importance. And itproved, indeed, in the end, the fact of supreme importance.And here, as if it were due me, he told me hisname—Ewing; and I told him mine.

“Yes,” he said. “I made a trip to New York to see aman who’d been with him before he died. He broughta message from Corey. Queer,” he said, “that message.He must have been—a little off, you know, at the last.”

It was clear that something had occurred on his tripto New York which had puzzled him then, and continued,in spite of his explanation, to puzzle him still. It wasevident in the way he went back, presently, to the beginning,as if he were stating a problem or building up acase.

He began by saying that he supposed nobody in Dubuqueever had understood Corey—“and yet”—hefaced me—“you wouldn’t say he was hard to understand?”

I said that he had seemed to me to have an extremelystraightforward and simple personality; that that, to me,had been one of his charms.

“Exactly!” he said, “exactly! That’s what we alwaysthought in Dubuque—and I’ve known Jim Coreysince the day he was born. Why, he’d go away on oneof his trips, and stay a year, sometimes two, and the dayafter he’d get back you’d think he’d never been out ofDubuque, except he was so glad to be home.”

And, talking with a growing and homely fluency, thenasal quality of his rather pleasant voice increasingaccording to the sharpness of his interest, he proceeded tosketch in, with the fine brush of his provincialism, all thedetails of that picture I had had so clearly of Corey thatnight in Paris, more than four years before.

It was astonishing how right my picture had been; howthey, who had known him always, had been no better ablethan I to visualize Corey outside Dubuque.

And it seemed to have been the merest chance whichhad led him, the year of his graduation from medicalschool, to take his first trip away from his native State.He had “put himself” through college, and had comeout with all the school had to give, wanting more. It wasdoubtful if Corey had ever read a novel through in hislife, but the college library yielded up treasures in scientificand medical books whose plots he remembered aseasily as boarding-school girls remember the plots ofLaura Jean Libbey.

In the end he had happened to be engrossed in someexperiments or other with herbs, and it was that whichled him to decide upon going to China. He was goingto study Chinese herbs. And he had gone, straight, withoutany stops en route, as he did everything. But whenhe had been in Pekin two weeks the Boxer Rebellionbroke out, and there he was in the thick of it; and a god-sendhe was, too, in the foreign legations, fighting andcaring for wounded by turns, day and night, youth andstrength and his fresh fine skill counting for ten in thatbeleaguered handful of desperate men.

It was for that he had got his first decoration—Japan’sOrder of the Rising Sun, and a little later hadcome from France, for the same service, and quite to thesurprise of Corey, the scarlet ribbon of the Legion ofHonor.

There had been, of course, the appropriate furore—picturesand full-page interviews in the San Franciscopapers on his way home, and Dubuque expecting to seehim come back transformed, a hero, conscious of honorswon. But he had arrived, to their amazement, merelyhimself, and they had accepted him, after a day or two,at his own valuation.

That was the first, and it seemed after that, althoughhe was always off to one of the far corners of the earth,they were never able to look upon him when he camehome as a distinguished traveler returned. He wassimply, as he seemed to wish to be, “Jim,” or sometimes“Doc” Corey come home again. And yet they knewabout the things he had done. They knew where he hadbeen. And they knew, too, about his decorations. Theyhad seen them on one or two occasions, when he had beenthe guest of the evening at the “Business Men’s Banquet,”and he had “dressed up,” the old gentleman said,in a full-dress suit and all his decorations. “Two rows,all kinds, by then.” One could imagine him doing that,in a spirit of comic masquerade. And one could imaginehim also doing it merely to please them.

His wife, after he was married, used to get out hisdecorations and show them to her women friends, and atthis Corey only laughed good-humoredly. But she nevershowed them to men; she seemed to sense how that wouldembarrass him.

I asked when he had married her, and who she was.

She had been visiting friends, he said, in Dubuque,when Corey came back, he believed, from the BalkanWar, in the spring of 1913. Pretty quick work theymade of it, too. In August that same summer they hadthe wedding at her house in Des Moines. But it had surprisednobody. They knew he’d been wanting to settledown; and she was just the right kind of girl—nice andwholesome, and fond of her home. At last, he said, hewas going to begin to live.

He had dropped at once into his place, exactly as if hehad never been away at all—as if, after his graduation,he had come home to practise his profession. There wasnothing even about his house to indicate the traveler; noobtrusive trophies of strange lands; no bizarre knick-knacks.In a room in the attic were a half-full dunnage-bag,a traveler’s kit, and an officer’s trunk, small size, thelid pressed down but warped a little so that it would notlock. And in the corner three pairs of heavy, discardedboots, gathering dust. That was all.

And he was happy; naturally, sanely, unaffectedlyhappy. There was no room for doubt about that. “Honesty,”Mr. Ewing called it. He used that word over andover again in relation to Corey’s psychology at that time.“And there wasn’t,” he said, “a hypocritical bone in JimCorey’s body.” One could see what he meant, and see,too, that it had, in his mind, some obscure bearing onwhat came after.

He waited a little here before he went on, as if he weregoing over to himself incidents too trivial to relate, butwhich would not separate themselves from his memoryof Corey in those days.

“Well,” he began, abruptly, rousing himself from hissecret contemplation, “there was that winter, nineteen-thirteen,and the next summer, nineteen-fourteen; andthen the European war began.”

“And he went!” I supplemented, involuntarily, sincefrom the trend of the narrative I had, of course, seen thatcoming.

“No,” said Mr. Ewing in a surprisingly quiet tone ofcontradiction. “No, he didn’t. I was like you. Ithought he’d go.”

“You thought he would!” I exclaimed, for it seemedto me he had just been trying to make me see how unshakablyhe had believed Corey to be fixed in Dubuque.

“Certainly,” he said. “You’d think it would be onlynatural he’d want to go. Wouldn’t you?” he asked, asif he had detected in my expression some disposition notto agree.

“I would,” I said, still wondering at the ease withwhich he had brushed aside what I had foreseen was tobe his climax. For my imagination had long since outrunhis story to the end of the usual domestic tragedy,wherein Corey had, at the first call of adventure, forsakenwithout a word his home and his wife, to find(had not Mr. Ewing told me in the very beginning of hisdeath, three months before, some place in Europe?) hisabrupt and unexpected dénouement.

There had been, then, something else. “But he did,”I put forth, “finally go? You said, I think, that he diedover there?”

“Oh yes—finally. But that, you see, wasn’t whatcounted. It wasn’t the same. It was the way he went.”

“The way?” I repeated.

“Yes. He didn’t go the way, I mean, that I thoughthe’d go. The way you thought, too.”

I said I didn’t understand; that I couldn’t see whatdifference it made how he went, so long as he did go inthe end.

“It made all the difference,” said Mr. Ewing. “Yousee, he didn’t rush off, at the first news of the fighting,the way you’d think a man would. Why, we used toread the papers and talk over the war news together, andevery day I’d expect to hear him say something aboutgoing. He knew all the places, and the way everythingwas over there, but he never seemed to care to be therehimself. He used to come round to my house just beforesupper-time in the evenings and we’d sit on the porch andtalk, or maybe I’d go round to his porch. I asked himone day if he didn’t want to go, and all he said was,‘Why should I?’ And I said I didn’t know, it seemedto me that he would. And he said he was comfortablefor the first time in his life; he never had liked bumpingaround in all sorts of places; hated it as a matter of fact.I asked him why, if that was the case, he’d kept it upfor so long, all those years; and he laughed, and said hedidn’t know; he never had been able to figure that out.”

Mr. Ewing fell silent here, tapping his right foot onthe carpet a little impatiently and looking speculatively,yet without seeing, at me. I had the impression that hefelt he had utterly failed, up to now, in making somesubtle point in his story clear, and was considering howbest he might make me see. I was sure of it when, aftera longish pause, he continued, for he seemed to havedecided upon the abandonment of subtleties altogether,and to give me, for my own interpretation, the facts asthey occurred.

Things had gone on without any change all that winterand the next summer. In August Corey went to somesort of convention of medical men in Philadelphia. Hewas to have been gone something over two weeks. Atthe end of that time Mrs. Corey had received a letter sayingthat some experiments in which he was specially interestedhad developed rather unexpectedly, and Corey,together with several others, had been detailed to stay onand work them out to their conclusion. He couldn’t sayjust how many days it would take; he would let her know.

At the end of another two weeks Corey was still away.The first phase of the experiments had unhappily cometo grief, and they had had to begin from the first again.It was annoying, but since they had gone into it, there wasnothing else to be done. He would leave for home on themoment of the work’s completion. Meantime therewould be little opportunity for letter-writing. She wasnot to worry.

As the days went on Mrs. Corey began to regret nothaving gone along in the beginning, as he had wantedher to do. Mr. Ewing stopped in now and then to inquire.Her reticence made him wonder if she might notbe hearing. It was plain that she did worry, but, as Mr.Ewing said, she was not the talkative kind.

And then, one morning, just two months from the dayhe had left, Corey arrived unexpectedly by the ten-fiftytrain. Mr. Ewing, passing the house on his way homethat evening, had been surprised to see Corey, in his shirt-sleeves,trimming shrubs in the garden. And he hadstopped to welcome him back, and they had talked aboutthe war in quite the old way, so that from that eveningon it was exactly the same as it had been before Coreyhad gone to his convention in Philadelphia.

It appears that all this time a very natural intimacy wasgrowing up between these two, gentle old Mr. Ewing andCorey. And I can imagine that Corey, who became, as itwere, the instantaneous friend of every one, had made inhis life very few actual contacts, few, if any, real andintimate friendships. And perhaps that was why thisfriendship, based as it was on such small outward manifestationsas talking over the news in the daily paperstogether, had prospered. Then, too, there was the relationship,distant enough to be free of demands.

Corey had returned from the Philadelphia trip the lastweek in October. It was on a Sunday afternoon near themiddle of December that Mr. Ewing, sitting reading hisweekly illustrated paper, looked up to see through thewindow Corey coming quickly along the walk. Mr.Ewing was struck by something peculiar in his friend’sappearance, something hurried in the set of his hat andovercoat, yet as if he himself were entirely unconsciousof haste.

He turned in at the gate, and Mr. Ewing got up andopened the door. Corey came through it, Mr. Ewingsaid, as if escaping from something outside, somethingof which he was physically afraid. He almost pushedpast Mr. Ewing and into the room, and with scarcely aglance to make sure they were alone, he spoke, and hisvoice was strained like a note on a too taut violin string:

“She’s found it! This—where I’d had it hid!”

He held extended in his open hand, as if there were nolonger any reason for concealing it from any one, whatappeared to Mr. Ewing’s bewildered eyes to be a bit ofribbon, striped green and red, and a bit of bronze metalattached.

“What is it?” he asked, stupefied by the completenessof the change that had come upon the man before him.

“It’s the Croix!” Corey’s voice was impatient, “TheCroix de Guerre!”

Mr. Ewing stared at the bright-colored thing, trying tocomprehend. Corey still held it outstretched in his hand,and the bronze Maltese cross with its crossed swordsslipped through his fingers and hung down. Corey’svoice was going on. Mr. Ewing had missed something.

“... So now she knows,” was the end of what heheard—and in that instant his eye caught the words engravedon the cross, République Française, and the fullmeaning of its being there in Corey’s hand burst suddenlyupon him.

The new French decoration! The Croix de Guerre!

“You’ve been there?” he managed to say. “You’vebeen over there?”

“How else would I get it?” said Corey, with a kind ofabandon, as if he were confessing now to some fullnessof shame. “You see, she’s right. I couldn’t resist.”

Mr. Ewing was lost. “Resist what?”

“This!” Corey closed his fingers now on the Croix.“A new decoration!”

And then, as if every atom of his great, strong bodyhad suddenly succumbed to some long-growing exhaustion,Corey dropped down into a chair and threw out hisarm across the table as if he would put away from himas far as possible that offending decoration.

“But when?”—Mr. Ewing found himself reiterating—“when—when—youhaven’t been away—”

“Oh, yes,” said Corey. “You remember, in August.”

And here Mr. Ewing confessed that he thought for amoment that Corey must be hopelessly mad. There wasthe question of time, and a dozen other questions besides.It seemed out of the realm of possibility, out of the realmof reason.

“How did you keep her from knowing?”

Mr. Ewing had not wanted to ask—had hoped thepoint would explain itself—and Corey looked for amoment as if he might be planning an evasion—thenbraced himself and looked Mr. Ewing straight in theeyes. A faint expression of scorn came round his mouth,as if he spoke of another—a scoundrel who hardly deservedhis scorn.

“I left letters—dated ahead—with the scrubwomanat the laboratory to mail.” He said it, took his eyes fromMr. Ewing’s, and then he appeared to wait.

Mr. Ewing sat there filled with a kind of amazement,touched with fear for what should come next, and suddenlyhe became conscious that Corey was watching himwith what seemed a tremendous anxiety, waiting for himto speak. And a moment later, apparently no longer ableto bear that silence, Corey leaned nervously toward Mr.Ewing, and asked in the tone of one seeking an answerof utmost importance: “You don’t see it? You don’t seewhat she saw?”

“See what?” said Mr. Ewing—“what who saw?”Yet he knew that Corey had meant his wife. It was shewho had found the Croix ... but what did he meanshe had seen?

“Don’t keep it back—just to be decent! She said itwas plain, plain enough for anybody to see. What Iwant to know is if everybody knew it but me!”

“Knew what?” cried poor Mr. Ewing, lost more completelynow than before.

“Knew why I’ve done all the things I’ve done—runall the risks. Why I went over there this time, in August,without letting her know—God knows I didn’t knowwhy!—why I’ve always gone!”

“Why have you?” The question asked itself.

“Because I wanted the decorations! The damnedorders and medals and things! Because I couldn’t resistgetting a new one—wherever I saw a chance. Do youbelieve a man could be as—as rotten as that, all his life,and not know it himself?”

Slowly, then, Mr. Ewing began to see. And remotelyit began to dawn upon him—the thing “she” in heranger had done. For there was no doubt that the thingwas done. The man’s faith and belief in himself, in thecleanness and simplicity of his own motives, were gone—andgone in a single devastating blow from which hehad not, and could never, recover. And, searchingfor the right thing to say, Mr. Ewing stumbled, asone always will, upon the one thing he should never havesaid:

“But you know better than that. You know it’s notso.”

Corey’s answer was not argumentative; it only stated,wearily, the fact which from the first had seemed to possesshis mind:

“No, I don’t know it’s not so. I’ve never been able togive any reasons for doing the things myself. You’veasked me why.... I couldn’t tell.”

“Why, it was youth,” said Mr. Ewing, and one canimagine him saying it, gently, as an old-fashioned physicianmight offer his homely remedy to a patient whoseknowledge exceeded his own. “Men do those thingswhen they’re young.”

And Corey, rejecting the simple, old-fashioned cure,made an attempt at a smile for the kindness in which itwas offered. “All men are young, some time,” he said;“all men don’t do them.”

“But you happened to be the kind who would.” Andat this Corey made no attempt to smile.

“That’s it!” he said. “I wasn’t the kind. I was thekind to stay at home.... I know that. I was alwayshappier here in Dubuque. And now—this last— You’dhardly say that was on account of my youth!”

“No—but it had got into your blood.”

Corey at this gave a start and looked up suddenly atMr. Ewing. “Into my blood— It’s the very word sheused! When she admitted I might not have known itmyself, she said she supposed it was just ‘in myblood’!”

He made a gesture which began violently and ended infutility, and sat silent, looking off steadily into space, asif hearing again all those dreadful revelations of hers.And once or twice Mr. Ewing, who sat helplessly by,waiting, perhaps praying, for some inspiration, made avaliant but utterly vain effort to put out his hand, toshow by some mere physical act, if no other, his unshakenbelief in his friend.

And so, when the need for speech had become imperative,Mr. Ewing found himself saying something to theeffect that these things pass; that she had only beenangry, and had said the first thing that had come intoher mind. And Corey, realizing the extremity into whichhe had led his friend, rose and, either ignoring or nothearing, from the depth of the chasm into which he hadfallen, Mr. Ewing’s last remark, made some hurried attemptat apology, and awkwardly moved toward the door.

Mr. Ewing had only been able to follow after, and say,lamely, and in spite of himself, that he mustn’t say ordo anything he might be sorry for, and that they wouldsee each other again. And then he stood in the open doorand watched Corey go down the path to the gate, andalong the walk, until he had turned the corner, and soout of sight.

And then he had gone back into the house and spentthe remainder of that afternoon trying to realize whathad passed, trying to decide upon what he should say thenext time they met.

But he had reached no conclusion, and in the end haddecided to leave it to chance. And Chance had solved hisproblem with her usual original simplicity. She tookaway the need for his saying anything at all; for thefollowing day the station cab drove up to Corey’s frontgate and stopped. The driver got down from his seatand went up the walk and into the house. A momentlater he came out again, bearing on his shoulder thesmall-size officer’s trunk, the lid forced down now andlocked, and in one hand, dragging slightly, a full dunnage-bag.And after him followed Corey. And no onefollowed him. No one came out on the porch to saygood-by. No one stood at the window. The driver putthe trunk on the seat beside him, and the dunnage-baginto the seat beside Corey. And then, without a word ora sign, they drove away toward the station.

It was understood in Dubuque after the next few daysthat Corey had gone to help in the war; he had receivedan urgent message from France.

And Mr. Ewing received, the day after Corey’s departure,a little note of farewell, written in pencil, whilehe was waiting for his train, and mailed at the station.It said merely good-by, and that he hoped he wouldunderstand.

The next week Mrs. Corey closed up the house andwent to Des Moines, to stay with her people, she said,until her husband’s return.

And that was all Mr. Ewing had ever known of whatpassed between those two, of the details that led to thesudden and final decision to go. And it was all that hehad heard of Corey until that day, three months ago,when there came to him the unexpected letter from theman in New York, telling of Corey’s death, and of amessage and papers he had to deliver. Mr. Ewing hadreplied at once that he would go, and had followed hisletter almost immediately. He had seemed to feel, eversince that Sunday afternoon, when he had failed to beof use, an increasing sense of responsibility.

He had met the man at his club; and I had, as he toldof the meeting, as he described the man, a curious impressionof actually seeing them there, in the big FifthAvenue club, sitting in deeply luxurious chairs and notable between—the gentle, gray-haired, gray-eyed, gray-garbedMr. Ewing, who had never been in New YorkCity before; and the other, tall, very tall, with black hair,black eyes, and brown burned skin, who looked, Mr.Ewing said, as if he’d done all the things Corey haddone.

It had been quite by chance that this man, whose namewas Burke, and Corey had been attached to the same sectionand were thrown in that way a good deal together.And his very first statement had shown, with all the forceof the casual phrase, how tremendously Corey hadchanged.

“A queer fellow,” he said, “no one could understand.”And he was a man, one would say, well accustomed tothe queerest of men.

Mr. Ewing said yes, he supposed one would call himthat, and asked just in what way Burke had thoughtCorey queer.

And Burke, it seemed, had had more than enough tobase the idea upon. He cast about in his mind to selectone out of the many queer things. And he had hit uponthe most revealing one of them all.

Corey, he said, had gone about covered with medals,two rows, overlapping, on duty and off, all the time.That in itself was queer, especially for an American.Most men wore bars, but Corey had worn the wholething. And yet, Burke said, he was the least egotisticalman he had ever known. And he had seen him wincewhen other men, passing, had smiled at sight of his decorations.He could never make it out.

There was no wonder in that. Mr. Ewing, who knewCorey well, and had, one might say, something to go on,couldn’t make it out. And no more, for that matter,could I. There was something in it a little bizarre, andcertainly alien. Surely no normal Anglo-Saxon Americanhad ever indulged in such extremes of self-flagellationas that!

And then, abruptly and unbidden, there came into mymind a story of the old West, the story of how in thepioneer days a gambler, sitting down to play solitaire,laid his gun on the table beside him and, if he caught himselfcheating, administered justice first hand by shootinghimself. To be sure, in those days a man was pretty certainof playing a straight game. Well, so had Coreybeen, too, sure of the straightness of his game. And Ihave heard it vouched for that, even in those robusttimes, the thing had been seen to happen, and to come,with just that appalling simplicity of psychology, fromcause to effect, straight, and without hesitation.

The analogy grew, for Burke averred that the queerestthing of all about Corey was that he had been the onlyman he had ever seen lacking entirely the emotion offear. He volunteered on every sort of hazardous enterprise,and came through safe when men beside him werekilled, time after time, protected, they had got to believe,by the inscrutable quality of his fearlessness. It was,Burke said, as if against some other secret considerationdeath to Corey counted nothing at all.

Then there was something a little peculiar in so silenta man having so many friends. Corey silent! Rememberinghim, one could hardly credit that change. Burkequalified that by saying that when he used the wordsilent, he didn’t in any sense mean morose. Corey hadnever been that. He merely hadn’t, as people somehowseemed to expect him to do, talked. And what he hadmeant by “friends” he wished to qualify, too. Hehadn’t meant pals. There had been nothing so active asthat. But there were ways to tell when a man was wellliked. For example, no one who knew him had ever seenanything funny about Corey’s decorations, and theynever talked about it among themselves.

Somebody had once asked Corey how long he had beenover the first time. It was evident that he had been therebefore, because of the Croix de Guerre he wore when hecame. And Corey had answered, about six weeks, or alittle less.

“And you got the Croix in that time?” An exclamationforced out of the fellow’s astonishment, and bringingfrom Corey an answer without a hint of rebuff, yet certainlynothing that a man could call brag.

“You forget,” he said, with an almost imperceptibleglance down at his two rows of medals—“I knew theropes.”

The man had afterward said to Burke that he wassorry he’d asked. But he didn’t see anything to beashamed of in the Croix—and Corey wore it where afellow couldn’t help seeing. There was, Burke said, aqueer kind of apology in it. No, there had been nothinglike brag in Corey’s answer. There had been none of thatin anything he had done. And he had been, accordingto Burke, the best surgeon of them all, the best man at hiswork. But of course he had come to disaster in the end.A man can’t go on ignoring danger like that.

They were stationed at Jubécourt, outside Verdun, andfor months the struggle had raged, attack and counterattack,for the possession of Hill 304. Corey had goneup to the front poste de secour at Esnes, where in anunderground shelter fitted up in what had been the basementof an ancient château, reduced now to ruins by theGerman shells, he was giving first aid to the woundedbrought in from the trenches.

Word had come into the poste one night that an officer,lying in a trench dugout, was too far gone to move. AndCorey had volunteered to go, alone, on foot, along thezigzag communication trench that led to the dugout,under the incessant shelling, and see what he could do.And early that morning, about three o’clock, they hadbeen carried in, Corey and his officer—the only two whohad come out of that trench alive.

From the officer they had the story of what Corey haddone; not many words, to be sure, and little embellishment,but such accounts need no flowers, no figures ofspeech. The facts are enough, told in gasps, as this onewas, hurriedly, while yet there was strength, as one paysa debt, all at once, for fear he may never again have goldto pay.

A trench torpedo had found its mark. And Corey,bending above him, had deliberately braced himself, holdinghis arms out, and had received in his stead the explodingpieces of shell. He raised himself on his elbowto look at Corey, unconscious, on the next stretcher. Hewanted it understood. He sent for an orderly and dictateda message which he managed to sign, and despatchedit post-haste to Staff Headquarters. And thenhe resigned himself to the hands of those about him.

The news had come in to Jubécourt by telephone, andjust before dawn Burke had gone up to see what couldbe done. When he reached the poste Corey had regainedconsciousness, and was waiting for him. He had sentword ahead that he was coming. And Corey waswounded, Burke said, in a way no other man could havewithstood. And the “queer” thing now was that heknew it, and when Burke leaned over him there was agleam in his eyes as if he were keeping it there by hisown will power.

He seemed relieved then, and began at once—he hadsaved a surprising amount of strength—to speak. Heknew Burke planned to go to New York, and he wantedhim to deliver some papers. They were in his bag, atJubécourt; he told him where he should find the key, andthen he asked Burke to write down Mr. Ewing’s nameand address.

It was while Burke was crossing the dim, lamp-lightedroom in search of a pencil or pen that some one hadstopped him to say that the General was coming at elevento confer upon Corey the Medaille Militaire. It hadgiven Burke a distinct kind of shock. Could it be, hewondered, that that was what Corey had saved himselffor? For Corey knew, as well as they, that the MedailleMilitaire was the one decoration never conferred upondead men. He had gone on and borrowed the pen, andon the way back had asked if he might be allowed to tellCorey. It might, he said, do him some good. That newshad turned the balance for more than one man.

But when, a few moments later, Burke, receiving permission,had told Corey his news, he had been for amoment afraid that the balance had turned—and in thewrong way. Corey had seemed hardly to comprehend,and then a sudden unaccountable change had come overhis face.

“The Medaille!” he gasped. “What time did yousay?”

“Eleven,” Burke told him—“three hours from now.”

He seemed then to be considering something deepwithin himself, so that Burke hardly heard when he said,“That’s time enough.” And Burke, thinking that hehad been measuring his strength against the time, hasteneda little awkwardly to reassure him. But Corey,ignoring his assurance, had seemed to arrive at somesecret conclusion.

“Did you put down the name?” he asked.

Burke had forgotten the name, and Corey told himagain, patiently, spelling out the address. He watchedwhile Burke wrote.

“The papers all go to him.” He was silent a moment.Then: “Listen,” he said. “Will you give him this messagefor me?”

Burke promised, whatever he wished, word for word.

“Tell him,” he said, “that it breaks a man’s luck toknow what he wants.”

“Yes,” said Burke. “Is there anything else?”

The strength had drained out of Corey’s voice with thelast words. Again he waited while he seemed to decide.And when he spoke, at last, a strange gentleness hadcome into his tone, so that Burke was not surprised tohear that the message was meant now for a woman.

“Tell him,” said Corey, “there’s no use letting herknow about the Medaille Militaire.”

And although Burke had divined some obscure meaningin Corey’s words, he was yet not quite certain that hehad heard aright. “You mean that she’s not to know?”

Corey nodded his head, yes, and Burke saw that he wasno longer able to speak. Turning, he motioned an orderlyto his side, and whispered that he was afraid Coreywould never last until eleven.

The orderly sped away, and a moment later the Frenchdoctor in charge stood beside Corey’s stretcher, openinghis hypodermic case.

And then, Burke said, he had done what seemed to himthe “queerest” thing of all. He had made a signal forBurke to come nearer, and when he had leaned down, hesaid, “Remember to tell him I didn’t take that.” He waslooking at the hypodermic the doctor held in his hand.

“But the Medaille—” began Burke, and was stoppedby the strangeness of Corey’s expression. He had, hesaid, smiled a secret mysterious smile, and closed his eyeswith a curious look of contentment.

And even the French doctor had seen, by somethingin his faint gesture of refusal, that Corey would neversubmit to his restorative. He put the case down on abox, with a nod to the orderly, in case Corey shouldchange his mind.

And Burke had stayed by until the Division General,just half an hour too late, had arrived at exactly eleveno’clock. Corey had not changed his mind....

That, then, was the end of the story.

So much affected was I at the nature of poor Corey’sdeath that I almost forgot Mr. Ewing, sitting there acrossfrom me in our comfortable smoking-car, and that hemight, in all decency, expect some comment from me.Indeed, I think I should have forgotten altogether if Ihad not felt after a little a relaxation of his long-continuedgaze, and I knew he was going to speak.

“Why,” he said, “do you think he didn’t want her toknow?”

So that was the thing which had puzzled him in NewYork, the thing which still puzzled him now.

Well, it had puzzled me, too; and I could give him noanswer, except to confess that I didn’t know. But longafter the train had passed through Dubuque, and Mr.Ewing and I had said good-by, an answer, perhaps right,perhaps wrong, presented itself to my mind.

If one followed Corey at all, one must follow him allthe way; perhaps he had wished to save her the pangof an added disgrace.

THE DARK HOUR

The returning ship swam swiftly through the dark;the deep, interior breathing of the engines, the singingof wire stays, the huge whispering rush of foamstreaming the water-line made up a body of silence uponwhich the sound of the doctor’s footfalls, coming andgoing restlessly along the near deck, intruded only a little—afaint and personal disturbance. Charging slowlythrough the dark, a dozen paces forward, a dozen pacesaft, his invisible and tormented face bent forward a littleover his breast, he said to himself,—

“What fools! What blind fools we’ve been!”

Sweat stood for an instant on his brow, and was gonein the steady onrush of the wind.

The man lying on the cot in the shelter of the cabincompanionway made no sound all the while. He mighthave been asleep or dead, he remained so quiet; yet hewas neither asleep nor dead, for his eyes, large, wasted,and luminous, gazed out unwinking from the little darknessof his shelter into the vaster darkness of the night,where a star burned in slow mutations, now high, nowsailing low, over the rail of the ship.

Once he said in a washed and strengthless voice,“That’s a bright star, doctor.”

If the other heard, he gave no sign. He continuedcharging slowly back and forth, his large dim shouldershunched over his neck, his hands locked behind him, histeeth showing faintly gray between the fleshy lips whichhung open a little to his breathing.

“It’s dark!” he said of a sudden, bringing up beforethe cot in the companionway. “God, Hallett, how darkit is!” There was something incoherent and mutilatedabout it, as if the cry had torn the tissues of his throat.“I’m not myself to-night,” he added, with a trace ofshame.

Hallett spoke slowly from his pillow.

“It wouldn’t be the subs to-night? You’re not thatkind, you know. I’ve seen you in the zone. And we’rewell west of them by this, anyhow; and as you say, it’svery dark.”

“It’s not that darkness. Not that!”

Again there was the same sense of something tearing.The doctor rocked for a moment on his thick legs. Hebegan to talk.

“It’s this war—” His conscience protested: “Iought not to go on so—it’s not right, not right at all—talkingso to the wounded—the dying—I shouldn’t goon so to the dying—” And all the while the words continuedto tumble out of his mouth. “No, I’m not acoward—not especially. You know I’m not a coward,Hallett. You know that. But just now, to-night, somehow,the whole black truth of the thing has come out andgot me—jumped out of the dark and got me by theneck, Hallett. Look here; I’ve kept a stiff lip. Sincethe first I’ve said, ‘We’ll win this war.’ It’s been amatter of course. So far as I know, never a hint ofdoubt has shadowed my mind, even when things wentbad. ‘In the end,’ I’ve said, ‘in the end, of course, we’rebound to win.’”

He broke away again to charge slowly through thedark with his head down, butting; a large, overheatedanimal endowed with a mind.

“But—do we want to win?”

Hallett’s question, very faint across the subdued breathingsand showerings of the ship, fetched the doctor up.He stood for a moment, rocking on his legs and staringat the face of the questioner, still and faintly luminouson the invisible cot. Then he laughed briefly, shook himself,and ignored the preposterous words. He recollectedtardily that the fellow was pretty well gone.

“No,” he went on. “Up to to-night I’ve neverdoubted. No one in the world, in our part of the world,has doubted. The proposition was absurd to begin with.Prussia, and her fringe of hangers-on, to stand againstthe world—to stand against the very drift and destinyof civilization? Impossible! A man can’t do the impossible;that’s logic, Hallett, and that’s common sense.They might have their day of it, their little hour, becausethey had the jump—but in the end! in the end!— Butlook at them, will you! Look at them! That’s what’sgot me to-night, Hallett. Look at them! There theystand. They won’t play the game, won’t abide at all bythe rules of logic, of common sense. Every day, everyhour, they perform the impossible. Not once since thewar was a year old have they been able to hang out anothersix months. They’d be wiped from the earth; theirpeople would starve. They’re wiped from the earth, andthey remain. They starve and lay down their skinnybodies on the ground, and they stand up again with sleekbellies. They make preposterous, blind boasts. Theysay, ‘We’ll over-run Roumania in a month.’ Fantastic!It’s done! They say, ‘Russia? New-born Russia?Strong young boy-Russia? We’ll put him out of it forgood and all by Christmas.’ That was to cheer up thehungry ones in Berlin. Everybody saw through it. Thevery stars laughed. It’s done! God, Hallett! It’s likeclockwork. It’s like a rehearsed and abominableprogramme—”

“Yes—a programme.”

The wounded man lay quite still and gazed at the star.When he spoke, his words carried an odd sense of authenticity,finality. His mind had got a little away from him,and now it was working with the new, oracular clarityof the moribund. It bothered the doctor inexplicably—trippedhim up. He had to shake himself. He began totalk louder and make wide, scarcely visible gestures.

“We’ve laughed so long, Hallett. There was Mittel-Europa!We always laughed at that. A wag’s tale. Tothink of it—a vast, self-sufficient, brutal empire laiddown across the path of the world! Ha-ha! Why, evenif they had wanted it, it would be—”

“If they wanted it, it would be—inevitable.”

The doctor held up for a full dozen seconds. A kindof anger came over him and his face grew red. Hecouldn’t understand. He talked still louder.

“But they’re doing it! They’re doing that same preposterousthing before our eyes, and we can’t touch them,and they’re— Hallett! They’re damn near done! Behindthat line there,—you know the line I mean,—whoof us doesn’t know it? That thin line of smoke andashes and black blood, like a bent black wire over France!Behind that line they’re at work, day by day, month aftermonth, building the empire we never believed. And Hallett,it’s damn near done! And we can’t stop it. Itgrows bigger and bigger, darker and darker—it coversup the sky—like a nightmare—”

“Like a dream!” said Hallett softly; “a dream.”

The doctor’s boot-soles drummed with a dull, angryresonance on the deck.

“And we can’t touch them! They couldn’t conceivablyhold that line against us—against the whole world—longenough to build their incredible empire behind it.And they have! Hallett! How could they ever haveheld it?”

“You mean, how could we ever have held it?”

Hallett’s words flowed on, smooth, clear-formed, unhurried,and his eyes kept staring at the star.

“No, it’s we have held it, not they. And we that havegot to hold it—longer than they. Theirs is the kindof a Mittel-Europa that’s been done before; history is littlemore than a copybook for such an empire as they arebuilding. We’ve got a vaster and more incredible empireto build than they—a Mittel-Europa, let us say, ofthe spirit of man. No, no, doctor; it’s we that are doingthe impossible, holding that thin line.”

The doctor failed to contain himself.

“Oh, pshaw! pshaw! See here, Hallett! We’ve hadthe men, and there’s no use blinking the truth. Andwe’ve had the money and the munitions.”

“But back of all that, behind the last reserve, the lastshell-dump, the last treasury, haven’t they got somethingthat we’ve never had?”

“And what’s that?”

“A dream.”

“A what?”

“A dream. We’ve dreamed no dream. Yes—let mesay it! A little while ago you said, ‘nightmare,’ andI said, ‘dream.’ Germany has dreamed a dream. Blackas the pit of hell,—yes, yes,—but a dream. They’veseen a vision. A red, bloody, damned vision,—yes, yes,—buta vision. They’ve got a programme, even if it’swhat you called it, a ‘rehearsed and abominable programme.’And they know what they want. And wedon’t know what we want!”

The doctor’s fist came down in the palm of his hand.

“What we want? I’ll tell you what we want, Hallett.We want to win this war!”

“Yes?”

“And by the living God, Hallett, we will win this war!I can see again. If we fight for half a century to come;if we turn the world wrong-side-out for men, young men,boys, babes; if we mine the earth to a hollow shell forcoal and iron; if we wear our women to ghosts to get outthe last grain of wheat from the fields—we’ll do it!And we’ll wipe this black thing from the face of theearth forever, root and branch, father and son of thebloody race of them to the end of time. If you want adream, Hallett, there’s a—”

“There’s a—nightmare. An overweening muscularimpulse to jump on the thing that’s scared us in the dark,to break it with our hands, grind it into the ground withour heels, tear ourselves away from it—and wake up.”

He went on again after a moment of silence.

“Yes, that’s it, that’s it. We’ve never asked for anythingbetter; not once since those terrible August dayshave we got down on our naked knees and prayed for anythingmore than just to be allowed to wake up—and findit isn’t so. How can we expect, with a desire like that,to stand against a positive and a flaming desire? No, no!The only thing to beat a dream is a dream more poignant.The only thing to beat a vision black as midnight is avision white as the noonday sun. We’ve come to theplace, doctor, where half a loaf is worse than no bread.”

The doctor put his hands in his pockets and took themout again, shifted away a few steps and back again. Hefelt inarticulate, handless, helpless in the face of things,of abstractions, of the mysterious, unflagging swiftnessof the ship, bearing him willy-nilly over the blind surfaceof the sea. He shook himself.

“God help us,” he said.

“What God?”

The doctor lifted a weary hand.

“Oh, if you’re going into that—”

“Why not? Because Prussia, doctor, has a god.Prussia has a god as terrible as the God of conqueringIsrael, a god created in her own image. We laugh whenwe hear her speaking intimately and surely to this god.I tell you we’re fools. I tell you, doctor, before we shallstand we shall have to create a god in our own image,and before we do that we shall have to have a living andsufficient image.”

“You don’t think much of us,” the doctor murmuredwearily.

The other seemed not to hear. After a little while hesaid:

“We’ve got to say black or white at last. We’ve gotto answer a question this time with a whole answer.”

“This war began so long ago,” he went on, staring atthe star. “So long before Sarajevo, so long before the‘balances of power’ were thought of, so long before the‘provinces’ were lost and won, before Bismarck and thelot of them were begotten, or their fathers. So many,many years of questions put, and half-answers given inreturn. Questions, questions: questions of a power-loomin the North Counties; questions of a mill-hand’s lodgingin one Manchester or another, of the weight of a headtaxin India, of a widow’s mass for her dead in Spain;questions of a black man in the Congo, of an eighth-blackman in New Orleans, of a Christian in Turkey, anIrishman in Dublin, a Jew in Moscow, a French cripplein the streets of Zabern; questions of an idiot sitting on athrone; questions of a girl asking her vote on a HydePark rostrum, of a girl asking her price in the dark of aChicago doorway—whole questions half-answered,hungry questions half-fed, mutilated fag-ends of questionspiling up and piling up year by year, decade afterdecade.— Listen! There came a time when it wouldn’tdo, wouldn’t do at all. There came a time when the sonof all those questions stood up in the world, final, unequivocal,naked, devouring, saying, ‘Now you shall answerme. You shall look me squarely in the face at last,and you shall look at nothing else; you shall take yourhands out of your pockets and your tongues out of yourcheeks, and no matter how long, no matter what the bloodand anguish of it, you shall answer me now with a wholeanswer—or perish!’”

“And what’s the answer?”

The doctor leaned down a little, resting his hands onthe foot of the cot.

The gray patch of Hallett’s face moved slightly in thedark.

“It will sound funny to you. Because it’s a wordthat’s been worn pretty thin by so much careless handling.It’s ‘Democracy’!”

The doctor stood up straight on his thick legs.

“Why should it sound funny?” he demanded, a veinof triumph in his tone. “It is the answer. And we’vegiven it. ‘Make the world safe for democracy!’ Eh?You remember the quotation?”

“Yes, yes, that’s good. But we’ve got to do morethan say it, doctor. Go further. We’ve got to dreamit in a dream; we’ve got to see democracy as a wild, consumingvision. If the day ever comes when we shallpronounce the word ‘democracy’ with the same fiercefaith with which we conceive them to be pronouncing‘autocracy’—that day, doctor—”

He raised a transparent hand and moved it slowly overhis eyes.

“It will be something to do, doctor, that will. Liketaking hold of lightning. It will rack us body and soul;belief will strip us naked for a moment, leave us new-bornand shaken and weak—as weak as Christ in the manger.And that day nothing can stand before us. Because, yousee, we’ll know what we want.”

The doctor stood for a moment as he had been, a large,dark troubled body rocking slowly to the heave of thedeck beneath him. He rubbed a hand over his face.

“Utopian!” he said.

“Utopian!” Hallett repeated after him. “To-day weare children of Utopia—or we are nothing. I tell you,doctor, to-day it has come down to this—Hamburg toBagdad—or—Utopia!”

The other lifted his big arms and his face was red.

“You’re playing with words, Hallett. You do nothingbut twist my words. When I say Utopian, I mean, precisely,impossible. Absolutely impossible. See here!You tell me this empire of theirs is a dream. I give youthat. How long has it taken them to dream it? Fortyyears. Forty years! And this wild, transcendentalempire of the spirit you talk about,—so much harder,—somany hundreds of times more incredible,—willyou have us do that sort of a thing in a day? We’rea dozen races, a score of nations. I tell you it’s—it’simpossible!”

“Yes. Impossible.”

The silence came down between them, heavy with allthe dark, impersonal sounds of passage, the rhythmicalexplosions of the waves, the breathing of engines, themuffled staccato of the spark in the wireless room, thenote of the ship’s bell forward striking the hour andafter it a hail, running thin in the wind: “Six bells, sir,and—all’s well!”

“All’s well!”

The irony of it! The infernal patness of it, falling soin the black interlude, like stage business long rehearsed.

“All’s well!” the doctor echoed with the mirthlesslaughter of the damned.

Hallett raised himself very slowly on an elbow andstared at the star beyond the rail.

“Yes, I shouldn’t wonder. Just now—to-night—somehow—I’vegot a queer feeling that maybe it is.Maybe it’s going to be.—Maybe it’s going to be; whoknows? The darkest hour of our lives, of history, perhaps,has been on us. And maybe it’s almost over.Maybe we’re going to do the impossible, after all, doctor.And maybe we’re going to get it done in time. I’ve gota queer sense of something happening—something gettingready.”

When he spoke again, his voice had changed a little.

“I wish my father could have lived to see this day.He’s in New York now, and I should like—”

The doctor moved forward suddenly and quietly,saying: “Lie down, Hallett. You’d better lie downnow.”

But the other protested with a gray hand.

“No, no, you don’t understand. When I say—well—it’sjust the shell of my father walking around and talkingaround, these ten years past. Prison killed his heart.He doesn’t even know it, that the immortal soul of himhas gone out. You know him, doctor. Ben Hallett; theRadical—‘the Destroyer,’ they used to call him in theold days. He was a brave man, doctor; you’ve got togive him that; as brave as John the Baptist, and as mad.I can see him now,—to-night,—sitting in the back roomin Eighth Street, he and old Radinov and Hirsch andO’Reilly and the rest, with all the doors shut and thewindows shut and their eyes and ears and minds shut uptight, trying to keep the war out. They’re old men, doctor,and they must cling to yesterday, and to to-morrow.They mustn’t see to-day. They must ignore to-day.To-day is the tragic interruption. They too ask nothingbut to wake up and find it isn’t so. All their lives they’vebeen straining forward to see the ineffable dawn of theDay of Man, calling for the Commune and the red barricadesof revolution. The barricades! Yesterday, itseems to them now, they were almost in sight of the splendiddawn—the dawn of the Day of Barricades. Andthen this war, this thing they call a ‘rich man’s plot’ toconfound them, hold them up, turn to ashes all the fire oftheir lives. All they can do is sit in a closed room withtheir eyes shut and wait till this meaningless brawl isdone. And then, to-morrow—to-morrow—some safelydistant to-morrow (for they’re old men),—to-morrow,the barricades! And that’s queer. That’s queer.”

“Queer?”

“It seems to me that for days now, for weeks andmonths now, there’s been no sound to be heard in all thelength and breadth of the world but the sound ofbarricades.”

The voice trailed off into nothing.

To the doctor, charging slowly back and forth alongthe near deck, his hands locked behind him and his facebent slightly over his breast, there came a queer sense ofseparation, from Hallett, from himself, his own everydayacts, his own familiar aspirations, from the ship whichheld him up in the dark void between two continents.

What was it all about, he asked himself over and over.Each time he passed the shadow in the companionway heturned his head, painfully, and as if against his will.Once he stopped squarely at the foot of the cot and stoodstaring down at the figure there, faintly outlined, motionlessand mute. Sweat stood for a moment on his brow,and was gone in the steady onrush of the wind. And hewas used to death.

But Hallett had fooled him. He heard Hallett’s whispercreeping to him out of the shadow:

“That’s a bright star, doctor.”

THE BIRD OF SERBIA

“Here’s a queer item,” remarked the man at the windowend of the long leather-covered seat, lookingup from his newspaper and apparently speaking in generalto the other occupants of the Pullman smoking compartment.“There’s a dispatch here announcing thedeath from tuberculosis of that Serbian who shot theArchduke of Austria at Sarajevo. It seems he has beenin prison ever since. I thought he had been executed longago.”

Four of us, strangers to one another, had settled in thesmoking compartment at the beginning of the journeyfrom Chicago to New York, and as we had been on ourway nearly an hour it seemed time for conversation.

“They didn’t execute him,” replied a man who sat inone of the chairs, “because he was under age. It’sagainst the law, over there, to execute a person undertwenty-one. This boy was only nineteen.”

“The law wouldn’t have cut much figure over here ina case like that,” replied the first speaker.

“Perhaps not,” returned the man in the chair, “butrespect for law is one of the few benefits that seem to gowith autocratic government. I don’t find that dispatchin my paper. May I borrow yours?”

The other handed over the journal, indicating the itemwith his finger.

“I had almost forgotten that fellow,” spoke up a thirdtraveler. “The rush and magnitude of the war have carriedour thoughts—and for the matter of that, our soldierstoo—a pretty long way since the assassinationoccurred. Yet I suppose historians, digging back intothe minute beginnings of the war, will all trace down tothe shot fired by that Serbian.”

“That’s what the paper says,” returned the one whohad begun to talk. “It speaks of ‘the historic shot firedin Serbia’ as the thing that fired the world.”

“And in doing so,” declared the man who had borrowedthe paper, “it falls into a popular error. The shotwas not fired in Serbia, but in Austria-Hungary, and theboy who did the shooting was an Austro-Hungariansubject.”

“But that doesn’t seem possible,” interposed the manwho had spoken of the historical aspect of the case. “Ifhe was an Austrian subject and did the shooting in Austria,how could Austria make that an excuse for attackingSerbia?”

The other looked from the window for a moment beforereplying.

“It was one of the poorest excuses imaginable,” hereturned. “Autocracies can do those things; that’s whythey must be stamped out. As you said, historians willtrace back to the assassination. It so happened that Iwas over there at the time and got a glimpse of what layback of the assassination—microscopic, unclean forcesof which historians will never hear, yet which seem peculiarlysuitable in connection with Austria’s crime. ButI had better not get to talking about all that.”

As though in indication of his intention to be silent,he closed his mouth firmly. It was a strong mouth andcould shut with finality. Everything about him expressedstrength and determination mixed, as these qualities oftenare in the highest type of American business man, withgentleness, good nature, and modesty. I liked his looks.He was the kind of man you would pick out to take careof your watch and pocketbook—or your wife—in caseof emergency. I wanted him to go on talking, and saidso, and when both the other men backed up my request,he began in a spirit evidently reluctant but obliging:

“For some years before the outbreak of this war,” hesaid, “I represented a large American oil company insoutheastern Europe, where we had a considerable market.My headquarters were at Vienna, but my travelstook me through various countries inhabited by peopleof the Serb race, and I found it advantageous to learn tospeak the Serbian tongue, both for business reasons andbecause I enjoyed making friends among the people. Inorder to practice the language and form some knowledgeof the people, I made it a custom, when traveling, to stopat small hotels used by the Serbs themselves, in preferenceto the more cosmopolitan establishments; or, where thesmall hotels were not clean, I would sometimes take aroom with some Serbian family.

”In Bosnia there was one very attractive little city towhich I was always particularly glad to go. It was aplace of thirty or forty thousand inhabitants and lay ina lovely, fertile valley among the hills; and you may judgesomething of it by the fact that the Serbs coupled theadjective ‘golden’ with the town’s name. Not one Americanin a thousand—probably not one in a hundred thousand—hadever heard of the place then, yet it was thecapital of Bosnia. The Austrian governor of Bosnia hadhis palace there, and the life of the place was like that ofsome great capital in miniature. One thing about thetown which interested me was the way in which its peopleand its architecture reflected Bosnian history. In the firstplace there were many Serbs there, the more prosperousof them dressing like conventional Europeans—exceptthat the fez was worn by almost all of them—and livingin low, picturesque Serbian houses, with roofs of tile orflat stone shingle; the rest peasants in the Bosnian costume,who came in from the outlying agricultural regions.But also there were Mohammedans—leftovers from thedays of Turkish dominion—and the town had minaretsand other architectural signs of the Turk. And last therewere the Austrians—the Austrian governor, Austriansoldiers in uniform about the streets, Austrian minor officialseverywhere; and in new buildings, parks, and boulevards,Austrian taste. For, after taking Bosnia, underthe Treaty of Berlin, in 1878, the Austrians, knowing wellthat their grabbing policy was criticized, went to somepains to beautify the Bosnian capital, with the object, itis commonly understood, of impressing visitors—andperhaps also the inhabitants themselves—with the ‘benefits’of Austrian rule—as though palaces, parks, pavements,and prostitutes were sufficient compensation to theSerbs for the racial unity and freedom which have beendenied them, first by one nation, then by another.“

“But,” some one broke in, “up to the time of the presentwar, didn’t the Serbs have Serbia?”

“The present kingdom of Serbia proper was inhabitedby Serbs,” returned the other, “but the Serbia we knowis only a small part of what was, long ago, the SerbianEmpire. Since the fall of the empire, in the fourteenthcentury, it has been the great ambition of the Serbs tobecome again a unified nation. Bosnia was a part of theold empire, but was conquered by the Turks, and latertaken over by the Austrians. The story I am about to tellshows, however, what an enduring race consciousness theBosnian Serbs have maintained.

“Our district manager for Bosnia lived in the town ofwhich I have been speaking, and when I first went therehe took me to a small but particularly clean and attractivehotel, run by an Austrian Serb. As is usual in smallhotels in Europe, the proprietor’s family took part in thework of running the place; and as I used to stay therefrequently, sometimes for two or three weeks at a stretch,I soon came to know them all well. As the years passedI became really attached to them, and there were manysigns to show that they were fond of me. Michael, thefather, exercised general supervision—though he wasnot above carrying a trunk upstairs; Stana, the mother,kept the accounts and superintended the cooking, whichwas excellent; the two daughters worked in the kitchenand sometimes helped wait on table. Even the boy,Gavrilo, the youngest member of the family, helped afterschool with light work, though he studied hard and wasnot very strong. I often sat with them at their ownfamily table at one end of the dining-room; I called themall by their given names, and addressed them with the‘thee’ and ‘thou’ of familiarity.

“When I first knew Gavrilo he was twelve or thirteenyears old. His father, though of pure Serb blood, hadacquired, with years and experience in business, a certainresignation to the existing order of things. He had seenseveral wars and revolutions, and as he grew older hadbegun to think that peace under Austrian domination wasbetter than continual conflict, whatever the cause.

“The boy Gavrilo was, however, more like Stana, hismother. Stana could grow old, but the flame in her, thepoetry, the mysticism, and above all the Serbian racialfeeling, never diminished. Gavrilo learned the Serbianfolk stories and songs at her knee; also he learned fromher Serbian history, which, under Austria, was not taughtin the schools; for the Austrians have long desired tocrush out Serbian racial feeling.

“Gavrilo and I became great friends. He was hungryfor knowledge and never tired of asking me about theUnited States and our freedom, free speech, and free opportunity—allof which, of course, seemed very wonderfulto one growing up in a decadent, bureaucratic empire,made up of various races held together against their will.In return I gathered from Gavrilo a considerable knowledgeof Serb history and legend—and you may be surethat in what he told me, neither the Turks nor the Austrianscame off very well. Even as a lad he alwaysreferred to the Austrians as shvaba—a Serbian wordmeaning something like our term boches—and by thetime he was sixteen he had promoted them to be procleteshvaba, which may be freely translated as ‘damnedboches.’

“For a long time I took his strong anti-Austrian utteranceslightly, considering them the result of boyish ebullienceof spirit, but as he grew nearer manhood, and thefierceness of his feeling seemed to increase rather thandiminish, I became concerned about him; for it is no wiserfor an Austrian Serb to call the Austrians shvaba than itwould be for an Alsatian to call the Prussians boches.

“As Gavrilo grew up, his passionate racial feeling disturbedme more and more, though, of course, I sympathizedwith it. I determined to make an opportunity fora serious talk with him on the subject, and to that endsuggested that he go with me to the neighboring hillsfor a couple of days’ gunning; for Bosnia abounds ingame.

“Gavrilo proved to be a very good shot. He wouldshoot wild pigeons, grouse, and woodcock from the hip,and he even brought along a pistol with which he couldhit a hare at a considerable distance. These exhibitionsof skill were, however, accompanied by remarks whichdid not make it easier for me to broach the topic uponwhich I wished to speak to him. When he would hit apigeon he would exclaim: ‘There goes another memberof the Hapsburg family!’ or: ‘That one was a shvabtax collector!’ or, mock-heroically, ‘So much for you,you nobleman of brilliant plumage with a von before yourname. No more will the peasants step out of the roadand bow down before you!’

“‘Look here, Gavrilo,’ I said, when we sat to rest upona fallen tree, ‘you are a Serb, and that is something to beproud of, but after all, you are an Austrian subject, andyour forefathers have been Austrian subjects for a longtime. You have your home here, so why not make thebest of a bad bargain, and be like the rest of the youngfellows?’

“‘You think I am not like them?’ he replied. ‘Thatis only because you do not know them as you know me.Every momche who is a worthy descendant of the racethat fought to the death at Kossovo—the Field of theBlack Bird—is of the comitajia. We younger fellowsare to be comitajia also. We have our meetings in thesame kafana where the others meet to make their plans.When we are a little older they will take us in and weshall all work together.’

“‘But what is this work you speak of?’

“‘Whatever it is,’ he returned, ‘you may be sure it isin the interest of our race.’

“‘But you speak of comitajia,’ I said. ‘Has not thatword more than one significance? I know the militaryscouts with bombs are comitajia, but are not revolutionistscalled by the same term?’

“Gavrilo showed his strong white teeth in one of thoseextraordinary mischievous smiles which now and thenilluminated his face. Instead of giving me a direct answerhe said:

“‘Dear friend, I am glad to perceive that your knowledgeof our beloved Serbian tongue becomes daily moreaccurate.’

“‘But, Gavrilo,’ I protested, refusing to be put off witha jest, ‘to be concerned in a revolution would be the worstthing that could happen to you.’

“‘No, not the worst thing. Worse than being a Serband joining in a revolution would be to be a Serb andfail to lift a hand in the struggle for freedom.’

“‘Revolutions,’ I said, sententiously, ‘do not pay,Gavrilo.’

“‘But since when has that been so?’ he counteredquickly. ‘There was, for instance, the French Revolution.Did not that pay? And there was the AmericanRevolution. Surely that paid! And there was the revolutionof Serbia against the Turks. That is paying too.’His luminous black eyes, so like those of a wild deer,snapped as he spoke. Then his expression changedquickly to one of amusement over my discomfiture, andhe added with a little laugh: ‘I have an American friend—agentleman who manages the business of a large oilcompany over here. He can tell you, as he has me, of thebenefits of the American Revolution and of Americanfreedom. I promise you that some day you shall meethim face to face—let us say to-morrow morning whenhe is shaving.’

“It seemed to me that I had taken an unfortunate linewith him there, so I tried another.

“‘Well, then, let us put it on selfish grounds. Thereis no great reason why you, personally, should be dissatisfied.You have good prospects in your father’s business.The thing for you to do, in the natural course, isto marry and settle down. And certainly a man who hasa sweetheart such as yours hasn’t any business in a comitajia;for such things lead to prisons and executions, notto domesticity.’

“‘What makes you think I have a sweetheart?’ he demanded,flushing.

“‘Haven’t I seen Mara?’

“‘Well, what of it?’

“‘If you can resist Mara,’ I told him, ‘you have morestrength than I would give you credit for.’ And it wasquite true; for Mara, who lived next door to the hotel,was a beautiful young thing, and they were muchtogether.

“‘Mara is a flirt,’ said he.

“‘What matter,’ I returned, ‘so long as she flirts mostwith you?’

“‘But does she like me best?’ he mused. ‘There isthis fellow in the Government railways who comes asoften as he can to see her. He has the advantage of beinga connection by marriage, and is very handsome. Reallytoo handsome for a man. I am glad he does not live hereall the time.’

“‘You have the advantage of living next door,’ I encouraged.‘The one thing that might interfere is this ideaof yours about being one of the comitajia.’

“‘Still,’ he protested, shaking his head doubtfully, ‘aman’s first duty is not to the woman he loves, but to therace he loves, because both she and he belong to it. Youknow our old song?’ And he sang there in the woods:

“‘Doucho, my soul, I love thee second best;

Thou art the dearest part of Serbia to me;

But after all thou art but a part, even as I am a part;

And it is Serbia, always Serbia, that together we love most!’

“Though not altogether satisfied with our conversation,I felt that in appealing to the boy’s love for Mara I hadstruck the right note, and I hoped that as time went on hewould think more about her than about the comitajia.For, though one may be heartily in sympathy withrevolutionary ideas, especially in the case of an oppressedrace, one does not like to see a youth of whom one isreally fond, heading toward disaster, even in such a cause.Moreover, as I have said, Gavrilo was not as solidly builtas the average Serb, and I had the feeling that the burningspirit in him—and I assure you it was more like aliving flame than anything I have seen in the nature ofman or woman—must either be kept under control orelse destroy his body.

“Consequently I was much relieved to see, as I returnedfrom time to time, that the boy-and-girl romancebetween Gavrilo and Mara was naturally and charminglydeveloping into something more mature. This led me tohope the more that, as he turned from a youth into a man,Gavrilo would shed some of the violence of his revolutionaryaspirations, and from the indications I judgedthat such a thing was indeed coming to pass. In ordermore fully to reassure myself, I more than once tookoccasion to lead conversations with him into such channelsthat, should he desire to do so, he could speak to meof the comitajia; but he always let the openings pass,seeming eager, now, to speak only of the lovely Mara.

“When, in the summer of 1913, I arrived for one ofmy periodical visits, Gavrilo came rushing to my room,and seizing both my hands told me that he and Mara werenow betrothed. He was then eighteen and she seventeen—foryou understand, of course, that these dark SouthEuropeans develop younger than our people do. Bothfamilies were pleased, and I felt that the dangers I hadfeared for Gavrilo were past, and was duly thankful. Iwent out and bought a necklace for Mara, and when Igave it to her, she and Gavrilo made me clasp it aroundher neck, and he said to her, very seriously: ‘Yes, andour dear friend shall be the godfather of our first child.Is it not so, Maro doucho?’ And Mara, taking me by thehand, told me it was quite true, and that she was goingto love me as much as Gavrilo loved me, and that, moreover,they were going to have hundreds of children, andthat every one of the children should love me too. It wasall indescribably naïve and pretty until Gavrilo unfortunatelyadded: ‘Yes, our children will love you, and theywill love us, but most of all they will love the idea of afree Serb race.’

“At that a cloud passed over Mara’s face.

“‘Oh, Gavrilo!’ she cried impatiently, ‘shall we neverhear of anything but the Serb race? Is there nothing elsein the world? Must that come before your thoughtof your friend, here’—indicating me—‘before yourthought of me, of the children we hope to have, of everything?Must you have Serbian freedom on your breadin place of cheese, and in your glass in place of wine?Sometimes I think your eyes shine more brightly whenyou speak of our race than when you call me doucho—mysoul. I ask myself, is it indeed the soul of Mara thathe loves, or is it the soul of the race?’

“‘Mara, my dear child,’ I put in, ‘I believe you arejealous.’

“‘Of whom, pray?’ she demanded, turning upon meand flinging her head back proudly.

“‘Not of an individual,’ I answered, ‘but of a people.’

“‘Perhaps it is true,’ she returned with a shrug.‘Well, what of it?’

“‘Only this: that a woman with nothing more concretethan a whole race to be jealous of is in no very sad plight.’

“‘But I tell you I demand to be loved for myself!’Mara flashed back.

“Gavrilo sighed deeply, as though at the hopelessnessof making her understand his point of view. Then,mournfully, he hummed:

“‘Thou art the dearest part of Serbia to me;

But after all thou art but a part, even as I am a part;

And it is Serbia, always Serbia—’

“But Mara would not let him finish.

“‘Enough!’ she cried. ‘I detest that song! Youknow how I detest it!’

“Gavrilo looked at me and shook his head. ‘Oh, thesewomen!’ he exclaimed. ‘What they do to one!’

“Then, gazing reflectively at Mara, he added in thetone of one attempting to be philosophical: ‘Well, whena little female looks as angelic as my Mara, naturally weexpect her to think like an angel too.’

“At this Mara’s anger departed as quickly as it hadcome. ‘There!’ she exclaimed, flinging her arms abouthis neck and kissing him upon both cheeks, ‘there spokemy own dear Gavrilo! Poor Gavrilo! What have I beensaying? You know I love the Serbs no less than you do!You do know it, don’t you? Well, then, say so!’

“‘God forbid that I should believe otherwise!’ answeredGavrilo, kissing her in return.

“As I left them I thought to myself that with Mara’stemperament, to say nothing of the ‘hundreds of children’she promised him, Gavrilo’s married life would notprove monotonous, whatever else it might be. When, inthe course of the subsequent fall and winter, I saw themagain, they seemed as happy as a pair of wild birds.

“Once, in the spring, when I was with them, the comitajiachanced in some way to be mentioned, whereuponMara at once darkened, saying to me:

“‘That is my one sorrow.’

“‘But why should it be?’ Gavrilo asked her. ‘HaveI not plighted you my word that I shall not take part inany—well, in any indiscretions that may be proposed?’

“‘Yes, I have not forgotten. You said that as long asI loved you you would be my good Gavrilo.’

“‘So,’ he returned gaily, ‘all you need do is to continueto adore me as I deserve.’

“‘But you meet with them at the kafana,’ she said,uneasily.

“‘They are my friends,’ he answered. ‘Naturally,then, I meet with them. All men meet at the kafana. Itis the way of men. A little wine or coffee or prunebrandy and a little talk—that is all. I go also to church,but that does not make me a priest. And besides, dearestMaro, if I were not sometimes with the momchidia, howwould I know the joy of returning to you?’

“‘If the devil had your tongue,’ laughed Mara, ‘hecould talk all the saints out of heaven!’

“So it always was with Mara. Her ideas came andwent—as Gavrilo once put it to me—like hummingbirds flitting in and out amongst the flowers. Neverhave I seen a human being turn from gay to grave, andback again, as rapidly as she.

“Arriving at the little hotel in the early part of June,1914, I found them all full of plans for a great fête to becelebrated on Vidov-dan—Kossovo Day—June 28. Thisday might be called the Serbian Fourth of July, but itpartakes also of the character of our Memorial Day, forit is the anniversary of that tragic event in Serbian history,the Battle of Kossovo, in which the Turks defeatedthe Serbs in 1389, leaving the entire Serbian nobility deadupon the field. That is one reason why Serbia has nonobles to-day. ‘Kossovo’ means ‘the field of the blackbird,’ the kos being a black songbird resembling the starling.But this was to be no ordinary celebration of theholiday, for in the Balkan War of the two preceding yearsSerbia had consummated her independence and humbledthe Turks, and a part of the Serbian racial dream wasthereby realized. Mara, Gavrilo, and their parents unitedin urging me to return for the festival, and before departingI agreed to do so.

“True to my word, I arrived several days ahead oftime. Gavrilo had not returned from the academy whenI reached the hotel, but Michael and Stana gave me awarm welcome and produced the costumes they were intendingto wear, and I remember that Stana said I oughtto have a costume too—that even though I had not beenso fortunate as to be born a Serb, they proposed toadopt me.

“‘But you should see Mara’s costume!’ she exclaimed,when I admired hers. ‘It is a true Serbian dress, veryold, which came to her from her great-grandmother.Such beautiful embroidery you never saw.’

“That made a good excuse for me to go and see Mara,whom I found sewing in the little garden behind thehouse. The costume, which she showed me, was indeedbeautiful, and I admired it in terms which were, I hope,sufficiently extravagant to please even a girl as exactingas she.

“While talking with her I observed a bird cage hangingon a hook by the window and, never having noticed itbefore, asked if she had a new bird.

“In reply she merely nodded, without looking up fromher work.

“I strolled over and looked at the bird.

“‘Why,’ I said, ‘this bird appears to be a kos, Maro.’Probably there was a note of surprise in my voice, for thekos is not supposed to live in captivity.

“Mara looked up sharply.

“‘Are you visiting blame upon me, then?’ she asked.

“‘Not at all,’ I answered, mystified at her tone. ‘I didnot know that the kos could be tamed; that is all.’

“‘Did Gavrilo tell you to speak to me about this?’ shedemanded.

“‘Certainly not,’ I answered. ‘I have not seen Gavriloyet.’ Then, crossing to where she sat, and looking downat her, I asked: ‘What is the matter, Maro? How haveI offended you?’

“Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at me.

“‘You have not offended me, dear friend,’ she said.‘It is only that I am made miserable by this subject. Myrelative who is employed in the railway caught this birda few days since, placed it in a cage, and presented itto me. And if he is a handsome young fellow, am Ito be censured for that? I am not his mother nor yet hisfather; I did not make him handsome! And even so,what is a little bird, to make words and black looksover?’

“‘You mean that Gavrilo is annoyed?’

“‘Since this bird came,’ she returned, ‘I have heard ofnothing else. He begs me to let it go. He insists thatit will die. He says the man who gave it me is cruel andthat I am cruel too.’

“‘Then why not release it?’ I suggested. ‘It is dyingin the cage, Maro.’

“‘Let it die, then!’ she cried, and burst into a floodof tears.

“‘Now, Maro,’ I urged when the paroxysm had abated,‘what is all this about?’

“‘Well,’ she gulped, wiping her eyes, ‘a girl musthave a little character, must she not? She must make upher own mind occasionally about some little thing! Isnot that true? Is the man she loves to tell her whento draw in her breath and when to let it go again? Ishe to tell her when to wink her eyes? Is she to cease tothink and do only as he thinks? Here came this youngman—with the miserable bird. I desired it not. Thencame Gavrilo, black and angry like a storm out of themountains, ordering me to let the bird go. I wished todo as Gavrilo said, but as my relative had caught it andgiven it to me I felt I should first speak to him. Besides,he is older and knows a great deal, being in the Governmentrailroads. And what did he say? “Maro,” he said,“you do as you wish. If you wish to be a little fool,humor this boy. He is spoiled. He has everything as hedesires it. They say you are to marry him. Very well.But if you think always with his mind, and hold no ideasof your own, I tell you you will make a wife no betterthan one of those stupid Turkish women....” That iswhy I determined to retain the bird. There is a kos inevery second tree. Well, then, is it not better that thisone die than that my soul shall wither? Why should Ibe called Mara if I shall no longer be a separate being,but only Gavrilo in another body?’

“As she finished, we heard Gavrilo calling her namefrom the street, and a moment later he came in throughthe garden gate.

“I saw at once that he was agitated.

“‘So you have come!’ he cried, seizing my hands.‘But, alas, my friend, it is in vain. You have heard theevil tidings?’

“‘You mean about—?’ I had almost said ‘about thebird,’ but fortunately he interrupted, exclaiming:

“‘Yes, about the festival.’

“‘What tidings?’ demanded Mara.

“Gavrilo threw his arms above his head in a gesture ofhelpless fury.

“‘Those proclete shvaba!’ he burst out. ‘They issuedan edict only an hour ago, forbidding entirely our festivalof Vidov-dan!’

“‘No!’ cried Mara, dismayed, half rising from herseat.

“‘Yes. There shall be no celebration—not for theSerbs. Nothing! Attempts to commemorate the anniversarywill result in arrest. It is announced that in placeof our festival there will upon that day be extensivemaneuvers of the Austrian army and that Grand Headquarterswill be here in our city. We are given to understandthat the Archduke himself will come and hold thereview. Could anything be devised more to insult usupon our national holiday? Oh, of what vile tricks arenot these accursed shvaba capable?’

“‘I am surprised,’ I said, ‘that the Archduke would beparty to a thing of this kind, for it is understood that heis pro-Serb. Certainly his wife is a Slav.’

“‘The more shame to her, then, for marrying him,’said Gavrilo, with a shrug. ‘He is the spawn, of an autocratwho is in turn the spawn of generations of autocrats.Scratch them and they are all the same. Theyplay the game of empire—the dirty game of holdingtogether, against their will, the people of seven racesin Austria-Hungary; grinding them down, humiliatingthem, keeping them afraid. No man, no group of men,should have such power! It is medieval, grotesque,wicked!’

“‘More than that,’ put in Mara, ‘it is unwise. Theytake a poor way to gain favor with us Serbs. For mypart, I do not think it safe for the Archduke to comehere.’

“‘And there, my mila,’ he declared, with a shrewd,sinister smile, ‘your judgment is perhaps better than evenyou yourself suppose. Myself, I doubt he will be foolenough to come. At the last we shall be informed, witha grand flourish, that he is ‘indisposed.’ Not sick, youunderstand. Royalties are never sick. It is not etiquette.Peasants are sick. The middle-classes are ill. The greatare only indisposed. Anything else is vulgar. Well, Ihope he will know enough to stay away. Otherwise hemay indeed become indisposed after his arrival.’

“‘What do you mean, Gavrilo?’ I asked.

“‘That the air of this place is not good for Austrianroyalties just now,’ he said. ‘It is Serbian air. Thereare the germs of freedom in it, and such germs are moredangerous to autocrats than those of kuga,—cholera.’

“‘Be frank,’ I urged. ‘Do you mean that the Archduke’slife is threatened?’

“‘It is known,’ he replied, ‘that the governor has receivedwarning letters. The Archduke is advised not toappear here on our holiday. One understands, moreover,that the Austrian secret police concur in this advice.Which shows that the filthy beasts are not so stupid asthey might be.’

“‘Assure me, Gavrilo,’ Mara broke in, ‘that yourcomitajia has nought to do with this threat!’

“‘Long ago,’ he answered ‘I promised you that whileyou love me I will not actively participate in anythingviolent. You may be sure, Maro, mila, that I shall keepmy word.’

“‘You keep your word always,’ she replied, ‘but thesethreats disturb me and I gain comfort from your reassurances.’

“Gavrilo walked slowly over and looked into the birdcage.

“‘You are certain, then, that you do requite my affection?’he asked her over his shoulder.

“‘You are well aware,’ she said, ‘that I worship you.’

“‘Would that I were as well aware of it,’ he returned,‘as that I am nothing to be worshiped.’ Then after apause he added: ‘If you do love me, why not release thispoor bird? See how wretchedly it huddles. Its eyes arebecoming dull. It will surely die. How can we Serbstalk of freedom for ourselves, yet hold this wild creatureprisoner? And of all birds, a kos—the bird of Kossovo!Permit me to open the door of the cage, Maro.Let us celebrate the Serbian holiday by liberating the poorkos. Shvabe cannot prevent that, with all their edicts.’

“Mara looked black.

“‘The holiday is not yet here!’ said she.

“‘When the day comes,’ he answered, ‘the kos will bedead.’

“‘I wish it were already dead!’ she exclaimed petulantly.‘I wish I had never seen the accursed thing. Ithas brought me only sorrow!’

“‘Then,’ I interjected, ‘why not let it fly away?’

“‘I have told you both,’ she answered angrily. ‘Thismeans more to me than the life or death of a bird. It isa symbol. I have the feeling that if it were to fly awayall my will power would fly with it.’

“‘And to me also,’ returned the boy solemnly, ‘thismeans more than the life or death of a bird. And likewiseto me the kos is a symbol. It should be so to everySerb. Think of Kossovo! This is a bird linked with ourracial aspirations. If we free this one, we may, perhaps,ourselves deserve freedom. Otherwise, what do we deserve?Do we merit more than we ourselves give?’

“Having witnessed Mara’s agitation when she first toldme of their differences over the bird, I would now havestopped Gavrilo could I have signaled him, but he wasengaged in putting some green leaves through the doorof the cage. As he finished speaking, Mara rose, droppedher sewing upon the ground, and bursting into tears raninto the house.

“‘Maro, mila!’ Gavrilo cried, attempting to catch her;but the door slammed in his face.

“He was white as he turned to me. ‘Tell me,’ he criedin a tone childlike and baffled, ‘can anyone understandthe ways of woman? As men grow older do they understandbetter, or is it always like this?’

“Deeply concerned about them as I was, the naïvetéof this question forced a smile from me.

“‘You must ask some man older than I,’ I answered.

“‘Perhaps we are not intended to understand them,’he said reflectively. ‘No doubt the Lord made them asthey are so that we should forever be enthralled by them,as by any other enigma beyond comprehension. I enjoylying on my back at night, to gaze up at the stars andthink profoundly of eternity whirling about us, and theinfinity of space, but I assure you, when my lovely Marabecomes agitated those phenomena of nature seem, bycontrast, trifling matters. I believe that if one couldbut understand Mara, one could understand the riddlesof the ages.’

“I left Gavrilo in the garden. At dinner that night hewas not with us. I did not see him again until next evening,when I came upon him whispering with three youngmen upon the stairs. As I passed them they becamesilent, nor did I like the nervous smile with which Gavrilogreeted me. On the day following I saw him go into akafana with the same youths. I think he also saw me,and from the haste with which he moved into the littlecafé I gathered the impression that he was avoiding me.

“On the day before the maneuvers I cornered himafter luncheon. Clearly he was keyed to a highly nervoustension.

“‘Gavrilo,’ I said, ‘do not tell me anything you do notwish to. I have no desire to pry into your affairs. ButI beg you to remember Mara and your promise to her,and not to become entangled in any rash escapade.’

“For a moment he stood looking at me without answering.It was as though he was carefully formulating areply. Then he said:

“‘I have remembered. I have positively refused toparticipate in certain matters in which I have been pressedto become active. At this moment that is all that I amenabled to say.’

“‘It is all I desire to know,’ I said. ‘Tell me, what ofMara?’

“‘All is well between us,’ he returned, ‘so long as onementions not the bird.’

“Later I found them together in the garden. Marawas, as usual, sewing. While I sat and talked with her,Gavrilo started picking fresh leaves to put into the birdcage. Mara, who had been telling me how, upon themorrow, the Serbs were to leave their shutters closed allday, so that they should not see the Austrians, ceased tospeak as Gavrilo began gathering the leaves, and watchedhim narrowly for a moment.

“‘Gavrilo,’ she said, ‘please put no more leaves intothe cage.’

“‘Why not?’

“‘Because it is not well for him. He has been peckingat the leaves and I think they poison him.’

“‘No,’ said Gavrilo.

“‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘He appears miserable to-day.’

“‘But naturally!’ returned the youth. ‘That is notnew. He is dying. See how he is huddled with closedeyes in the corner of the cage.’ As he spoke he pluckedanother leaf.

“Mara’s expression became ominous.

“‘If he should die,’ she said in a quavering voice, ‘itwill be because of the leaves which you have given him!’

“‘Impossible,’ Gavrilo replied. ‘Does not a bird liveamong the leaves?’

“‘I tell you,’ she exclaimed, ‘I have asked the old birdman about it. He says some leaves are good and someare not. He is coming this evening to see the kos andgive it medicine in its water.’

“I was relieved when Gavrilo pressed the point no fartherbut dropped the fresh leaves on the ground. Feelingthat a situation had been narrowly averted, I thoughtbest to leave them together.

“That evening, as I was walking toward the hotelfrom the square at the center of the town, I saw him comingout of the kafana with several of the youths I hadcome to recognize as his friends. He joined me and wewalked along together. At Mara’s garden gate he halted,saying: ‘Let us enter and see the poor bird.’

“‘No, Gavrilo,’ I said warningly. ‘It is not the birdwe go to see, but Mara.’

“‘So be it,’ he replied. ‘Let us then visit Mara.’

“Mara was not in the garden. Gavrilo called hername. She answered from the house, and a momentlater came out to meet us.

“As she emerged I saw her glance at the bird cage.Then she gave a startled cry.

“‘Look!’ she wailed. ‘The kos is dead!’

“It was true; there lay the bird upon its back amongthe dry leaves at the bottom of the cage.

“For a time we stood in silence, regarding it throughthe bars. I knew that Gavrilo and Mara were filled withemotion, and for my own part I was surprised to discoverhow much the death of the bird seemed to mean to me.When, a day or two before, they had spoken of symbolismin connection with the kos, I knew what they meant,but did not feel it: yet now I felt it strongly, as though Imyself were a Serb, with a Serb’s vision and superstition.It was not a dead bird that I saw, but a climax in a parable—astory of scriptural flavor, fraught with uncannymeaning.

“Gavrilo was the first to speak.

“‘Poor kos!’ he said in a low, tragic tone. ‘It is freeat last. It was written that it should not be captive whento-morrow dawns.’

“‘What do you mean?’ demanded Mara.

“‘I told you it was destined to die unless you let itgo,’ he answered gently.

“‘And as I would not let it go,’ she retorted, ‘youdesired that it should die, in accordance with your prophecy!Yes, that is it! You made it die! You placed theleaves of henbane in its cage and killed it!’

“‘You are excited, Maro,’ he returned. ‘You mustknow that I desired the poor bird to live. Let us dig alittle grave here in the garden and bury it, and cease tospeak of it until we are calmer. We are overwrought—bothof us—because of the bitterness of to-morrow.Where is the spade?’

“‘Do not touch the kos!’ she commanded: ‘It shall notbe buried yet.’

“‘Why not?’ I interposed. ‘It will be better for usall.’

“‘The old bird man comes this evening,’ Mara flungback. ‘He will look at the bird and know that Gavrilohas poisoned it with henbane.’

“‘But, Maro,’ I returned, ‘Gavrilo has said that he didnot. You know that he is truthful.’

“‘His words mean nothing!’ she cried. ‘Am I nota Serb? Do I not read the meanings in events? Gavrilolies. Gavrilo killed the kos. He is a murderer. I hatehim!’

“‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘You give me the truth atlast!’

“‘Yes, the truth!’

“‘So much the better that I know in time!’ cried Gavrilo,and without another word he ran frantically fromthe garden.

“As for Mara, she seemed almost on the brink of madness.I do not know how long I remained there trying toreason with her, calm her, make her see the folly anddanger of what she had done. By the time her passionhad abated the late June twilight had settled over thetown. Presently I heard the garden gate open, and amoment later a venerable Serb appeared.

“‘Wait!’ Mara said to me. ‘Now you shall learn thatI was right!’

“Then, to the old man, she said: ‘You are too late tocure my bird, but you are not too late to tell me fromwhat cause came its death. Look at this leaf that wasplaced in its cage. Is not that the henbane?’

“The old man took the leaf, inspected it, and shook hishead.

“‘No,’ said he. ‘Let me see the bird.’

“‘It lies there in the cage.’

“He opened the cage door and, reaching in, removedthe little body.

“‘Ah,’ he said, ‘a kos. Do you not know, my child,that birds of this species cannot long survive captivity?’

“Mara hung her head.

“‘I have heard it said,’ she answered in a low voice.

“‘To imprison wild birds is cruel,’ remarked the oldbird man. ‘These birds, in particular, are the Serbs ofthe air. They are descended from birds that saw the fieldof Kossovo. They desire only to be free.’ Then, as Maradid not reply, he said: ‘Bring a light.’

“She went into the house and emerged with a lamp,placing it upon a table near the door. The old bird mansat down beside the table and, holding the bird near thelight, brushed back the soft plumage of its breast, muchin the manner of peasant mothers whom one sees, occasionally,searching with unpleasant suggestiveness intheir children’s hair.

“‘Look,’ he said, ‘the bird would have died of these,even had it survived captivity. It is covered with animalculæ.In a cage it could not rid itself of them as natureenables free creatures to do.’

“Looking at the bird’s breast, Mara and I could see thedeadly vermin.

“‘Give me a spade,’ said the old man. ‘I will interthe bird here in the garden.’

“Mara indicated a spade leaning against the wall.Then, turning with beseeching eyes to me, she seized bothmy hands, and said in a low, intense voice:

“‘Go, I pray you, and find Gavrilo! Tell him thatI implore his forgiveness. Say that I love him betterthan all the world and ask only that he come to me atonce.’

“I went directly to the hotel and to Gavrilo’s room.He was not there. No one about the place had seen him.I then went to the kafana which I knew he patronized,but the proprietor declared that he knew nothing of hiswhereabouts. Through the remainder of the evening Idiligently searched the town, going to the houses of allhis friends, but nowhere could I find a trace of him.Obliged at last to acknowledge myself defeated, I returnedto the hotel. Several times during the night Iarose and stole to his room, but daylight came without hisputting in an appearance. Early in the morning I wentagain to the kafana, but though I learned there that theArchduke had arrived the night before with his wife andhis suite, and was housed at the governor’s palace, I gotno word of the missing boy. Wherefore, after breakfast,it became my unpleasant duty to go to Mara, inform herof my failure, and comfort her as best I might.

“She looked ill and terrified. I wished that she wouldweep.

“Thinking perhaps to find him in the central square ofthe town before the Archduke, the governor, and theother officials set out for the review, I was moving in thatdirection when there came to my ears the dull sound ofan explosion. Continuing on my way, I encountered asI rounded the next corner a scattering crowd of men,women, and children, running toward me, in the street.

“I asked two or three of them what had happened, butthey ran on without reply. Presently, among them, I sawone of the youths with whom I had several times seenGavrilo, and him I seized by the coat, demanding information.

“‘Let me go!’ he cried. ‘Some one threw a bombinto the Archduke’s carriage! They are arresting everyone.Get away!’ And he tugged violently to escape myhold.

“‘Have you seen Gavrilo?’

“‘Not to-day.’

“‘Is the Archduke dead?’

“‘No. He warded off the bomb and it exploded beneaththe carriage which followed. For God’s sake, releaseme!’

“I did so, and walked on toward the square. Halfwaydown the block I met some Austrian police. After questioningme briefly they let me go, whereafter I questionedthem. The horses drawing the second carriage had beenkilled, they said, and some officers of the archducal suiteinjured. The Archduke, however, insisted upon continuingto the review and would presently pass. They advisedme to return to my hotel.

“I had hardly reached my room when I heard a bugleand the clatter of hoofs outside. Going to the window,I saw mounted men of the Royal Austrian Guard advancingaround the corner. Behind them, between doublerows of cavalry, came several landaus, carrying outriders,and driven by coachmen in white wigs and knee breeches.As the first of these vehicles came nearer, I saw that theoccupants of the back seat were Francis Ferdinand, Archdukeof Austria, heir apparent to the throne of Austria-Hungary,and his morganatic wife, the Duchess ofHohenberg.

“The shutters of most of the houses were closed, butin a few windows I saw faces, and there were scatteredknots of people on the sidewalks, closely watched by thepolicemen who rode ahead on horses and bicycles. Asthe archducal carriage came along, hats were raised, andonce or twice I heard faint cheering, which the Archdukeand his consort acknowledged, he by touching the visorof his helmet, she by inclining her head.

“As their carriage came below my window and I sawthe expression of condescending good will frozen on boththeir faces, and thought of the constant apprehensionthere must be behind those polite masks, it struck me asamazing that a man and woman could be found, in thesetimes, to play the royal part.

“As I was thinking thus I saw a dark-clad figure dartout suddenly from somewhere on the sidewalk, below,pass swiftly between the horses of the bodyguard, andreach the side of the royal carriage. Some of the guardsmenleaped at once from their horses and there was adash of policemen toward the man, but before anyonelaid hands upon him he raised one arm, as though pointingaccusingly at the Archduke and his Countess, andthere followed, in swift succession, two sharp reports.

“I saw the royal pair fall forward. Simultaneously thecarriage stopped and was at once surrounded by an agitatedgroup of soldiers, policemen, and servants; whileanother and more violent group pressed about the individualwho had fired the shots, beating him as they swepthim away down the street. Before they had gone a dozenyards, however, a high official, who had jumped out ofthe second carriage, ran up and directed them to take theman to the sidewalk. This brought the crowd in mydirection, and it was only as they turned toward me thatI caught a glimpse of the face of their prisoner. As Ihad dreaded, it was poor Gavrilo.”

For a moment all of us were too thunderstruck tospeak. Somehow the picture he had given us did notseem to be that of an assassin, as one imagines such aman.

“You mean to say,” asked the man by the windowslowly, “that this very boy you’ve been telling us aboutwas the one who shot the Archduke?”

“Yes,” said the other, “he was Gavrilo Prinzip ofSarajevo.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the third. “The boy whobrought on the war!”

“As we were saying earlier,” returned the one who hadtold the tale, “historians will doubtless trace the beginningsof the war to Gavrilo’s shot. Certainly Austriaused the shot as her excuse, alleging that a plot to kill theArchduke had been hatched in Serbia—which was absolutelyuntrue, for Serbia was afraid of nothing so muchas of giving offense to Austria, knowing well that Austriawas only seeking a pretext to pounce upon her, preciselyas she had earlier pounced upon Bosnia and Herzegovina,annexing them.”

After a thoughtful pause he added: “Poor Gavrilo!I am glad to know that he is free at last. Like Mara’sstarling, he was not one to live long in a cage. And itis perhaps because I was so fond of him, and also becauseAustria’s excuse was so transparently despicable, that Ishall always go behind the shooting in thinking of thebeginning of the war. As I conceive it, it was Mara’sanger that released Gavrilo from the promise which,otherwise, would have withheld him. And it wasthe death of the caged starling that brought on heranger. And it was the animalculæ that caused the bird’sdeath.”

“That is,” put in the man by the window, “you preferto trace the war down to such a small beginning as thedeath of that caged bird?”

“Rather,” replied the other, “to a still smaller andmore repulsive beginning—to the vermin which destroyedthe bird. It seems to me I see them always crawlingthrough the explanations, apologies, excuses, warmessages, and peace overtures of the Teutonic autocrats.”

AT ISHAM’S

It was a place where men went who liked to talk ofcurious things. It was not, of course, advertised asthat; there was no sign to the public saying as much.Indeed, the only sign of any sort said “Wines, Ales, andLiquors,” just below the name “Isham.” But, nevertheless,that is what it distinctively was—a place wheremen went who liked to talk of curious things.

It was a curious place to look at, too, in a way—thewrong way. It was a three-story house among housesfifteen, twenty, and thirty stories high; it was a housesixty years old, living usefully among houses, most ofwhich were scarcely as many months old. But sixtyyears is no great age for a house in most places, and threestories is not out of the common. It is thirty stories thatare extraordinary. In the right way Isham’s was a veryordinary place to look at, in very curious surroundings—onlyit took a moment’s thought to find it out.

Old Isham himself, though, would have been curiousanywhere in the world. He was seventy years old, andhe looked precocious. Perhaps having lived so long inan atmosphere of “wild surmise” had robbed him of thegift of wonderment, the last light of infancy to go out inthe world, and so he was absolutely grown up. That iswhat he was, absolutely grown up. Looking into his faceyou could not imagine his ever being surprised, quitewithout a previous experience of the present. As one ofhis customers said, he could take the gayest dinner-partythat ever was, and with a single glance of his faded blueeyes reduce it to a pile of dirty dishes and the bill. Hewas saturated with the gayety of thirty thousand dinners.He never condescended to the vulgarity of a dress suit,but always wore plain black with immaculate linen. Sohe would move in the evening, ponderously—for hemust have weighed two hundred pounds—among thetables, listening imperturbably to praise and blame. Yes,chops were almost always properly broiled, beer had beenflat from the beginning of the world—Lucullus with adash of Cato.

Twinkle Sampson was his oldest patron. He was asold as Isham, and had been dining there once or twice aweek ever since he was thirty; but he was the antithesisof Isham in appearance. He had the face of a veryyoung child; it was all wonderment. The whole worldwas for him a wild surmise. His hobby was astronomy.He liked, as he said, to talk about the moon. Any of theheavenly bodies would interest him, but the moon was hisown peculiar sphere. His knowledge was for the mostlaboriously gleaned, unassisted, from books; but twice inhis life he had looked at the moon through a great telescope,and those two occasions were to Twinkle Sampsonwhat one wedding and one funeral are to most men. Helooked like a moon-lover, too, a pale, weak reflection ofmasculinity. The nearest he ever got to anger was whensome ignorant person at Isham’s threatened to divert thetalk from his hobby when once he had dragged it thither.

“I know a man—,” began one of these imprudentlyon one occasion.

“We don’t care if you know a million men,” interruptedTwinkle. “We want to talk about the moon.”

And he sat for five minutes thereafter, blinking at theinterloper like an exasperated white-haired owl. Even inthat outburst, though, he characteristically took refuge inthe plural.

Such little “flare-ups” were very, very frequent atIsham’s. Indeed, they were inevitable, because therepeople talked of what they had thought about. It is thetalk for talk’s sake that is only a string of wearying agreements;the drunkard over a bar, a débutante at a dinner-table,a statesman among his constituents. Talk atIsham’s was intelligently sharp, interrupted, disputative.And, in any case, Savelle would have made it so. He waseaten up by the zeal of his cause, which was Christianityand capitalism. Capitalism, he preached, was founded onChristianity, was a development and an inevitable developmentof the social implication of the Gospels. It wasa curious plea; it had the power of exasperating humanbeings otherwise kindly and meditative, such as chieflyaffected Isham’s, to something like fury when Savelle eloquentlyexpounded it. He called it Christian economics.He argued that just as Christianity was developing thesocial relations of human beings to one of pure love, so itwas developing also their economical relations to one ofpure trust. The two developments had gone on side byside throughout the Christian era, from the days whenmerchants hauled ponderous “talents of silver” aboutwith them in their trading, until now, when one couldcontrol all the wealth of the world by the tapping of atelegraph key. And not only was their growth thussynchronous, but each was the exactest exponent of theother; it was only in Christian countries, he explained,that the capitalistic system was to be found at all, and inthe quasi-heathen it was invariably established in exactproportion with the spread of Christian ethics. He wasfull, too, of frequent instances and recondite dates, suchas the invention of the bill of exchange by the Hebrews,and the advice of Jesus to his Apostles anent carryingmoney about with them. There were only two crimes inChristian economics, just as in the ethics; dishonesty,which he claimed was the commercial form of the sinagainst the Holy Ghost, and bankruptcy, or the refusalof trust, which was simply a denial of the economic implicationof the teaching of love one another. Socialism,of course, was merely a new, subtle sacrilege, and Marxthe newest incarnation of anti-Christ. His faith or fanaticismwould always burn its fiercest in talking of thesespecific instances. Twinkle Sampson would sit blinkingastigmatically at him for an hour in silence when hepreached so. He was the only man of them all whomTwinkle Sampson never interrupted, never tried to dragaway to the moon.

It was only an occasional horrified Christian or exasperatedSocialist who ever diverted him, and then hewould descend to embittering personalities with disconcertingquickness. He was of French descent, Gascon, atall, fair, pale man, and had the racial instinct for combat.In the daytime he was the Wall Street reporter for one ofthe evening dailies, and people who knew him down theresaid he went about his work in that district like a piouspilgrim in Judea. But what you did daytimes never matteredat Isham’s. It was what you could say eveningsafter dinner, in the back of the dining-room beside thebar, that counted, and there Savelle, next to Twinkle, wasthe best listened-to man in Isham’s.

And, measured by that scale, little Norvel was his farthestneighbor. He was the least listened-to man, becausehe rarely spoke, and the best listener. Indeed, hewas the only genuine listener. The others listened onlyunder force majeure. He, on the contrary, would dinesparely, for he was very poor, apparently, and sit smokingall evening until ten o’clock, and go away withoutever speaking to any one, except the waiter who served,and a “Good evening” and “Good night” to Mr. Ishamhimself. His prestige was due solely to one effort. Hehad propounded a query which Isham’s had discussedmore than any other ever raised there, more thanTwinkle’s lunar hypotheses, or Savelle’s Christian economics,and which had never been settled. It was the onecommon topic among them. Other subjects owed theirexistence and prosperity to the protection and loyalty ofone man, but little Norvel, having put his afoot, retiredinto silence and cigar smoke, and left its life to the careof others. He had injected the conundrum into a conversationof Twinkle Sampson’s about the inhabitants ofMars, in whose existence Twinkle Sampson not only believed,but took a far deeper interest than in those of hisfellow earthmen.

“If,” little Norvel began, “if Mars is inhabited bya race so similar to ourselves—if—”

“Well, well, Mr. Norvel,” Twinkle Sampson interrupted,“that is fairly well conceded, I think. If—what?”

“If,” continued little Norvel tranquilly, “if it is so,what means of communication between us is there that isso unmistakably of human origin that a sight of it, or asound from it, would immediately convince them of ourrelationship?”

It had seemed, when the quiet little man first spoke,as if it was a question easily brushed aside; but a littlediscussion, genuine Ishamic, soon proved it to havegreater weight. Norvel sat aside, contributing nothingthen or ever thereafter. Indeed, the only result the questionhad, or seemed to have, for him was the winningby it of the deep affection of Twinkle Sampson.

The early discussion of the matter eliminated all possibilitiesof the sense of hearing. That one of the fivesenses had to be discarded from the possibilities of communication.There is no sound which humanity cancreate which nature, in some other form, cannot perfectlyimitate. Except laughter? That suggestion was Savelle’s.But it was not successful, though he defendedhimself with his own peculiar fervor. It appealed to theintense emotionalism of the man, that idea of the ultimateexpression of humanity being laughter. He took up itsdefense as recklessly as his school of economics, and withsomething of the same breadth of vision and indefinitereasoning. Laughter was, he claimed, beyond the narrowlimits of the question discussed, that very thing, the ultimateexpression of humanity. Man was distinctively not,as he has been defined, the unfeathered biped, not thetool-using animal; he was the animal who laughs, and inproof he instanced the great poet. When he wished toimbue men with his own immense pessimism that thewrath of the Zeus was not the mysterious working ofnature but the malignity of men, he made that terriblephrase, the most terrible ever spoken, “The laughter ofthe gods.”

“Think of it yourselves,” he demanded. “Put it intoyour own words. The laughter of God!” He was standingup then in the heat of his pleading. “What that’sdivine is left then? He can only be a man, a fearfulsuperman.”

But they beat down the orator with instances of gurglingbrooks and hyenas. He strove Homerically with hisattackers, thundering his defense of his vision until oldIsham had to come up to the table and look at them allwith his faded blue eyes and precocious face of seventyyears. But though he failed of conviction his argumentdid just what he said; it put the question outside the“narrow limits” Norvel had laid it in. Savelle alwaysdid that with every question. After he had spoken thephrase they all remembered was his—the ultimate expressionof humanity. It was by such phrases, suchideas, Isham’s lived, as a place to which talk-hungrypeople learned to go.

Old Sampson, who always listened to Savelle, thoughhe deplored his tendency “to wander in his talk,” awayfrom the moon and kindred subjects, took a new lease oflife from that night. At last a day had come when peoplereally liked to talk about the moon, or Mars, which wasalmost as good. He became a mental manufacturer ofobjects of origin so exclusively human that once theywere conveyed to Mars, once that difficulty overcome,would produce instant understanding. Almost nightlyhe would turn up with a new one, and invariably someone would overthrow his hopes by suggesting a natural,in distinction to his human, phenomenon. He wouldalways feebly defend his invention, and then fall silent—apparentlyintent upon a new one.

It was Philbin, the novelist, whose hobby was “Weltpolitik,”and who revelled in prophecies those days of aEuropean cataclysm, who put him, as it were, finally outof this particular misery.

“It seems to me,” complained Twinkle, in his plaintivevoice, blinking almost tearfully at the table-cloth,“as if nature imitates everything.”

“Twinkle,” said Philbin, who was sitting next to him,“lend me your ears. I want ‘to whisper into their furrydepths.’ Have you ever thought of going yourself?”

Twinkle, lifting his eyes to the other’s face, blinkedand shook his head.

Savelle was the only man who did not laugh. He neverlaughed either at Sampson or Philbin. “Don’t you see,”he cried sharply, in his eager idea-driven way, “don’tyou see what the man has discovered? Your ears willneed cropping soon. ‘Nature imitates everything!’That is, he has found, he has perceived, he is establishingby his own experiments that man, after all his effortand his boasting, after all his science and learning, whichhas made a joke of the teaching of Jesus and the poetryof Milton, that this creature itself has in turn creatednothing. That man, after all, has only, can only, imitatenature.”

He let fall his fist on the table, looking around at hislisteners. He always had listeners at Isham’s, and perhapsnowhere else in New York. For the moment he had forgottenhis tiff with Philbin, had forgotten Philbin himself,and was all for rushing ahead on his idea-drivencourse to some unimaginable distance. But Philbin’svanity never forgot slights. It was not the words—hegave and took sharper every day of his life—but themanner in which he was thrown aside as an unnoticeableobstruction in the other’s path of thought, the rush pasthim of the faster mind that mortified him. He knewSavelle, knew him better than any one in the room did,for that was his business, and he knew how fast he wasgoing and how sharp he would fall, and then, like a mischievouslittle boy, with his foot, he stuck out his tongueand tripped him.

“That’s contrary to every teaching of Christ you everraved about,” he said quickly.

Savelle did come down with rather a crash. Even hisdefenders admitted that much. But then he had beengoing very fast. Moreover, he was a man who habituallyused too many words. He used too many to Philbin—agreat deal too many. Philbin’s faults were almostall on the outside, and even through the casual communionof Isham’s he had made them pretty plain toevery man there. He was vain, slightly arrogant, over-givento sneering. Savelle, in his defense of his position,managed to comment briefly upon each quality, and heput into the personalities the same vigor that he usedto defend his theory of the universe. At the very besthe showed a lamentable lack of proportion. At the worsthe was vulgarly offensive.

That is the danger of such talk as men plunged into atIsham’s; it lacks proportion. Personalities and universalitiesget all mixed up, and sometimes it takes longpatience and a good deal of humor to straighten out thetangle. Philbin and Savelle were in just such a tangleover little Norvel’s query. And neither of them hadpatience and Savelle had no grain of humor. If he had,he could not have come down from a discussion of histheory of the universe to criticism of Philbin’s personality.The matter was quite hopeless. The tangle onlygrew tighter until there was only one way of ending it.Philbin took it. He was a little man, and very nervous,and when he stood up his finger-tips just touched thetable, and he was trembling so they played a tattoo onthe table-cloth. Then he bowed and went out.

He had behaved the better of the two, but every onewas glad to see him go—except old Sampson, to whomanything like ill-feeling gave genuine pain. He liked aplacid world in which one could babble in amity about themoon. But to the rest Philbin was a bore. His Weltpolitikwas uninteresting. His European cataclysm wasa tale told by an idiot, full enough of learning, but signifyinglittle or nothing. One could imagine baseballgames on Mars, and make the matter realistic; but Philbin’simaginings dealt in palpable absurdities. Even atIsham’s talk had limitations. Philbin had been a warcorrespondent in the Balkans, and they thought it hadupset his mind.

Savelle affected to ignore his going away, and went onwith his expounding of Twinkle Sampson’s discovery—sohe was pleased to call it. He ridiculed Philbin’s criticismmore fiercely than before. He, Sampson, had givena marvellously stimulating example, Savelle said, of whatreligious thought meant, that it was not in man to create,only in God. All that was human was imitation, even asman himself was God’s image. In truth, Philbin’s attackhad stimulated him, and he talked that night better thanhe had ever talked. He felt that he had come off a secondbest in the encounter, and he determined to wipe outthe remembrance from the memory of his hearers. Poorold Twinkle, hearing himself eulogized for the first timein his life, probably, sat in silence, winking almost tearfully,too amazed to be pleased.

And always after he made a point of emphasizing thistheory of his—or of Sampson’s—as he called it. Itbecame the rival in this talk of Christian economics. Hedid so without argument, for Philbin did not come back.A Futurist painter, who had found out Isham’s purely byaccident, gradually took his place. At Isham’s placeswere always taken gradually. To make up for it theywere generally taken for a very long time. Philbin’s wasthe first defection, in fact, since Twinkle’s low-tonedmonologues about the moon, with old Isham for the onlylistener, in the corner by the fireplace, had started it alleleven years ago. Philbin, too, had never been in verygood standing; his trick of sarcasm hurt too many sensibilities.And then he was agnostic in everything, andIsham’s collectively believed in almost everything.Every man of them, except the Futurist painter who tookhis place and had scarcely known him, had some littlehurt somewhere to remember him by, and so, of course,wanted to forget him.

They had almost succeeded, too, when suddenly thathappened which brought his name up in all thoughts, thewar. That night, the night when all rumors and surmiseswere solidified into the single, soul-stunning fact, nobodymentioned his name, though each knew the others werethinking of it. It seemed uncivil when they had eachheard the rest make such fun of his theories. But aftera few days some bolder soul broke the spell.

“Philbin—do you remember, he always prophesiedit?”

But that was all, and Savelle sat silent even then.

In truth, the war changed Isham’s. Of course, itchanged somehow almost everything in the world, but itchanged Isham’s peculiarly. Before it had been a placewhere people went to talk of curious things, and now thesame people went there—Sampson and Savelle and littleNorvel and the Futurist painter, and old Isham himselfwas unchanged, nothing could alter him, and they stilltalked of curious things, more curious things than theyhad ever imagined before, but Isham’s had changed byceasing to be different, because everywhere people weretalking of the same things. Talk at Isham’s was just liketalk on any street corner. In fact, the world had caughtup with Isham’s.

Then one night Philbin did come back. It was in thesecond year of the great war, and it had been nearly fivesince he had gone away after his tiff with Savelle. Hedid not come directly into the back room, as he had beenused to do, but dined by himself at a small table in front.He sat there a long time after dinner over his coffee,with his back turned to his old place. Every one of themhad seen him and recognized him, and talk that nightwas slow. Though he had spoken to none of them andturned his back to them, each knew somehow that hewould speak and that he had come there especially tospeak, and that he would say something important, andthey sat nervously waiting.

At last he did come, pushing back his chair and walkingslowly up the room. They noticed then how he hadchanged. He had grown very much older. He had beenscarcely fifty when he had left, and now he looked andwalked like an old man, and his dress, which had alwaysbeen very neat and careful, showed an old man’s carelessness.They all got up when he came and greeted him byname and with genuine cordiality. The little stings offive years since had vanished long ago. Savelle got uplast and a little doubtfully, but it was Savelle he especiallypicked out.

“Ah, Savelle,” and he put out his hand.

Then he sat down in his old place and ordered morecoffee and talked for a while quietly to his right-handneighbor, who was little Norvel. He said nothing of himselfand very little of any subject, seeming distrait andvery depressed. After a little, abruptly he took the conversationin his own hands.

“Gentlemen,” he said, leaning forward with his handsfolded on the cloth in front of him, “since I was herelast I have had a very great sorrow. I have lost my son.”

Then he fell silent again, and apparently not hearingany of the things that were said to him.

“He was killed,” he began a second time, just as hehad begun the first, “in Flanders, six weeks ago. Hewas twenty-two years and four months old. Before hedied they pinned this on him.” He fumbled in his waistcoat,and picking out something threw it across the clothover in front of Savelle. It was a little bronze crossknown the world over, with two words on it, “For valor”.“I sent them my son and they sent me back that,” saidPhilbin.

It was the old Philbin voice—the same that had inturn galled each one of them.

“He went out in the night,” he went on, “and pulledback to life two London fishmongers. Then he died—goingback for a third fishmonger. There is some sixinches in a London newspaper telling about it. Thatsame paper gave a column and a half last week to a storyI wrote. And they gave six inches to my son. That’squeer, too, isn’t it?”

Nobody answered him. They were all afraid to—histone was too bitter. No one was quite sure what hewould say.

“We used to talk here years ago,” he went on presently,“about curious things. I think this curious enoughto talk about. They gave a ‘stick’ to the death of myson and a column to the birth of my book. Savelle, youare a newspaper man, tell us about it?”

Savelle was looking at him with his eyes blazing, andhe answered not a word.

“I suppose it’s logical,” said Philbin. “Any manmay have a son. But I have written twenty books andhad only one son.”

The only answer came from quite an unexpected quarter.It was little Norvel, who was sitting at Philbin’selbow.

“Did you say, sir,” he asked, “that he went back threetimes?”

“Yes, Mr. Norvel, three times—three fishmongers.”

The man’s sneers would have been disgusting if theyhad not been so plainly aimed at himself first. As it was,they were almost terrible.

“Whether the three fishmongers lived or died,” hewent on, “I don’t know. The six inches neglected tostate. Want of space, possibly. You are a newspaperman, Savelle, perhaps you can explain.”

“I wish you would explain this, Mr. Savelle,” saidlittle Norvel.

“What?” said Savelle.

“What part of nature Mr. Philbin was imitating whenhe went back?”

All the pent-up intensity of Savelle’s being rushed outin his answer: “I am maliciously misrepresented. Thereis no human element in such action. It is the divine phenomenonof Calvary.”

“Savelle,” put in Philbin, “when my son was alivehe was a man. I believe, too, he died like a man. I preferthat to an imitation of anything—even God.”

The width of the table was between the two men, andthe whole meaning of the universe. Their antagonismwas irreconcilable. In that instant it had recovered allits bitterness of five years before. Time could do nothing.Not even chance could. It was literally immutable,the only thing in the world neither of those great forcescan effect.

But the only pitiful part of it was, Sampson sittingbetween them, turning now to one, now to the other, withdim sight and faulty hearing, and wanting of eithermerely something human.

DE VILMARTE’S LUCK

What Hazelton’s friends called his second mannerhad for a mother despair, and for a father irony,and for a godmother necessity. It leaped into his mindfull-grown, charged with the vitality of his bitterness.

Success had always been scratching at Hazelton’s door,and then hurrying past. The world had always beensaying to him, “Very well, very well indeed; just a littlebit better and you shall have the recognition that shouldbe yours.” Patrons came and almost bought pictures.He was accepted only to be hung so badly that his singingcolor was lost on the sky-line. Critics would infuriatehim by telling him that he had almost—almost, mindyou—painted the impossible; that his painting was whatthey called “a little too blond.”

How Hazelton hated that insincere phrase which meantnothing, for, as he explained to Dumont the critic, asthey sat outside the Café de la Rotonde after their returnfrom the Salon, Nature was blond—what else? He,Dumont, came from the Midi, didn’t he? Well, then,he knew what sunshine was! How could paint equal thecolor of a summer’s day, the sun shining on the flesh of ablond woman, a white dress against a white wall? Blond?Because he loved the vitality of light they wanted him todip his brush in an ink-pot—hein? Dumont would bepleased if he harked back to the gloom of the old Dutchschool, or if he imitated the massed insincerities ofBoecklen, Hazelton opined from the depths of his scorn.

Dumont poised himself for flight on the edge of hishard metal chair. He was bored, but he had to admit thatif ever Hazelton was justified in bitterness it was to-daywhen, after a long search through the miles of canvases,he had finally discovered his two pictures hung in sucha position as to be as effective as two white spots. Heescaped, leaving Hazelton hunched over the table, hisforceful, pugnacious, red countenance contrasting oddlywith the subtle anemia of his absinthe. He was followedby Hazelton’s choleric shouts, which informed him that he,Hazelton, could paint with mud for a medium if he chose.

His profession of art critic had accustomed Dumontto the difficulties of the artistic temperament, and hethought no more of Hazelton until he ran into him someten days later. There was malice in Hazelton’s small,brilliant eyes, and an air of suppressed triumph in hismuscular deep-chested figure. His face was red, partlyfrom living out of doors and partly from drink. Herolled as he walked, not quite like a bear and not quitelike a seafaring man—a vigorous, pugnacious personwhose vehement greeting made Dumont apprehensiveuntil he glanced at Hazelton’s hands, which were reassuringlysmall.

“Well,” he said, “you remember our conversation?It was the parent, my dear Dumont, of dead-sea fruit ofthe most mature variety.” Hazelton considered this ajoke, and laughed at it with satisfaction. He was verymuch pleased with himself.

Dumont went with Hazelton to his studio. On Hazelton’seasel was a picture of dark, wind-swept trees beatenby a storm. They silhouetted themselves against asinister and menacing sky. The thing was full of violenceand fury, it was drenched with wet and blown withwind.

“Who did this?” asked Dumont. “It is magnificent!”

“You like it?” asked Hazelton, incredulously. Andthen he repeated himself, changing his accent, “You likeit, Dumont?”

“Certainly I like it,” Dumont answered, a trifle stiffly.“There is vitality, form, color! Because you are nothappy unless you are in the midst of a sunbath, at leastpermit others to vary their moods.”

At this Hazelton burst into loud laughter.

“You amuse yourself,” Dumont observed, but Hazeltoncontinued to laugh uproariously, shaking his wideshoulders.

“Do you know the name of that picture? The nameof that picture is ‘La Guigne Noire’—I painted it fromthe depths of my bad luck.”

“Hein?” said Dumont. “You painted that picture?”

“This picture—if you call it that—I painted.”

“I call it a picture,” Dumont asserted, dryly.

“I call it a practical joke,” said Hazelton. “One doesnot paint pictures with the tongue in one’s cheek. Iknow how one paints pictures.”

“How one paints pictures makes no difference,” Dumontreplied, impatiently. “Who cares if you had yourtongue in your cheek? You had your brush in yourhand. The result is that which matters. This work hascompleteness.”

Hazelton slapped his thigh with a mighty blow. “MonDieu!” he cried. “If this fools you, there are others itwill fool as well—and I need the money! And from thatbubbling artesian well from which this sprang I can seea million others like it—like it, but not like it. Hein,mon vieux? Come, come, my child, to Mercier’s, whowill sell it for me. The day of glory has arrived!”

A sardonic malice sparkled on Hazelton’s ugly face,and his nose, which jutted out with a sudden truculency,was redder than ever. He took the picture up anddanced solemnly around the studio.

It was in this indecorous fashion, to the echo of Hazelton’sbitter laughter, that his second manner was born,and that he achieved his first success, for his secondmanner was approved by the public.

Three years went past. Hazelton was medaled. Hewas well hung now, he sold moderately, but he neversold the work which he respected. At last his constantfailure with what he called “his own pictures” had madehim so sensitive that he no longer exposed them.

Hazelton’s position was that of the parent in the old-fashionedfairy tale who had two children, one beautifuland dark-haired, whom he despised and ill-treated andmade work that the child of light might thrive. That, inhis good-tempered moments, was how he explained thematter to his friends.

Dumont explained to Hazelton that he had two personalitiesand that he had no cause to be ashamed of thissecond and subjective one, even though he had discoveredit by chance and in a moment of mockery.

“You have an artistic integrity that is proof evenagainst yourself,” was his analysis.

The insistence of the public and of Dumont, in whosecritical judgment he had believed, gave him somethinglike respect for his foster-child. His belief in his judgmentwas subtly undermined.

“I shall leave you,” he told Dumont. “I shall secretemyself in the country undefiled by the artist’s paintbrushand there I will paint a chef d’œuvre entitled ‘LeMal du Ventre.’ On its proceeds I will return to myblond.”

While engaged on this work, which later became Hazelton’smost successful picture, Hazelton met Raoul deVilmarte. This young man was a poor painter, but adelightful companion, and he endeared himself to Hazeltonat once by his naïve enthusiasm for Hazelton’s formerpictures.

“What grace they had—what beauty—what light!What an extraordinary irony that you should throw awaya gift that I should so have cherished!” he exclaimed.

His words were to Hazelton like rain to a dying plant.He stopped work on “Le Mal du Ventre,” and began topaint to “suit himself” again. He had a childish delightin surprising De Vilmarte with his new picture.

“Why, why,” cried his new friend, “do you permityourself to bury this supreme talent? No one has paintedsunlight as well! Compared with this, darkness enshroudsthe canvases of all other masters! Why do younot claim your position as the apostle of light?”

Hazelton explained that critics and the public hadforced these canvases into obscurity.

“Another name signed to them—a Frenchman preferably—andwe might hear a different story,” he added.

A sudden idea came to De Vilmarte. “Listen!” hesaid. “I have exposed nothing for two years. Indeed,I have been doubtful as to whether I should exposeagain. I know well enough that were my family unknownand were not certain members of the jury mymasters, and others friends of my family, I might neverhave been accepted at all—it has been a sensitive pointwith me. Unfortunately, my mother and my friends believeme to be a genius—”

“Well?” said Hazelton, seeing some plan movingdarkly through De Vilmarte’s talk.

“Well,” said De Vilmarte, slowly, “we might play ajoke upon the critics of France. There is a gap betweenthis and my work—immeasurable—one I could neverbridge—and yet it is plausible—” He glanced from asketch of his he was carrying to Hazelton’s picture.

Hazelton looked from one to the other. Compared, agulf was there, fixed, unbridgable, and yet— He twistedhis small, nervous hands together. Malice sparkled fromhis eyes.

“It is plausible!” he agreed. He held out his hand.A sparkle of his malice gleamed in De Vilmarte’s paleeyes. They said no more. They shook hands. Later itseemed to Hazelton the ultimate irony that they shouldhave entered into their sinister alliance with levity.

The second phase of the joke seemed as little menacing.You can imagine the three of them outside the Rotonde,Hazelton and De Vilmarte listening to Dumont’s praiseof De Vilmarte’s picture. You can enter into the feelingsof cynicism, of disillusion, that filled the hearts of thetwo farceurs. De Vilmarte’s picture had been accepted,hung well, then medaled. The critics had acclaimedhim!

They sat there delicately baiting Dumont, bound togetherby the knowledge that they had against the world—forthey, and they alone, knew the stuff of which fameis made. They were in the position of the pessimist whohas proof of his pessimism. No one really believes theworld as bad as he pretends, and here De Vilmarte andHazelton had proof of their most ignoble suspicions;here was the corroding knowledge that Raoul’s positionand popularity could achieve the recognition denied to anunknown man. He was French, and on the inside, andHazelton was a foreigner and on the outside.

“Well,” said Raoul, when Dumont had left them, “wehave a fine gaffe to spring on them, hein? It’s going tocost me something. My mother is charmed—she willtake it rather badly, I am afraid.”

“Well, why should she take it?” asked Hazelton, aftera pause. “Why should we share our joke with all theworld?”

“You mean?” asked Raoul.

It was then that the voice of fate spoke throughHazelton.

“You can have the picture,” he said, jerking his bighead impatiently.

“Do you mean that I can have it—to keep?”

“Have it if you like. Money and what money buys isall I want from now on,” said Hazelton, and he shook hisshoulders grossly and sensually while his nervous hands,the hands whose work the picture was, twisted themselvesas though in agonized protest.

Hazelton went back to his studio and stood before hisblond pictures, the children of his heart. It was alreadyevening, but they shone out in the dim light. He was alittle tipsy.

“So,” he said to them—“so all these years you havedeceived me, as many a man has been deceived before byhis beloved. Your flaunting smiles made me think youwere what you are not. Dumont was right—my foster-childis better than you, for she made her way alone andwithout favor. I tried to think I had painted the impossible.Light is beyond me. Why should I think I couldpaint light? I am a child of darkness and misfortune.I know who my beloved is. You shall no longer work tosupport your sister!”

“What are you doing?” came his wife’s querulousvoice. “Talking and mumbling to yourself before yourpictures in the dark? Are you drunk again?”

Some months passed before De Vilmarte and Hazeltonmet again. They ran into each other on the corner of theBoulevard Raspail and the Boulevard du Montparnasse.

“Hey! What are you doing so far from home?” criedHazelton.

“Looking for you.”

“I was going to you,” Hazelton acknowledged.

They stared at each other scrutinizingly, each measuringthe other with dawning distrust. Each waited.

“Let us go to the Rotonde,” Hazelton suggested.

They talked of other things, each waiting for the otherto begin. Hazelton had the most resistance; he hadflipped a penny as to whether he should go to seek DeVilmarte, but De Vilmarte had made his decision withanguish. It was he who finally said:

“You know—about the matter of the picture—mymother is quite frantic about my success. She isfailing—”

“Toc!” cried Hazelton. “My poor wife has to go tothe hospital.”

“Nothing to do, I know,” said De Vilmarte, lookingaway diffidently, “but for one’s mother—”

“But for one’s wife,” Hazelton capped him, genially.“An aged mother and a sick wife, and a joke on theworld shared between two friends— What will a mannot do for his sick wife and for his aged mother!”

A little shiver of cold disgust ran over Raoul. For thefirst time he felt a vague antipathy for Hazelton, hisneck was so short and he rolled his big head in such apreposterous fashion.

They said good-by, Hazelton’s swagger, De Vilmarte’saverted eyes betraying their guilty knowledge that theyhad bought and sold things that should not be for sale.

Just how it came to be a settled affair neither De Vilmartenor Hazelton could have told. Now an exhibitionoccurred for which De Vilmarte needed a picture; nowHazelton dogged by his need of money would come tohim. Hazelton’s wife was always ailing. Her beautyand her disposition had been undermined by ill-health andself-indulgence, and he was one of those men temperamentallyin debt and always on the edge of being sued ordispossessed.

But in Hazelton’s brain a fantastic and mad sense ofrivalry grew. He had transferred his affection to hisdarker mood. Every notice of De Vilmarte’s namerankled in his mind. De Vilmarte’s growing vogue infuriatedhim. He felt that he must wring from the criticsand the public the recognition that was his due so thatthis child of his, born of his irony and his despair, andthat had been so faithful to him in spite of abuse, mightbe crowned. Just what had happened to both of themthey realized after the opening of the Salon next year.

“Take care,” Hazelton had warned De Vilmarte, “thatthey do not hang you better than they do me. That I willnot have.” He had said it jokingly; but while De Vilmarte’sexhibit was massed, and he had won the secondmedal, Hazelton’s was scattered, and he had but onepicture on the line; worse still, the critics gave Hazeltonformal praise while they acclaimed De Vilmarte as themost promising of the younger school of landscape-painters.

De Vilmarte sought out Hazelton, full of a sense ofapology. He found him gazing morosely into his glassof absinthe like one seeing unpleasant visions.

“It is really too strong,” Raoul said. “I am sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Hazelton replied, listlessly.“It’s got to stop, though!” He did not look up, but hefelt the shock that traveled through De Vilmarte’s well-knitbody. “It’s got to stop!” he repeated. “It’s toostrong, as you say.”

There was a long silence, a silence full of gravity, fullof despair, the silence of a man who has suddenly andunexpectedly heard his death sentence, a silence in whoseduration De Vilmarte saw his life as it was. He hadbegun this as a joke, after his first agonized indecision,and now suddenly he saw not only his mother but himselfinvolved, and the honor of his name. He waited forHazelton to say something—anything, but Hazelton waschasing chimeras in the depths of his pale drink. Asusual, his resistance was the greater. He sat hunchedand red, his black hair framing his truculent face, unmindfulof Raoul.

“It has gone beyond a joke,” was what Raoul finallysaid.

“That’s just it,” Hazelton agreed. “My God! Thinkhow they have hung you—think how they have hungme. Where do I get off? Have I got to work for nothingall my life?”

“The recognition—you know what that means—itmeans nothing!” cried Raoul.

Hazelton did not answer.

“But I can’t—confess now!” Raoul’s anguishdragged it out of him. “I could afford to be a farceur—Icannot afford to be a cheat.”

Hazelton looked at him suddenly. Then he laughed.“Ha! ha! The little birds!” he said. “They steppedin the lime and they gummed up their little feet, didn’tthey?” He lifted up his own small foot, which was wellshod in American shoes. “Poor little bird! Poor littlegummed feet!” He laughed immoderately.

Disgust and shame had their will with Raoul.

Hazelton was enchanted with his own similes, and, unmindfulof his friend’s mood, he placed his small handnext Raoul’s, which was nervous and brown, the handof a horseman.

“Can you see the handcuffs linking us?” he chuckled.“‘Linked for Life’ or ‘The Critics’ Revenge.’” Helaughed again, but there was bitterness in his mirth.“We should have told before,” he muttered. “I supposeit is too late now. I cannot blame you or myself, but, byGod! I’m not going to paint for you all my days. Whyshould I? We had better stop it, you know.” He drankdeeply. “Courage, my boy!” he cried, setting down hisglass. “I will have the courage to starve my wife if youwill have the courage to disappoint your mother.”

They left it this way.

When De Vilmarte again entered Hazelton’s studio,Hazelton barked at him ungraciously: “Ho! So you areback!”

“Yes,” said Raoul, “I am back.” He stood leaningupon his cane, very elegant, very correct, a hint of austerityabout him that vanished charmingly under the sunshineof his smile.

Hazelton continued painting. “Well,” he said, withoutturning around, “you have not come, I suppose, forthe pleasure of my company; but let me tell you in advancethat I have no time to do any painting for you. Iam not your bonne à tout faire.”

By Hazelton’s tone De Vilmarte realized that he wasready to capitulate; he wanted to be urged, and he desiredto make it as disagreeable as he could because he was notin a position to send De Vilmarte to the devil any morethan De Vilmarte could follow his instinct and leaveHazelton to come crawling to him—for there was alwaysthe chance that Hazelton might be lucky and wouldnot come crawling.

“It’s your mother again, I suppose,” said Hazelton,ungraciously.

De Vilmarte grew white around his mouth; he graspedhis cane until his hand was bloodless. “Some one unfortunatelytold her that they were urging me to have aprivate exhibition, and her heart is set upon it.”

“There are a number of things upon which my wife’sheart is set,” Hazelton admitted after a pause, duringwhich he painted with delicate deliberation and exquisitesurety while, fascinated and full of envy, De Vilmartewatched the delicate hand that seemed to have an independentexistence of its own that seemed to be the utteranceof some other and different personality than thatwhich was expressed in Hazelton’s body. He turnedaround suddenly, grinning at De Vilmarte.

“How much are you going to pay for my soul thistime?” he asked.

They had never bargained before. In the midst of itHazelton stopped and looked De Vilmarte over from topto toe. No detail of his charm and of his correctnessescaped him.

“How are you able to stand it?” he asked. “It mustbe hard on you, too.” The thought came to him as somethingnew.

“Oh,” said Raoul, with awful sarcasm, “you think itis hard on me?”

“You must be fond of your mother,” said Hazelton.This time he had not meant to be brutal, and he was sorryto see De Vilmarte wince, but he did not know how tomend matters. “How are we going to break through?”he said. “What end is there for us? I do it for mywife, whom I don’t love, poor wretch, but for whom Ifeel damned responsible; and you sell your soul to pleaseyour mother. And do you get nothing for yourself, Iwonder—” He half closed his little eyes, which glintedlike jewels between his black lashes. “Appreciation andapplause must be pleasant. One can buy as much withstolen money as one can with money earned.... Thereis only one way out—it is for one of us to die, or forone of them. There is death in our little drama, hein,mon vieux?”

It was the private exhibition that fixed De Vilmarte’sreputation as an artist. It also marked in his own mindthe precariousness of his position. And now the matterwas complicated for him because he fell in love with ayoung girl who cared for his talent as did his mother.She was one of those proud young daughters of Francewho had no interest in rich and idle young men. Eachword of her praise was anguish to him. The praise ofthe feuilletons he could stand better, because some waythey seemed to have nothing to do with him. It was theprice which he paid willingly for his mother’s happiness.

He cared so much that he had tried not to care for her,and again his mother intervened. It was in every way asuitable match, and his mother told him that she did notwish to die without a grandchild. “You have obligationsto your art,” she said, “but your obligations to your raceare above those.”

She was now very feeble. His wedding and his nextSalon picture filled her mind. She was haunted by thepresentiment that she would not see the summer cometo its close.

So Raoul would hurry from her room to Hazelton tosee how the picture was coming on. Hazelton was paintingas he had never painted before. It seemed, indeed,as if he had a double personality, and as if each one ofthese personalities was trying to outstrip the other. Ashappens sometimes to an artist, he had made a suddenleap ahead. No picture that he had painted had the depthor the beauty or the clear, flowing color of this one. Buthe lagged along. It was as though the beauty of the picturewhich De Vilmarte was to sign tortured him, and hedid not wish to finish it. He would stand before it, lostin the contemplation of its excellences like a devotee,refusing to paint.

The picture Hazelton was painting for his own signaturewas dark and magnificent, but the picture which hewas painting for De Vilmarte had a singular radiance.It was as though at last Hazelton had painted the impossible;light shone from that picture. Yet it was notfinished. Days passed, and Hazelton had not brought thepicture further toward completion.

One day when De Vilmarte came in he found Hazeltonbrooding before it. He had been drinking. Tears werein his eyes. “It is too beautiful—too beautiful! Lightis more beautiful than darkness. The taste for the black,the menacing, is the decadent appreciation of a too shelteredworld. I cannot finish this picture for another tosign.”

“No,” De Vilmarte soothed him, “of course not.”

“Oh, my beautiful!” cried Hazelton, addressing hispicture. “I cannot finish you! Come, De Vilmarte, wewill drink.”

De Vilmarte went with Hazelton. He watched overhim as a mother over her child. He talked; he reasoned;he sat quiet, white-lipped, while Hazelton would speculateas to what De Vilmarte got out of it.

“You are, I think, like the victim of a drug,” he said,jeering at De Vilmarte, his brilliant eyes agleam. Thatwas truer than Hazelton knew. He could not stop. Hismother, his fiancée, his friends, the critics, his world,expected a picture from him. He visualized them sometimespushing him on to some doom of whose exact naturehe was ignorant. Again it was to him as thoughthey dug a dark channel in which his life had to flow.

Meantime he had to nurse Hazelton’s sick spirit along.He would go with him as he drank, stand by him in hisstudio, urging him to paint. In this way they spent hideousdays together.

Hazelton developed a passion for torture. He was torturedhimself. Alcohol tortured him, his embittered naturetortured him. He loved to see De Vilmarte writhe.He was torn between his desire to finish the picture andthe anguish which he felt at seeing it about to pass intoanother’s hands. There were days when its existencehung in the balance.

“You see this palette-knife,” he would tell De Vilmarte,“and this palette of dark paint? A twist, myfriend, a little twist of the knife and a little splash, andwhere is this luminous radiance? Gone!” And hewould watch De Vilmarte as he let his brush hover overthe brilliant surface.

How it hurt Raoul he knew, because when he thoughtof destroying the picture it was as though a knife weretwisted in his own heart.

One afternoon De Vilmarte nursed Hazelton fromcafé to café, listening to his noble braggadocio.

“Remember,” Hazelton urged Raoul, “the wonderfulMongolian legend of the father and son who loved thesame woman, and whom for their honor they threw overa cliff! That’s the idea—the cliff! You shall throw ourlove over the cliff—you shall destroy the picture yourself.Come back with me!” He was as though possessed.Full of apprehension, De Vilmarte followedhim.

They stood before the picture. It shone out as thoughindeed light came from it. Hazelton put the palette intoDe Vilmarte’s hand.

“Now, my friend, go to it!” he cried. “Paint, DeVilmarte—paint in your own natural manner! A fewstrokes of the brush of the great master De Vilmarte,and color and light will vanish from it. Why not—whynot? You suffer, too—your face is drawn. You thinkI do not know how you hate me. I don’t need to look atyou to know that. We always hate those who havepower over us. Paint—paint! If I can bear it, surelyyou can. Paint naturally, De Vilmarte! Paint into ityour own meagerness and banality! Paint into my masterpiecethe signature of your own defeat.”

The afternoon was ebbing. It seemed as though theroom were full of silent people, all holding Raoul back—hisworld, the critics, his fiancée, his mother. Besides,he had no right to destroy this beautiful thing to save hishonor.

“You are not yourself,” he said.

“Aha! I know what you think of me. Ha! De Vilmarte,but I am a master, a great painter. Paint, andbetray yourself. Ha! sale voyou, you will not? Youare waiting to steal from me my final beautiful expression.You stand there— How is it that you permit meto call the Vicomte de la Tour de Vilmarte names? Whydo you not strike me?”

“Oh, call me what you like,” Raoul cried. “Only finishthe picture. There is very little more to do.”

“I tell you what I shall call you,” Hazelton jeered athim. “I will call you nothing worse than Raoul—Ra-oul—Ra—o—u—l!”He meowed it like a tom-cat.“How can I be so vile when I paint like an angel,Ra—o—u—l ... Ra—o—u—l!”

Sweat stood on Raoul’s forehead. He stood quiet.The picture was finished.

“Sign, my little Raoul, sign!” cried Hazelton. Andwith murder in his heart, a bitter tide of dark and sluggishblood mounting, ever mounting, Raoul signed andthen fled into the lovely spring evening.

“This is the end,” he thought. “There shall be nomore of this. Not for any one—not for any one, can Ibe so defiled!” For he felt the mystic identity betweenhimself and his mother—that he was flesh of her flesh,and that in some vicarious way she was being insultedthrough him.

But it was not the end. It was with horror that Raoullearned that the picture had been bought by the state,that he was to receive the Legion of Honor. His motherwas wild with joy.

“Now,” she cried, embracing him—“now I can departin peace.” She looked so fragile that it seemed asif indeed her spirit had lingered only for this joy. Shelooked at him narrowly. “But you have been workingtoo hard—you look ill. A long rest is what you need.”

“A very long rest,” Raoul agreed. He left the house,and, as if it was a magnet, the great exhibition drew himto it, and in front of his picture stood the thick, familiarfigure of Hazelton, his nose jutting out truculently fromhis face, which was red and black like a poster. He brokethrough his attitude of devoted contemplation to turnupon Raoul.

“Bought by the state!” he cried. “To be hung in theLuxembourg!” He pointed menacingly with his cane atDe Vilmarte’s neat little signature. “Why, I ask, shouldI go to my grave unknown, poor, a pensioner of yourbounty? Why should you be happy—fêted?”

The irony of being accused of happiness was too muchfor De Vilmarte. He laughed aloud.

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to be an honest man?”croaked Hazelton.

“Only death can make an honest man of me,” answeredDe Vilmarte.

“My death could make an honest man of you,” Hazeltonsaid slowly. It was as if he had read the dark andnameless secret that was lurking in the bottom of De Vilmarte’sheart.

For a moment they two seemed alone in all the earth,the only living beings. They stood alone, their secret intheir hands.

Then Hazelton’s lips began to move. “My God!” hesaid. “Bought by the state and hung in the Luxembourg!Bought by the state and hung in the Luxembourg!”He repeated it as if trying to familiarize himselfwith some inexplicable fact. “I will not have it!” hewent on. “I will not have it! If I’m not bought by thestate I shall not go on!”

Raoul looked at him with entreaty. Hazelton came upto the surface of consciousness and his eyes followedRaoul’s. A very frail little old lady was being pushed ina wheel-chair near them.

“My mother,” Raoul whispered.

“I wish to meet her,” said Hazelton.

She bowed graciously and then sat in her chair gazing atthe picture bought by the state. Pride was in every lineof her old face. She seemed returned from the shadowsonly to gaze at this picture. Then, in a voice which wascracked with age, she said, turning to Hazelton:

“I know your work, too. Monsieur—the opposite ofmy son’s. It is as though between you you encompassedall of nature’s moods. To me there has always been—youwill laugh I know—a strange similarity, as thoughyou were two halves of a whole, as day and night.”

A cold wave flowed over Hazelton, a feeling as thoughhis hair were lifting on the back of his head. It was asthough this frail old lady was linking him irrevocably toRaoul. He was powerless now to take his own.

“Madame,” he said, “I feel as if no one had understoodmy work before.”

But she had turned to gaze upon her son’s painting. Asort of senility enveloped her, and his drunkennessreached out to it. His gaze had in it respect and tendernessand abnegation. His manner, more eloquent thanwords, said: “I give up; I resign. Take it.”

He went to the end of the gallery, and Raoul saw himsit down in the attitude of one who waits. When Mme.de Vilmarte left, Raoul joined him.

Hazelton’s head sank deeply between his shoulders; hispugnacity had oozed away. After a time he spoke withan effort. “I understand,” he said. “I understand—”

A curious sense of liberation seized De Vilmarte. Hisold liking for Hazelton returned. “I am sorry for all ofus,” he said.

“My poor friend, there is no way out,” said Hazelton.“I am vile—a beast. But trust me—believe in me.”

“I will,” cried De Vilmarte, deeply touched.

Hazelton’s little jewel-like eyes were blurred with unwontedsentiment. “I am a king in exile,” he mutteredover and over. “A king in exile,” he repeated. Thissentimental simile seemed to be a well of bitter comfortfor him.

This story should end here, for stories should end likethis, on the high note; but life is different. Hazeltonwas a man with a bad liver, and he got no joy from hissacrifice. Moreover, in real life one seldom fights a decisivebattle with one’s lower nature. One goes on fighting;it dies hard when it dies at all. There are the highmoments when one thinks the battle won, and the nextday the enemy attacks again, with the battle to be foughtover.

Hazelton had formed the habit of cursing fate and DeVilmarte, and, to revenge himself, of threatening De Vilmarte’sexposure, and he continued to do these things.And De Vilmarte let his mind stray far in contemplatingHazelton’s possible vileness, and in doing this he himselfbecame vile. What he could not recognize was the definiteplace where Hazelton’s vileness stopped. His lifewas like a fair fruit rotten within.

It was the summer of 1914, and Hazelton, whosedrunkenness before had been occasional, now drank always,and forever in the background of De Vilmarte’smind was this powerful figure with its red face and blackhair and truculent bearing, drunken and obscene, whocarried in his careless hand the honor of the De Vilmartes.At any moment Hazelton could rob Raoul of hispride, embitter his mother’s last hours, and make him thelaughing stock of his world. Raoul became like an entrappedanimal running around and around the implacablebarriers of a cage. It is a terrible thing to have one’shonor in the hands of another.

He thought of everything that might end this torment,and he found no answer. Madness grew in him. WhereverRaoul de la Tour de Vilmarte went, there followedhim unseen a shadow, swart, dark, and red-faced. Itfollowed him, mouthing, “Ra-o-u-l—Ra-o-u-l!” like acat. “Ra-o-u-l! Ra-o-u-l!” from morning till night.When De Vilmarte was at a table in a café a huge andmocking shadow sat beside him, and it said, wagging itshead in a horrid fashion, “There’s death in our littledrama, hein, mon vieux?”

The fate that had made their interests one, bound themtogether. They sought each other out to spend strangeand tortured hours in each other’s company, while in thedepths of Raoul’s heart a plan to end the torture was comingto its own slow maturity, and grew large and darkduring the hot days of July. He could not continue tolive. The burden of his secret weighed him down. Norcould he leave Hazelton behind him, the honor of the DeVilmartes in his hands.

The bloody answer to the riddle leaped out at him.Hazelton’s death—that was the answer. Then De Vilmartecould depart in peace. For two mad, happy dayshe saw life simply. First Hazelton, then himself.

One day he stopped short, for he realized he could notgo until his mother—went. He must stay a while—untilshe died.

He had to wait until she died. He watched her, wonderingif his endurance would outlast her life. He triednot to let her see him watching—for he knew there wasmadness in his eyes—and he would go out to find hisdark shadow, for often it was less painful to be with himthan away from him—he knew then what Hazelton wasup to. He spent days in retracing the steps which hadbrought him to this desperate impasse. They had beeneasy, but he knew that weakness was at the bottom of it—perhaps,unless he did it now, he would never do it—perhapsan unworthy desire for life—and love—mighthold back his hand.

So De Vilmarte lived his days and nights bound on thetorturing pendulum of conflict.

Suddenly Europe was aflame. France stood still andwaited. And as he waited, with Europe, Raoul for amoment forgot his torment. War is a great destroyer,but among other things it destroys the smaller emotions.Its licking flame shrivels up personal loves and hates.When war was declared, old hates were blotted out, andhopeless lovers trembling on the brink of suicide werecured overnight. Small human atoms were drowned inthe larger hate and the larger love. Men ceased to havepower over their own lives since their lives belonged toFrance.

So when war was declared, choice was taken fromRaoul’s hands. A high feeling of liberation possessedhim. He walked along the street, and suddenly he realizedthat instead of going toward his home he was seekinghis other half, the dark shadow to whom he had beenso bound.

On Hazelton’s door a note was pinned, addressed tohim.

“My friend,” it said, “you have luck! You will haveyour regiment, while nothing better than the ambulance,like a sale embusque, for me. If harm comes to you,don’t fear for your mother.”

This letter made him feel as though Hazelton hadclasped his hand. He no longer felt toward Hazelton asan enemy, since France had also claimed him.

Madness had brushed him with its dark wings. By soslender a thread his life and Hazelton’s had hung! Yes—andhis honor!

“Thank God!” he said, “for an honorable death!”It was the last personal thought that was his for a longtime. War engulfed him. Instead of an individual hewas a soldier of France, and his life was broken awayfrom the old life which now seemed illusion, the dayswhich streamed past him like pennants torn in the wind.

Later, in the monotony of trench warfare, he had timeto think of Hazelton. He desired two things—to serveFrance, and to see Hazelton. Raoul wanted a word offriendship to pass between them, and especially he wantedto tell Hazelton that he need not worry about his wife.He wrote to him, but got no answer. Life went on; warhad become the normal thing. The complexities of hisformer life receded further and further from him, andbecame more phantasmal, but the desire to see Hazeltonbefore either of them should die remained with Raoul.

When he was wounded it was his last consciousthought before oblivion engulfed him. There followeda half-waking—pain—a penumbral land through whichshapes moved vaguely; the smell of an anesthetic, anawakening, and again sleep. When he wakened fullyhe was in a white hospital ward with a sister bending overhim.

“In the next bed,” she said, “there is a grand blessé.”She looked at him significantly. “He wishes to speak toyou—he is a friend of yours.”

In the next bed lay Hazelton, the startling black of hisshaggy hair framing the pallor of his face.

With difficulty Raoul raised his head. They smiled ateach other. From the communion of their silence cameHazelton’s deep voice.

“Why the devil,” he said, “did we ever hate eachother?”

Raoul shook his head. He didn’t know. He, too, hadwanted to ask Hazelton this.

“It has bothered me,” said Hazelton. “I wanted tosee you—” His voice trailed off. “I’ve wanted to askyou why we have needed this war—death—to make usknow we don’t hate each other.”

“I don’t know,” said De Vilmarte. It was an effortfor him to speak; his voice sounded frail and broken.

“Raoul,” Hazelton asked, tenderly, “where are youwounded? Is it bad?”

“I don’t know,” Raoul answered again.

“It’s his head,” the sister answered for him, “and hisright hand.”

Hazelton raised his great head; a red mounted to hisface; his old sardonic laughter boomed out through theward. With a sharply indrawn breath of pain: “Oh,la—la!” he shouted. “’Cré nom! ’Cré nom! Whatluck—imperishable! I’m dying—your right hand—yourright hand!” He sank back, his ironic laughterdrowned in a swift crimson tide.

The nurse beckoned to an orderly to bring ascreen....

Tears of grief and weakness streamed down Raoul’sface. To the last his ill luck had held. He hadn’t beenable to make his friend understand, or to make amends.His right hand was wounded, and he could no longerserve France.

The sister looked at him with pity. She tried to consolehim.

“Death is not always so mercifully quick with thesestrong men,” she said.

THE WHITE BATTALION

An orderly ushered two officers of the Foreign Legion,young men in mud-stained khaki, through thedoor of a dugout back of the fighting line in France. Asthey entered the hut a French officer in horizon blue,equally muddy, rose and returned the American’s salute.

“You will be seated?” He pushed camp chairs towardthem.

A guttering candle, stuck in a bottle neck, veiled ratherthan revealed the sordid interior. The light flickeredacross the young Frenchman’s face, threw gaunt shadowsunder his eyes emphasized the look of utter wearinessand—there was something more.

The senior officer of the Legion, Captain Hailes,looked at him keenly.

“Major Fouquet, we report at headquarters in an hour,sir. Lieutenant Agor, commanding platoon at extremeright—contact platoon with your battalion, sir, reportswe lost touch with the French forces between the advanceand the first trench. Thought it might have been hiswatch, but the timepiece checks up to a second.”

The captain hesitated uneasily, “We are not presumingto question, sir, but Lieutenant Agor says he saw—wefelt there might have been some cause, some reason thatdid not appear, so we came—”

The Frenchman lifted his head in a stupid way altogetherforeign to his usual manner.

“Merci, Captain Hailes. We were—forty secondsslow in attacking the first trench, sir.” He went on mechanicallyas if delivering a rehearsed report. “Caughtup and reached the second trench on time. Few prisonersbesides the children. Enemy practically wiped out.”

He concluded heavily, a dazed look blotting allexpression.

“There was a cause for the forty seconds delay,Major?”

Fouquet struggled up out of the curious apathy. Hecleared his throat, made several attempts to speak andfinally blurted out.

“You won’t believe it—I saw it and I cannot! Butthere are the children—and a first-line trench full ofdead Huns—without a mark on them! Barres was flyingover us—he saw the Battalion—knew them for oldcomrades. The women—all of them saw the faces oftheir dead! I don’t believe it, sir,—but how did we doit? The women never thrust once in the first trench—thechildren haven’t a wound—that’s got to prove it!”

He stopped abruptly—looking from one to the otherwith a gesture of hopeless protest. The Americans regardedhim with puzzled eyes.

“Was it some new trick of the Huns? God knowsthey’ve given them to us in plenty! Can you tell us—itmight—?”

Fouquet pulled himself forward, his knuckles whiteningwith his grip of the table edge.

“You know the history of the section of the Front theAvengers retook to-day?”

“No, Major Fouquet. We came in later, with theCanadians.”

“It began with the great retreat of 1914, sir, when theGermans were driving us back toward Paris. They hadcrowded our army against the river. Between the slowcrossing and their terrible artillery fire, new to us then,we faced annihilation!”

There was a rustle at the door of the dugout and awhispered password. Fouquet did not pause.

“To the —nth Battalion was given the honor of actingas rear guard. Ah, sir,—” his voice steadied—gutturalwith pride and emotion, “our men stood like abarricade of rock against which the waves of German infantrydashed themselves, only to break and be withdrawnfor re-formation. Each receding wave showedwhere it had bit into the red and blue barrier, for we werewearing the old uniform then, but the bits slid together,closing up the gaps to stand against the next flood.When the eroded wall went down, undermined and over-whelmedat last, the main army of France was across theriver and safe.

“Only two of us lived to rejoin our army, LieutenantBarres and myself. Barres’s leg was shattered, hopelesslycrippling him for the infantry, but when the woundshealed—France could not spare so brave a man, so theystrapped him to the seat of a plane in the winged sectionof the army, where he is still fighting!”

The sharp click, click of crutches tapped across the flooras Barres of the Aviation Squad came into the fringe oflight. He saluted, then broke in upon Fouquet’s story.

“But you do not tell them, mon camarade, but for youI would have died with the rest! He does not tell you,sir, that he put his own chance of escape into peril bydragging me—a helpless burden—with him!”

He looked at Fouquet with an anxious frown, “Ithought there might be enquiry about to-day. Youare—?”

A look flashed between them, the love of men who havefaced death together.

“Yes, Barres, I shall need you. It is the history of theAvengers I am telling—to explain—”

He turned to the Americans.

“In the years of struggle that came after the retreat,our women of France have taken the places of men behindthe lines, while our soldiers held the Front. Butwhen Russia freed herself the news filtered through theprovinces that the women of Russia when the revolutionneeded them formed themselves into the Battalion ofDeath. We also heard that German women were in thearmy.

“Then the flame of a common inspiration touched thewidows of the —nth. They sought and found each otherand petitioned as their right that they be entered anddrilled as the —nth Battalion of Avengers.

“Military objections refused them again and again,but the women stood as firm in their purpose as theirmen who had held the post of rear guard. Always theyasked, Why should France be left a nation of sorrowfulwomen only? Let the widowed women of the —nth takethe place of men in the chance of death—they wouldwelcome it—and so save men to France.

“At last they were accepted and trained. Each addedto her equipment a small packet of cyanide of potassiumas her Russian sisters had taught her. One furtherrequest they made, that the position assigned to themmight be in the course of the advance to retake theground held to the death by their men. To me was giventhe great honor to be their commander.”

He drew himself up with pride. “They have justifiedtheir petition for enlistment, sir, they wear the strap ofa battalion commended for bravery. We have been fullytrusted to hold our share of the Front in safety.”

As if at the significance of his own words his headdropped, then lifted again grimly.

“It was for to-day’s work that this battalion was assembledand trained to invincibility. We need no one tointerpret the meaning of the Front to us, but to thewomen—to retake this strip of ground sodden with theblood of the rear guard barricade built of their men,meant being given the denied rite of closing glazed eyes,the crossing of arms on rigid breasts, the lighting ofcandles at head and feet and the last kiss on frozen lips.They were mad for it—not in revenge but to right awrong.”

Fouquet’s voice thrilled, “That is the history, sir, andthe temper of the Battalion of Avengers who held thetrench at your right!

“When the order came for attack to-day, they waited,taut as arrows in held bowstrings, at the foot of theladders for the signal to go over the top. Like shafts releasedthey sprang up the sides of the ditch. There wassure death to the Hun in every gripped bayonet as theybent to follow the barrage of fire across the craters andsnarled wire of No Man’s Land.

“No human sound comes through the hell of battleartillery and yet we knew the strangling gasp that ranthe length of the line as the protective barrage made itsfinal jump, lifted and showed us the trench we were totake. The women stood as motionless as the corpsesof the old —nth!

“Thrust shield-wise above the heads of the Huns,crowning the ditch as with protective spikes, frightenedand sobbing, cowering before us were hundreds of littlechildren!”

Fouquet’s chair went spinning back as he leaned acrossthe table.

“God! men—they knew! The devil tells them! Theyknew this section was held by women! For us to holdthe Front—our share of the Front—these mothers mustbayonet their way through crying, helpless babies!”

His groan found gasping echo.

“They were children of the French villages held by theGermans—we could tell! Some of them had been shotby the last of our barrage fire after the Huns had shovedthem over the top. It was hell to see the children’s tornbodies writhing—we’re used to it with men! Thesmallest—babies—were clinging to the older ones—childrenof five or six—trying to hide—between theHuns and—us!

“If we went on—took the ditch—these mothers mustcut through a barricade of children! If we did not goon, we betrayed our trust, lost our share of the Front—letthe Huns behind the lines through a gap made by thefailure of the women of the —nth!

“We seemed to stand there for hours, but it was onlya second. The Huns had thrust their guns between thechildren, and were holding their fire—the devilish catand mouse game!

“Then one of the women captains stumbled forwardand made the sign of the cross. It is the voiceless battlecry of the Avengers and signs supreme sacrifice for allthe Front means. She lifted her right hand in the sweepof victory—on her wrist was bound the packet of deaththey carry in case of capture by the kultur beasts—andfell, for the Huns opened fire the instant they saw hergesture.

“But the message had gotten over! They could charge—theymust—and the cyanide would erase the intolerablememory forever! I looked at those nearest and sawthey would go through with it, but men—their faceswere set with the look of the face of Christ on the cross!”

He stopped, breathing heavily, and looked from oneAmerican to the other.

“You won’t believe it—I saw it and I cannot—but theproof is there! As the women gripped to thrust, leaningforward as if to force rebellious bodies toward that barricade,there swept down upon us from the rear or above,a sudden striding mist—a battalion of marching shadowsin a blur of the old red and blue that outstripped theAvengers’ advance. There was a flash of charging steeland the waving colors of the old —nth as they sweptover the untouched children into the trench.

“It’s all a blur, sir, I can’t tell you clearly, but theyturned their faces as they passed and—we knew our dead.You could see the women cry out and lift their arms, eachto her own man as he halted an instant beside her.

“Madame Arouet was sobbing as if caught by a bullet,‘Jean—Jean!—to have seen you again! Ah, my God!’The tall corporal, just beyond, threw herself with highpiercing scream—arms outstretched—toward the smilingshadow that was passing.

“The bravest man in the old —nth, where all werebrave, dropped behind as he bent over the fallen captain.There was a quivering smile of recognition just as thejerking heap settled into quiet; then, as if he waited forit, a slender blur in horizon blue sprang to his side andswept forward with the Battalion—though the captainstill lay where she had fallen!”

Fouquet gripped his comrade, arm and crutch together,with a cry.

“Did you see our brave captain salute as he passed?Joyously I shouted as I fell into step beside him, but—Idropped back—I could not keep that pace! Barres—Barres—yousaw them? You must have seen them? Itwas the old —nth come back to save their women fromthe last hellish trap set by fiends! We know they had theright. This was their battleground where once beforethey had saved an army of France!”

Lieutenant Agor was leaning across the table withstaring eyes: “Then—that was what I—saw, sir?” Heturned to his commander, “I told you it was like the fogblowing in off Frisco bay, and—”

Captain Hailes half rose, “My lieutenant said he lostyou when a mist obscured the contact platoon. He saidhe saw—I—thought it was shell shock—I meant tosend him behind the lines—”

Barres shook his head slowly as he caught Fouquetabout the shoulder.

“Mon ami—I saw—I know! Very low I flew overthe gap to-day when it broke and widened. I felt theWhite Battalion first, rushing through the planes—thenI saw them—a mist of the old red and blue with wondrousswords!” His voice sank low, “From above Isaw one who led them—a shining one who, even as wehave read, smote the camp of the Assyrians”.

“It was the old —nth that followed. I knew them!”His voice caught. “Did you see the rascals in the thirdsquad goose-stepping as they closed in on the Hun?”With a break of unsteady laughter, “It was always theirfinal joke with the German, sir, before they got him.No one could break them of it! Fouquet—we know! Itwas the old —nth, our White Battalion!”

“A White Battalion!” Agor repeated the wordsslowly, still staring.

The aviator shifted his crutch and drew himself erect.“Mes amis, the Huns fling the taunt that France hasbeen bled white! To us it means a White Army—acrowding host killed in battle—the red life of gallantyouth given so gloriously that it cannot die!

“And France bled white!... We know,” the wordshalted, “the country for which we went to war ismaimed—scarred—she can never again be the sameFrance, but—” his lifted face gleamed through thedim light, “our battle cry has changed! We no longerfight ‘Pour la Patrie!’ but ‘Pour le Droit!’—the rightthat is greater than country!”

With a sharp intake of breath he turned to his comrade.Fouquet’s protesting look was gone. With the sure touchof reality he picked up the story.

“It was all over in a breath, sir—like a mist swirlingalong the trenches shot through with phantom steel, andwe knew our work was being done. When it lifted—theditch lay motionless!

“The women had dropped on their knees with theirarms about the children. We passed the poor little onesthrough to the rear in charge of the wounded.

“The first trench was piled with dead—unmarkeddead! The communicating tunnels were cleared or quiet;that was how we made up the forty seconds and followedthe barrage on time to the second ditch.

“I looked down the line as we made ready for the secondcharge. Not a Hun cried ‘Kamarad!’ or tried tosurrender when they saw the faces of the Avengers. Thesecond ditch was piled with nearly as many dead as thefirst—marked dead! The Avengers and the White Battalionhad retaken the ground for which the —nth hadgiven their lives.

“That is all, sir,” the gaunt figure in mud-stained bluestraightened, “excepting that the fouling Beast is goingin the end—we know! He cannot stand against the unconquerabledead. And when we march through Berlin,the White Armies will march at the head of the column—”he lifted his hand in salute, “Pour le Droit!”

The crippled aviator balanced on crutches as hebrought up his hand.

“Pour le Droit!”

Noiselessly the men of the Foreign Legion pushed backtheir chairs and stood at salute. Silently they faced eachother in a long moment of understanding. The major inblue dropped his arm and with smiling eyes gripped thehand of the man in khaki.

He flung open the door of the dugout, humming theSong of France in marching time. The young officers,French and American, fell into step together.

“Gentlemen—to Headquarters!”

The lilting voices filled the low room to the accent ofmarching feet.

“Allons, enfants de la patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrivé!”

ADDRESSES OF AMERICAN MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES

Note. This address list does not aim to be complete, but isbased simply on the magazines which I have considered for thisvolume.

Adventure, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.
Ainslee’s Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
All-Story Weekly, 280 Broadway, New York City.
American Magazine, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Argosy, 280 Broadway, New York City.
Atlantic Monthly, 41 Mt. Vernon Street, Boston, Mass.
Bellman, 118 South 6th Street, Minneapolis, Minn.
Black Cat, Salem, Mass.
Boston Evening Transcript, 324 Washington Street, Boston, Mass.
Catholic World, 120 West 60th Street, New York City.
Century Magazine, 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Collier’s Weekly, 416 West 13th Street, New York City.
Cosmopolitan Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Country Gentleman, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Delineator, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.
Detective Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
Everybody’s Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.
Forum, 118 East 28th Street, New York City.
Good Housekeeping, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Harper’s Bazar, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Harper’s Magazine, Franklin Square, New York City.
Hearst’s Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Illustrated Sunday Magazine, 193 Main Street, Buffalo, N. Y.
Independent, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Ladies’ Home Journal, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Liberator, 34 Union Square, East, New York City.
Little Review, 24 West 16th Street, New York City.
Live Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City.
McCall’s Magazine 236 West 37th Street, New York City.
McClure’s Magazine, 251 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Magnificat, Manchester, N. H.
Metropolitan Magazine, 432 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Midland, Moorhead, Minn.
Modern School, Stelton, N. J.
Munsey’s Magazine, 280 Broadway, New York City.
Outlook, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Pagan, 7 East 15th Street, New York City.
Parisienne, Printing Crafts Building, 461 Eighth Avenue, New York City.
Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th Street, New York City.
Popular Magazine, 79th Seventh Avenue, New York City.
Queen’s Work, 3200 Russell Avenue, St. Louis, Mo.
Reedy’s Mirror, Syndicate Trust Building, St. Louis, Mo.
Saturday Evening Post, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Scribner’s Magazine, 597 Fifth Avenue, New York City.
Short Stories, Garden City, Long Island, N. Y.
Smart Set, Printing Crafts Building, New York City.
Snappy Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City.
Southern Woman’s Magazine, American Building, Nashville, Tenn.
Stratford Journal, 32 Oliver Street, Boston, Mass.
Sunset Magazine, 460 Fourth Street, San Francisco, Cal.
Today’s Housewife, 461 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Touchstone, 118 East 30th Street, New York City.
University Magazine, Montreal, P. Q., Canada.
Woman’s Home Companion, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Woman’s World, 107 So. Clinton Street, Chicago, Ill.
Youth’s Companion, 881 Commonwealth Avenue, Boston, Mass.

THE BIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES

JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

Note. Only stories by American authors are listed. The bestsixty stories are indicated by an asterisk before the title of thestory. The index figures 1, 2, 3, and 4 prefixed to the name ofthe author indicate that his work has been included in the Rollsof Honor for 1914, 1915, 1916, and 1917 respectively. The listexcludes reprints.

ABDULLAH, ACHMED. Born at Kabul, Afghanistan, May 12, 1881,of Arab and Tartar stock. Educated in India, England,France, and Germany. Bachelor of Letters, Sorbonne, Paris.Served in British-Indian and Ottoman armies. Writer of shortstories, novels, and plays. Expert linguist. Chief interests,outside his profession, music, international politics, society.First story published, “The Strength of the Little ThinThread,” Collier’s Weekly, Oct. 5, 1912. Author of “The RedStain,” 1915; “Bucking the Tiger,” 1917; “The Blue-EyedManchu,” 1917; “The Last Manchu,” 1918; “The Trail of theBeast,” 1918; “The Web,” 1919. Lives in New York City.

Cobbler’s Wax.

Light.

*Simple Act of Piety.

Two-Handed Sword.

(34) ANDERSON, SHERWOOD (for biography, see 1917).

*Man of Ideas.

Senility.

(34) ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN (for biography, see 1917).

Ditch.

(34) BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON (for biography, see 1917).

*Cruelties.

*“Goddess Size.”

BEEDE, RALPH G. Born in Redfield, S. D., June 3, 1895. Educatedin public schools, Rolla, N. D., and Shattuck MilitarySchool, Faribault, Minn. Three years at University of NorthDakota. Managed newspapers in Winnebago, Neb., and Makoti,N. D. Has taught school and was superintendent ofschools at Goodrich, N. D., for two years. Chief interests,writing and music. First story published, “Cera,” Harper’sMagazine, May, 1918.

Cera

(4) BEER, THOMAS (for biography, see 1917).

Beneficiary.

“BRANGWYN, JOHN.” First story published, “Bell-Tower ofP’an-Ku.” His first book will be published soon. He lives inWashington, D. C.

*Bell-Tower of P’an-Ku.

BROWN, HEARTY EARL. Born 1886, Schoolcraft, Mich. DegreesA.B. and M.A. from University of Michigan. Member of theEnglish Faculty, University of Kansas. First published story,“The Marrying Time,” Atlantic Monthly, October, 1918. Livesin Lawrence, Kansas.

Marrying Time.

(23) BROWN, KATHARINE HOLLAND. Born in Alton, Ill. Educatedin Washington, D. C., and at University of Michigan. Profession,writer of fiction. Chief interest, writing. First publishedstories: “2620 Oxford Place,” Lippincott’s Magazine,August, 1900, “The Mathematics Man,” Woman’s HomeCompanion, August, 1900. Books published: “Diane,” 1904;“Dawn,” 1907; “The Messenger,” 1910; “White Roses,” 1910;“Philippa at Halcyon,” 1910; “Uncertain Irene,” 1911; “TheHallowell Partnership,” 1912; “Wages of Honor,” 1917. Livesat Long Beach, Cal.

*Buster.

BROWNELL, AGNES MARY. Born at Concordia, Kans. Educatedin Concordia public and high schools, supplemented by fouryears in a western school of music. Music teacher. Chief interests,music, an ineradicable habit of prowling around libraries,and out-of-door jaunts. First published story, “The Fifer,”Youth’s Companion, June 28, 1917. Lives at Concordia, Kans.

Sanctuary.

(14) BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. (for biography, see 1917).

Wings of the Morning.

BUTLER, ELLIS PARKER. Born at Muscatine, Iowa, Dec. 5, 1869.One year in Muscatine high school. Bill clerk, bookkeeper,salesman, editor, and now acting Cashier of Flushing NationalBank, of which he is Vice-President. Chief interest, lettinghimself know he is alive. First published story, “Shorty andFrank’s Adventure,” in a deceased publication whose name isforgotten. Author of “Pigs is Pigs,” 1906; “French DecorativeStyles,” 1906; “The Incubator Baby,” 1906; “Mr. Perkinsof Portland,” 1906; “The Great American Pie Co.,” 1907;“Confessions of a Daddy,” 1907; “Kilo,” 1907; “The CheerfulSmugglers,” 1908; “That Pup,” 1908; “The Thin SantaClaus,” 1909; “Mike Flannery on Duty and Off,” 1909; “WaterGoats and Other Troubles,” 1910; “Adventures of a Suburbanite,”1911; “The Jack Knife Man,” 1913; “Red Head andWhistle Breeches,” 1916; “Dominie Dean,” 1917; and “PhiloGubb,” 1918. Lives in Flushing, N. Y.

*Sorry Tale of Hennery K. Lunk.

(2) BUTLER, KATHARINE. Born in Baltimore, Md., Oct 2, 1890,of New England parentage. Has lived in Salem, Mass., andthe nearby inland countryside of Essex County since 1896.Education desultory. First published story, “In No StrangeLand,” Atlantic Monthly, March, 1915. Lives in Danvers,Mass.

*Black Pearl.

CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. Born in Richmond, Va., April 14, 1879.Educated at McGuire’s School in Richmond, and graduatedfrom College of William and Mary, 1898. Professions inorder: school teacher, proof reader, newspaper reporter, andcoal miner: at present, genealogist and writer. First publishedstories: “Love Letters of Falstaff,” Harper’s Monthly, March,1902; and “As Played Before His Highness” (republished as“The Ducal Audience”), Smart Set, 1902. Author of the followingvolumes: (novels) “The Eagle’s Shadow,” 1904; “TheCords of Vanity,” 1909; “The Soul of Melicent,” 1913; “TheRivet in Grandfather’s Neck,” 1915; “The Cream of the Jest,”1917; (tales) “The Line of Love,” 1905; “Gallantry,” 1907;“Chivalry,” 1909; “The Certain Hour,” 1916; (essays) “BeyondLife,” 1918; (verse) “From the Hidden Way,” 1916;(genealogy) “Branchiana,” 1906; “Branch of Abingdon,”1911; “The Majors and Their Marriages,” 1915. Lives atDumbarton Grange, Dumbarton, Va.

*Some Ladies and Jurgen.

(23) CANFIELD, DOROTHY (MRS. JOHN R. FISHER). Born at Lawrence,Kans., Feb. 17, 1879. Graduate of Ohio State Universityand Columbia University. Secretary Horace Mann School,1902-05. Married, 1907. Has traveled widely in Europe.Now assisting Miss Winifred Holt in War Relief Work atParis. Author of “Corneille and Racine in England,” 1904;(with G. R. Carpenter) “English Rhetoric and Composition,”1906; “What Shall We Do Now?” 1906; “Gunhild,” 1907;“The Squirrel-Cage,” 1912; “The Montessori Mother,” 1913;“Mothers and Children,” 1914; “Hillsboro People,” 1915;“The Bent Twig,” 1915; “The Real Motive,” 1916; (withSarah Cleghorn) “Fellow Captains,” 1916; “UnderstoodBetsy,” 1917; “Home Fires In France,” 1918. Lives at Arlington,Vt.

Little Kansas Leaven.

On the Edge.

Pharmacienne.

CARVER, GEORGE.

In a Moment of Time.

(234) COBB, IRVIN S. (for biography, see 1917).

*Gallowsmith.

(4) CRABBE, BERTHA HELEN (for biography, see 1917).

Wild-Wing.

DICKINSON, ROY. Born at Newark, N. J., March 14, 1888. Educatedat Newark Academy and Princeton University, graduatingin 1909. Profession, advertising and manufacturing. Fiveyears with Cosmopolitan Magazine. Chief interests, labor psychologyand the other fellow’s viewpoint. First story published,“Playing Hookey,” Delineator, November, 1916. NowCaptain in the Ordnance Department at Washington. Engagedin work for stimulating industry in ordnance plants.

Some of Our Folks, and War.

(4) DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL. (for biography, see 1917).

*Open Window.

(134) DWIGHT, H. G. (for biography, see 1917) and TAYLOR, JOHN.

*Emerald of Tamerlane.

“ELDERLY SPINSTER” (MARGARET WILSON). Born in Iowa, Jan.16, 1882. Graduated from University of Chicago, 1904. Livedin India for the most part, 1904 to 1916. Since then she hasbeen resting, gardening, and farming. Chief interest, theAmericanization of American children through the school inwhich she is teaching. First published story, “Taffeta Trousers,”Atlantic Monthly, December, 1917.

God’s Little Joke.

ELLERBE, ALMA ESTABROOK, and ELLERBE, PAUL LEE. Mrs.Ellerbe was born in Greenfield, Ind., and educated at OxfordCollege, Ohio. Chief interests, people, writing, and automobiling.First published magazine story, “The Requital,”Harper’s Magazine, September, 1903. Author of “The Ruleof Three.” Mr. Ellerbe was born in Montgomery, Ala. Hadone year in which he scrupulously refrained from study at theUniversity of the South, Sewanee, Tenn. Now AssistantChief, Americanization section, Council of National Defense.Chief interests: English poetry, music, writing, automobiling.First published story, “The Vacant Forty,” Lippincott’s Magazine,March, 1913. Has been chief naturalization examiner forthe U. S. Department of Labor at Denver. Chautauqua lecturer.Mr. and Mrs. Ellerbe plan to do all their writing in collaboration,preferably in a cabin in the Colorado Rockies.

Citizen Paper.

FISHER, DOROTHY CANFIELD.

See CANFIELD, DOROTHY.

FREEDLEY, MARY MITCHELL. Born in Philadelphia, Feb. 14, 1894.Granddaughter of S. Weir Mitchell. Previous to her marriageshe was much interested in the betterment of economic conditionsrelating to woman’s labor, and at one time organized andmanaged The Philadelphia Trades School for Girls. She isthe wife of an actor, Vinton Freedley, and her interests aremainly of the stage and things theatrical. She has never doneany previous writing and is at present chiefly concerned withthe business of “being a woman” and the wife of a soldier.

*Blind Vision.

(1234) FREEMAN, MARY E. WILKINS. (for biography, see 1917).

Jade Bracelet

(4) GEER, CORNELIA THROOP. Born in New York City, Feb. 15,1894. Educated at Brearley School, New York. Graduatedfrom Barnard College, Columbia University, 1917. Instructorin English, Bryn Mawr College, 1918. Interested in Woman’sLand Army of America, and worked as farm hand at its BedfordUnit in summers of 1917 and 1918. First published story,“Pearls Before Swine,” Atlantic Monthly, October, 1917.Lives in New York City.

*Irish of It.

GEROULD, GORDON HALL. Born at Goffstown, N. H., Oct. 4, 1877.Graduate of Dartmouth College and Oxford University.Studied also in Paris. On Faculty of Bryn Mawr College,1901 to 1905, and since that time successively Assistant Professorand Professor of English at Princeton University. CaptainOrdnance Department, U. S. A., 1918. Married KatharineFullerton, 1910. First story published, “Justification,” Scribner’sMagazine, October, 1911. Publications largely the resultof studies in mediæval literature, folk lore, and hagiography,appearing in learned journals here and abroad. Books: “SirGuy of Warwick,” 1905, “Selected Essays of Henry Fielding,”1905; “The Grateful Dead,” 1908; “Saints’ Lives,” 1916; “PeterSanders, Retired,” 1917. Lives in Princeton, N. J.

*Imagination.

(1234) GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON. (for biography, see 1917).

*Marchpane.

GILBERT, GEORGE. Born in Binghamton, N. Y., Sept. 27, 1874.Educated in public schools. Became newsboy, messenger,“rambler,” telegrapher, lineman, and press operator beforereaching eighteen. Served as editor-in-chief of several importantinland newspapers. Confidential clerk to Republican whip,J. W. Dwight, in Congressional sessions 1909-10. An editoragain in Binghamton. First published story, “The Encouragementof Reuben,” Pets and Animals, July and August, 1900.Chief interests: Mrs. Gilbert, their son, flower garden, fishing,playing typewriter sonatas. Lives in Binghamton, N. Y.

Ashes of Roses.

*In Maulmain Fever-Ward.

(4) GLASPELL, SUSAN. (for biography, see 1917).

*“Beloved Husband.”

*“Poor Ed.”

GOODMAN, HENRY. Born in Roumania of Jewish parents, May 30,1893. Came to the United States in 1900. Graduated from theColumbia School of Journalism in 1915. Subsequently journaliston the New York Tribune and New York World. Firststory published, “Billy’s Mother,” Pearson’s Magazine, June,1917. Chief interest, writing poetry and short stories. Livesin New York City.

Conquered.

(134) GORDON, ARMISTEAD C. (for biography, see 1917).

*Sinjinn, Surviving.

HALDEMAN-JULIUS, EMANUEL. See Julius, Emanuel Haldeman-.

HALL, MAY EMERY. Born in Providence, R. I., Sept. 16, 1874.Educated at high and normal schools in Providence, supplementedby special University courses. Taught for five yearsin Providence public schools. Chief interests, the World War,study and travel. Author of “Dutch Days,” 1914, “Roger Williams,”1917. Writer of magazine articles. Lives at Douglaston, L. I., N. Y.

Whiteford’s Masterpiece.

(3) HAWES, CHARLES BOARDMAN.

*Even So.

(2) HECHT, BEN. Born in New York City, Feb. 28, 1896. Butleft for the Middle West as soon as he learned to walk. Educatedin public schools, Racine, Wis. Has always wanted to bean anthropologist. First published story, “Life,” Little Review,November, 1915. Lives in Chicago.

*Decay.

(4) HEMENWAY, HETTY. (for biography, see 1917).

*Their War.

“HENRY, ETTA.” Pseudonym of a woman student at ColumbiaUniversity, who has published several excellent short stories.Lives in St. Paul, Minnesota.

Kaddish.

HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH. Born in Philadelphia, Feb. 15, 1880.Educated at a Quaker school in Philadelphia and at PennsylvaniaAcademy of Fine Arts. His first magazine contributionwas a set of prose impressions of Atlantic City in The Forum,September, 1913. Author of “The Lay Anthony,” 1914;“Mountain Blood,” 1915; “The Three Black Pennys,” 1917;“Gold and Iron,” 1918; “Java Head,” 1919. Lives in WestChester, Pa.

Black Key.

HOUGH, EMERSON. Born at Newton, Ia., June 28, 1857. Highschool education at Newton, and graduated from State Universityof Iowa, 1880. Practised law in New Mexico in 1882.Came to Chicago in 1889 and had charge of the Western officeof Forest and Stream, 1889 to 1902. Fond of amateur sport.“I have never seen a game of professional baseball and don’tintend to. I care little for the movies, and detest the comicsupplements of the Sunday newspapers. I read moderatelyand like historical fiction of the old type. I don’t care so muchfor jig-time and jazz-time.” First published story, “Far fromthe Crowd,” Forest and Stream, about 1881. “My father was agreat sportsman, a great mathematician, a great Christian. Imyself have always been a sportsman, but as to mathematicsand Christianity I do not say so much.” Author of “The SingingMouse Stories,” 1895; “The Story of the Cowboy,” 1897;“The Girl at the Half-way House,” 1900; “The MississippiBubble,” 1902; “The Way to the West,” 1903; “The Law ofthe Land,” 1904; “Heart’s Desire,” 1905; “The King of GeeWhiz,” 1906; “The Story of the Outlaw,” 1906; “The Way ofa Man,” 1907; “Fifty-four Forty or Fight,” 1909; “The Sowing,”1909; “The Young Alaskans,” 1910; “The PurchasePrice,” 1911; “Young Alaskans on the Trail,” 1911; “JohnRawn,” 1912; “The Lady and the Pirate,” 1913; “Young Alaskansin the Rockies,” 1913; “The Magnificent Adventure,”1915; “The Man Next Door,” 1916; “The Broken Gate,” 1917;“Young Alaskans in the Far North,” 1918; “The Way Out,”1918. President of the Society of Midland Authors. Lives inChicago.

Clan Gordon.

(2) HUGHES, RUPERT. Born in Lancaster, Mo., Jan. 31, 1872.Educated at public schools, Lancaster, Mo., and Keokuk, Ia.Graduate of Western Reserve University, 1892, M.A. (Yale),1899. Chief interests: literature, military work, music, and history.Married, 1908. Assistant editor Godey’s Magazine, CurrentLiterature, and The Criterion before 1901. With EncyclopediaBritannica, 1902 to 1905. Captain U. S. A. on Mexicanborder service, 1916. Assistant to Adjutant-General, NewYork, 1917. Now Major in the U. S. A., stationed at Washington,D. C. First short story published, probably “The ManWho Could Stop His Heart,” The Adelbert, 1889. Books:“The Lake Rim Athletic Club,” 1898; “The Dozen from LakeRim,” 1899; “American Composers,” 1900; “Gyges’ Ring,”1901; “The Whirlwind,” 1902; “The Musical Guide,” 1903;“Love Affairs of Great Musicians,” 1903; “Songs by ThirtyAmericans,” 1904; “Zal,” 1905; “Colonel Crockett’s CoöperativeChristmas,” 1906; “The Lake Rim Cruise,” 1910; “TheGift-Wife,” 1910; “Excuse Me,” 1911; “Miss 318,” 1911; “TheOld Nest,” 1912; “The Amiable Crimes of Dirk Memling,”1913; “The Lady Who Smoked Cigars,” 1913; “What WillPeople Say?” 1914; “The Music Lovers’ Cyclopedia,” 1914;“The Last Rose of Summer,” 1914; “Empty Pockets,” 1915;“Clipped Wings,” 1916; “The Thirteenth Commandment,”1916; “In a Little Town,” 1917; “We Can’t Have Everything,”1917; “Long Ever Ago,” 1918; “The Unpardonable Sin,” 1918;and many successful plays. Lives at Bedford Hills, N. Y.

*At the Back of God Speed.

HUMPHREY, GEORGE. Born at Boughton, Eng., July 17, 1889.Educated at Faversham School, England; Oxford and LeipsigUniversities. Professor of ancient history at Saint FrancisXavier’s University, Antigonish, Nova Scotia. Now at HarvardUniversity.

*Father’s Hand.

(234) HURST, FANNIE. (for biography, see 1917).

*Hers Not to Reason Why.

(2) JOHNSON, ARTHUR. Born in Boston, 1881. Graduate of HarvardUniversity. Practised law since 1905. Chief interests: hisprofession, poetry, human nature, literature, art. Cares morefor poetry than anything else. First story published, “Frankieand Jenny,” American Magazine, December, 1913. Now engagedin war work at Washington. Home, Cambridge, Mass.

His New Mortal Coil.

*Little Family.

*Visit of the Master.

(4) JONES, (E.) CLEMENT. (for biography, see 1917).

Mongrel.

JULIUS, EMANUEL HALDEMAN-. Born in Philadelphia, July 30,1888. Self educated. “I left home as a kid and meanderedaround doing odd jobs—from being a bell boy in a school forpolite young ladies to holding copy in a newspaper proof room.At twenty I became a reporter in New York. Later I didnewspaper work in Chicago, Milwaukee, and Los Angeles. Ihave edited and contributed to many labor and radical periodicals.I am managing editor of The New Appeal, which is thelargest Socialist paper in the world. I am also director of athoroughly capitalistic bank. Married in 1916. My chief interestright now is in getting the baby weaned.” Books: “TheColor of Life,” 1916; “Somewhere in Europe,” 1917; “ThePest,” 1916. Lives in Girard, Kans.

Ring.

(3) KING, BASIL. Born in Charlottetown, P. E. I., Canada, Feb.26, 1859. Educated at St. Peter’s School, Charlottetown, andKing’s College, Windsor, N. S. Married, 1893. First storypublished, “The Eleventh Hour,” Atlantic Monthly, February,1901. Books: “Griselda,” 1901; “Let Not Man Put Asunder,”1902; “In the Garden of Charity,” 1903; “Steps of Honor,”1905; “The Giant’s Strength,” 1906; “The Inner Shrine,”1909; “The Wild Olive,” 1910; “The Street Called Straight,”1912; “The Way Home,” 1913; “The Letter of the Contract,”1914; “The Side of the Angels,” 1915; “The Lifted Veil,”1917; “The High Heart,” 1917; “Abraham’s Bosom,” 1918.Lives in Boston.

Going West.

(4) KLINE, BURTON (for biography, see 1917).

*In the Open Code.

Singular Smile.

(4) KRYSTO, CHRISTINA (for biography, see 1917).

Mother of Stasya.

LEWIS, SINCLAIR. Born at Sauk Centre, Minn., Feb. 7, 1885.Educated at local schools, and graduate of Yale University.Newspaper reporter, assistant editor of Adventure and ofTransatlantic Tales, editor of the Publishers’ Newspaper Syndicate,editor for George H. Doran Company and Frederick A.Stokes Company. First published story appeared in PacificMonthly about 1905. Books: “Our Mr. Wrenn,” 1914; “TheTrail of the Hawk,” 1915; “Job,” 1917; “The Innocents,”1917. Lives at Port Washington, L. I., N. Y.

*Willow Walk.

LIEBERMAN, ELIAS. Born in Petrograd, Russia, Oct. 30, 1883.His parents emigrated with him to New York in 1891. Graduateof the College of the City of New York and New YorkUniversity. Head of the English Department, Bushwick HighSchool, Brooklyn, N. Y. Aside from life itself, magazine andnewspaper work has always been his chief interest. First publishedstory, “The Open Door,” Lippincott’s Magazine, September,1913. Books: “The American Short Story,” 1912;“Paved Streets,” 1918. Lives in Brooklyn, N. Y.

Tower of Confusion.

(3) MARKS, JEANNETTE. Born in Chattanooga, Tenn., 1875. Educatedin Philadelphia, Dresden, and Wellesley College. Hastravelled much in England and Wales. Fond of outdoorsports. Lecturer in English literature at Mt. Holyoke College.Member of the Committee on Habit Forming Drugs, AmericanPublic Health Association. First story published, “Mors Triumphans,”Outlook, May 20, 1905. Books: “The CheerfulCricket,” 1907; “The English Pastoral Drama,” 1908;“Through Welsh Doorways,” 1909; “The End of a Song,”1911; “A Girl’s School Days and After,” 1911; “Gallant LittleWales,” 1912; “Vacation Camping for Girls,” 1913; “Leviathan,”1913; “Early English Hero Tales,” 1915; “Three WelshPlays,” 1917. Winner of the Welsh National Theatre Prize,1911. Lives at South Hadley, Mass.

*Haymakers.

*Old Lady Hudson.

(1) MORRIS, GOUVERNEUR. Born in New York City, Feb. 7, 1876.Graduated from Yale University, 1898. Books: “A Bunch ofGrapes,” 1897; “Tom Beauling,” 1901; “Aladdin O’Brien,”1902; “The Pagan’s Progress,” 1904; “Ellen and Mr. Man,”1904; “The Footprint,” 1908; “Putting on the Screws,” 1909;“Spread Eagle,” 1910; “The Voice in the Rice,” 1910; “It,”1912; “If You Touch Them They Vanish,” 1913; “The Penalty,”1915; “When My Ship Comes In,” 1915; “The Goddess,”1915; “The Seven Darlings,” 1915; “We Three,” 1916.Lives in New York City.

Unsent Letter.

MORTEN, MARJORY. Born in New York City. Educated in boardingschools, studied art in Paris and New York. MarriedAlexander Morten, 1909. First story published, “Sophy So-and-So,”Harper’s Magazine, August, 1915. Lives in NewYork City.

*Nettle and Foxglove.

MOSELEY, KATHARINE PRESCOTT. Born in Newburyport, Mass.Niece of Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford. Privately educatedin Washington, D. C. Her father, a secretary of the I. C. Commission,spent over twenty years in his well-known work forthe amelioration of railroad employees. His life was writtenby James Morgan. Miss Moseley’s life has been spent betweenNewburyport, Washington, and Boston, with trips abroad. Herchief interests are in music and gardening. Her home is atDeer Island, Newburyport, Mass.

*Story Vinton Heard at Mallorie.

(23) MYERS, WALTER L. Born in Lawrence, Kans., 1886, andreared in Iowa. Educated in Iowa public schools, State Universityof Iowa and Harvard University. In civil life AssistantProfessor of English, University of Iowa. Now SecondLieutenant, Machine-Gun Training Centre, Camp Hancock,Ga. Chief interest, literature. First published story, “At theCrossing of the Trails,” Outing, 1909.

*Clouds.

(4) O’HIGGINS, HARVEY J. (for biography, see 1917).

*Owen Carey.

OPPENHEIM, JAMES. Born at St. Paul, Minn., May 24, 1882.Educated at Columbia University. Engaged in Social SettlementWork in New York, 1901 to 1903. Married, 1905. Teacherand Acting Superintendent, Hebrew Technical School forGirls, New York, 1905 to 1907. Editor, the Seven Arts Magazine,1916-17. First story published in a school paper at ageof thirteen. Books: “Doctor Rast,” 1909; “Monday Morning,”1909; “Wild Oats,” 1910; “The Pioneers,” 1910; “Pay-Envelopes,”1911; “The Nine-Tenths,” 1911; “The Olympian,”1912; “Idle Wives,” 1914; “Songs for the New Age,” 1914;“The Beloved,” 1915; “War and Laughter,” 1916; “The Bookof Self,” 1917; “Night,” 1918. Chief interests: running a Fordin the Litchfield Hills, taking care of chickens and gas engines,analytic psychology, talking with a friend, and writing poetry.Lives in New York City.

* Second-Rater.

(34) O’SULLIVAN, VINCENT. (for biography, see 1917).

Exhibit C-470.

PATTERSON, ELIZABETH. Born in Old Fort Seward, Jamestown,Dakota Territory, and spent her childhood in the picturesquelife of isolated army posts. Daughter of Brigadier-GeneralJohn S. Patterson, U. S. A. Educated at Cooperstown, N. Y.,High School. Chief interests, traveling and out-of-doorthings. Expects to spend the coming winter in France in RedCross service. First story published, “Sir Galahad,” All-StoryWeekly, May 18, 1918. Lives in Cooperstown, N. Y.

Sir Galahad.

PATTERSON, NORMA. Born at Jasper, Texas, July 6, 1891. Educatedat Beaumont High School and University of Nashville.Chief interest at present, turning out khaki-colored sweaters.Is an earnest student of places, words, people, and nationalissues. First published story, “The Roll of Honor,” Holland’sMagazine, 1915. Lives in San Antonio, Tex.

*Unto Each His Crown.

PAYNE, WILL. Born on a farm in Whiteside County, Ill., Jan. 9,1855. Public-school education. Chief interests: writing andthree grandchildren. “My first magazine story was publishedin the Century about 1891, but while I have a clear recollectionof the indignation of the gentleman who unconsciously sat asa model for the leading character, I can’t, to save me, recover thetitle.” Member of National Institute of Arts and Letters.Engaged in journalism, 1890 to 1904. Books: “Jerry theDreamer,” 1896; “The Money Captain,” 1898; “The Story ofEva,” 1901; “On Fortune’s Road,” 1902; “Mr. Salt,” 1903;“When Love Speaks,” 1906; “The Automatic Capitalist,” 1909;“The Losing-Game,” 1909. Lives in Paw Paw, Mich.

*His Escape.

PELLEY, WILLIAM DUDLEY. An accomplished writer of Vermontstories, proprietor of the St. Johnsbury Caledonian, and editorialfree lance. Is now traveling in Siberia. Lives at Bennington,Vt.

*Toast to Forty-Five.

(4) PERRY, LAWRENCE. (for biography, see 1917).

*Poet.

PRATT, LUCY. Born at Deerfield, Mass., July 29, 1874. Educatedat Deerfield Academy, private school at Nyack, N. Y., BostonNormal School of Gymnastics, and Massachusetts Institute ofTechnology. Teacher at Hampton Institute, 1897 to 1904.First story published, “The Entrance of Ezekiel.” Books:“Ezekiel,” 1909; “Ezekiel Expands,” 1914; “Felix Tells It,”1915. Chief interests: human beings, music, literature, andchanging seasons. Lives at Cambridge, Mass.

*Green Umbrellas.

(4) PULVER, MARY BRECHT. (for biography, see 1917).

*David and Jonathan.

PUTNAM, GEORGE PALMER. Born at Rye, N. Y., Sept. 7, 1887.Educated in public schools and King’s School, Stamford, Conn.,Gunnery School, Washington, D. C., Harvard University, andUniversity of California. Journalist, newspaper owner, author,Mayor of Bend, Ore., and Secretary to the Governor of Oregon.Enlisted in the army and went to the Mexican border. Hasbeen in Department of Justice for eight months and is now inthe Officers’ Training Camp, Louisville, Ky. Chief interests:outdoor world, travel, politics, and people. First publishedstory, “The Sixth Man,” Ladies’ Home Journal, February, 1918.Books: “The Southland of North America,” 1913; “Outingsin Oregon,” 1915; “The Smiting of the Rock,” 1917. Home:Bend, Ore.

*Sixth Man.

RANCK, EDWIN CARTY. Born in Lexington, Ky., 1879. Educatedin private schools and Harvard. Newspaper man since 1898.On staffs of newspapers in Lexington and Covington, Ky.Dramatic editor, Cincinnati Post, 1906; St. Louis Star, 1907and 1908; Brooklyn Eagle, 1916 to 1918. Has been in Franceas war correspondent. Now press representative and playreader for the Greenwich Village Theatre, New York City.First published story, “The Chosen People,” Lippincott’sMagazine, September, 1906. Books: “History of Covington,”1903; “Poems for Pale People,” 1906; “The Night Riders,”1912; “The Doughboys’ Book,” 1919. Lives in New York City.

Out o’ Luck.

RHODES, HARRISON (GARFIELD). Born at Cleveland, Ohio, June 2,1871. Educated at public schools, Cleveland, Adelbert Collegeof Western Reserve University, and Harvard University.Chief interests, the war, travel, human society, and writing.First published story, “The Impertinence of Charles Edward,”McClure’s Magazine, January, 1903. Books: “The Lady andthe Ladder,” 1906; “Charles Edward,” 1907; “The Flight toEden,” 1907; “Guide Book to Florida,” 1912; “In VacationAmerica,” 1915. Lives in New York City.

*Extra Men.

RIVERS, STUART.

Leading Lady of the Discards.

RUSSELL, JOHN. Born at Davenport, Ia., April 22, 1885. Son ofCharles Edward Russell, publicist. Educated in Brooklyn,Chicago, and Northwestern University. Left college to makea tour of the world. Spent some time in the South Seas. Reporterand special writer New York Herald, 1907. Specialcorrespondent to Panama and Peru, 1908. Staff interviewer,teacher, and fiction writer, New York Herald Sunday Magazine,1908 to 1911. Free lance magazine contributor under sevenpseudonyms until 1916. On volunteer mission for U. S. PublicInformation, England and Ireland, 1918. First published story,“First Assistant to the Substitute,” Circle Magazine, July, 1907.Chief interests, fiction and travel. Married Grace Nye Bolsterof Chicago; daughter, Lydia. No acknowledged books.

Adversary.

(3) SEDGWICK, ANNE DOUGLAS. (MRS. BASIL DE SÉLINCOURT).Born at Englewood, N. J., March 28, 1873. Educated by governessat home. Left America when nine years of age, andhas since lived abroad, chiefly in Paris and London. Hasstudied painting and exhibited at Paris. Married, 1908.Books: “The Dull Miss Archinard,” 1898; “The Confoundingof Camelia,” 1899; “The Rescue,” 1902; “Paths of Judgment,”1904; “The Shadow of Life,” 1906; “A Fountain Sealed,”1907; “Amabel Channice,” 1908; “Franklin Winslow Kane,”1910; “Tante,” 1911; “The Nest,” 1912; “The Encounter,”1914. Lives near Oxford, England.

*Daffodils.

(1234) SINGMASTER, ELSIE. (for biography, see 1917).

*Release.

(234) SMITH, GORDON ARTHUR. (for biography, see 1917).

*Return.

(34) SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL. (for biography, see 1917).

*Solitaire.

(234) STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. (for biography, see 1917).

Always Summer.

*Dark Hour.

Eternal Youth.

Man’s a Fool.

Perfect Face.

*Taste of the Old Boy.

*Wages of Sin.

White Man.

STREET, JULIAN. Born in Chicago, April 12, 1879. Educated inChicago public schools and Ridley College, St. Catharines, Ontario,Can. His first writing was done when he helped to revivethe school paper there. At nineteen became a reporter on NewYork Mail and Express. “Became dramatic editor of thatpaper at twenty-one—just about the kind of dramatic editoryou might expect a twenty-one-year old to be.” Then in theadvertising business for awhile and abroad for a year. Firstpublished story, “My Enemy—the Motor,” McClure’s Magazine,July, 1906. “I was fortunate in having such friends asBooth Tarkington and Harry Leon Wilson, with whom I wentabroad, and who encouraged my early efforts to write. Thegreatest honor I have ever had in my work was an invitationfrom Booth Tarkington to collaborate with him upon a play,‘The Country Cousin,’ which is still running. I work slowlyand laboriously, and my production is small, because, thoughI love writing, it is very difficult for me. I dislike exercise butam fond of poker, which I play badly. My chief interests,aside from my wife and two children, are in what Mark Twaincalled ‘the damned human race,’ and in Havana cigars.”Books: “My Enemy—the Motor,” 1908; “The Need ofChange,” 1909; “Paris à la Carte,” 1911; “Ship-Bored,” 1911;“The Goldfish,” 1912; “Welcome to our City,” 1913; “Abroadat Home,” 1914; “The Most Interesting American,” 1915;“American Adventures,” 1917. Lives in New York City.

*Bird of Serbia.

(3) TARKINGTON, BOOTH. Born in Indianapolis, July 29, 1869.Educated at Exeter Academy, Purdue University, and PrincetonUniversity. Member of National Institute of Arts andLetters. Books: “The Gentleman from Indiana,” 1899; “MonsieurBeaucaire,” 1900; “The Two Vanrevels,” 1902; “Cherry,”1903; “In the Arena,” 1905; “The Conquest of Canaan,” 1905;“The Beautiful Lady,” 1905; “His Own People,” 1907; “TheGuest of Quesnay,” 1908; “Beasley’s Christmas Party,” 1909;“Beauty and the Jacobin,” 1911; “The Flirt,” 1913; “Penrod,”1914; “The Turmoil,” 1915; “Penrod and Sam,” 1916; “Seventeen,”1916; “The Magnificent Ambersons,” 1918. Plays:“Monsieur Beaucaire” (with E. G. Sutherland), 1901; “TheMan from Home” (with Harry Leon Wilson), 1906; “CameoKirby,” 1907; “Your Humble Servant,” 1908; “Springtime,”1908; “Getting a Polish,” 1909; “The Country Cousin” (withJulian Street), 1917. Lives in Indianapolis.

*Three Zoölogical Wishes.

TOLMAN, ALBERT W. Born at Rockport, Me., Nov. 29, 1866.Brought up in Portland, Me. Educated in Portland public andhigh schools, graduate of Bowdoin College and Harvard University.Tutor in Greek and rhetoric, Bowdoin College, 1889 to1890. Instructor in elocution and rhetoric, 1890 to 1893.Elected Assistant Professor of English, 1893, but resigned onaccount of poor health. Practised law, 1898 to 1913, at thesame time writing adventure stories, principally for the Youth’sCompanion. For last few years has devoted himself almostwholly to writing. First published story probably “On theMonument,” Golden Days, about 1886. Book, “Jim Spurling,Fisherman,” 1918. Lives in Portland, Me.

*Five Rungs Gone.

VENABLE, EDWARD C.

“Ali Babette.”

*At Isham’s.

(34) VORSE, MARY HEATON (for biography, see 1917).

*De Vilmarte’s Luck.

*Huntington’s Credit.

River Road.

WILLIAMS, BEN AMES. Born in Macon, Miss., March 7, 1889.Brought up in Jackson, Ohio. Educated at West Newton,Mass., and Cardiff, Wales. Graduated from Dartmouth College,1910. Newspaper man in Jackson, Ohio, Oklahoma City,and Boston until 1916, now devotes himself entirely to fiction.“I married a Wellesley girl, who insists that she and our twoboys are properly my chief interest. Fiction writing comesnext; and after that tennis, golf, fishing, swimming, gunning,and the general run of outdoor stuff, with chess for rainy-daywear. My first published story—my eighty-fourth in the orderof writing—was ‘The Wings of Lias,’ Smith’s Magazine,July, 1915. Like a good many others, I owe a debt to RobertH. Davis of Munsey’s for the encouragement that kept megoing.” Lives in Newton Centre, Mass.

Right Whale’s Flukes.

WILSON, MARGARET. See “Elderly Spinster.”

WINSLOW, THYRA SAMTER. Born in Fort Smith, Ark., 1889. Ancestorson both sides included writers. Attended public andprivate schools, Cincinnati Art Academy, and University ofMissouri. Feature writer on the Fort Smith Southwest Americanand the Chicago Tribune. Experimental work includedprincipalship of an Oklahoma school and theatrical experiencefrom the chorus to ingénue. In 1912 married John SeymourWinslow, son of Chief Justice John Bradley Winslow of theWisconsin Supreme Court. Interests: all printed matter,people, the theatre, interior decoration, and psychology. Firststory, “Little Emma,” The Smart Set, December, 1915. Hersubsequent stories are appearing mainly in the same publication.Lives in New York City.

Eva Duveen.

WOOD, FRANCES GILCHRIST. Born half a century ago, near thesmall prairie town of Carthage, Ill. Graduate of CarthageCollege, and has done much postgraduate work, credit due tostudent ancestry. In earlier years worked as reporter and editoron western newspapers, city and small town, and in railwayadministration with her father, a combination that carriedher well over the States and Mexico. Present interests centre,by turn, in the game of writing; children, including her own;community festivals; gardening and all out of doors; as wellas a passion for pursuing the historic ghost through haunt ofhouse and highway. First published story, “The White Battalion,”The Bookman, May, 1918. Books: “The Children’sPageant,” 1913; “Pageant of Ridgewood,” 1915; “Cartoons ofDress,” 1917. Lives in New York City.

As Between Mothers.

*White Battalion.

WOOD, JOHN SEYMOUR. Born at Utica, N. Y., Oct. 1, 1853. Graduateof Yale University and Columbia Law School. Married,1880. Has practised law in New York City since 1876. Books:“Gramercy Park,” 1892; “A Daughter of Venice,” 1892; “CollegeDays,” 1895; “A Coign of Vantage,” 1896; “Yale Yarns,”1897. Editor of Bachelor of Arts, 1896 to 1898. Lives in NewYork City.

*In the House of Morphy.

THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES

JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

Note. Stories of special excellence are indicated by an asterisk.The index figures 1, 2, 3, and 4 prefixed to the name of theauthor indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls ofHonor for 1914, 1915, 1916, and 1917 respectively. The list excludesreprints.

THE BEST BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES OF 1918: A CRITICAL SUMMARY

The Ten Best American Books.

1. Bierce. Can Such Things Be? Boni & Liveright.

2. Bierce. In the Midst of Life. Boni & Liveright.

3. Brown. The Flying Teuton. Macmillan.

4. Burt. John O’May. Scribner.

5. Hergesheimer. Gold and Iron. Knopf.

6. Hughes. Long Ever Ago. Harper.

7. Hurst. Gaslight Sonatas. Harper.

8. Steele. Land’s End. Harper.

9. Wolcott. A Gray Dream. Yale.

10. Wormser. The Scarecrow. Dutton.

The Ten Best English Books.

1. Blackwood. The Empty House. Dutton.

2. Blackwood. John Silence. Dutton.

3. Blackwood. The Listener. Dutton.

4. Blackwood. The Lost Valley. Dutton.

5. Buchan. The Watcher by the Threshold. Doran.

6. Galsworthy. Five Tales. Scribner.

7. Harker. Children of the Dear Cotswolds. Scribner.

8. Jacks. The Country Air. Holt.

9. Phillpotts. Chronicles of Saint Tid. Macmillan.

10. Sélincourt. Nine Tales. Dodd, Mead.

The Ten Best Translations.

1. Andreyev. The Seven That Were Hanged. Boni & Liveright.

2. Barbusse. We Others. Dutton.

3. Chekhov. The Wife. Macmillan.

4. Chekhov. The Witch. Macmillan.

5. Dantchenko. Peasant Tales of Russia. McBride.

6. Dostoevsky. White Nights. Macmillan.

7. Gogol. Taras Bulba. Dutton.

8. Gorky. Creatures That Once Were Men. Boni & Liveright.

9. Gorky. Stories of the Steppe. Stratford.

10. Tagore. Mashi. Macmillan.

    Below follows a record of eighty-seven distinctive volumes publishedduring 1918, before November first.

VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918: AN INDEX

NOTE. An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. Thislist includes single short stories, collections of short stories,textbooks, and a few continuous narratives based on short storiespreviously published in magazines.

THE BEST SIXTY AMERICAN SHORT STORIES

JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918: A CRITICAL SUMMARY

The sixty short stories published in the American magazinesbetween January and October, 1918, which I shall discuss in thisarticle are chosen from a larger group of about one hundred andtwenty stories, whose literary excellence justifies me in includingthem in my annual “Roll of Honor.” The stories which are includedin this Roll of Honor have been chosen from the storiespublished in seventy-four American periodicals during the firstten months of 1918. In selecting them I have sought to acceptthe author’s point of view and manner of treatment, and to measuresimply his degree of success in accomplishing what he set outto achieve. I have permitted no personal preference or prejudiceto influence my mind consciously for or against a story. But Imust confess that it has been difficult to eliminate personal admirationcompletely in the further winnowing which has resultedin this selection of sixty stories. Below are set forth the particularqualities which have seemed to me to justify in each casethe inclusion of a story in this list.

1. A Simple Act of Piety, by Achmed Abdullah (The All-StoryWeekly). To those who enjoyed last year Thomas Burke’s“Limehouse Nights,” the series of Pell Street stories whichCaptain Abdullah is publishing in the Century Magazine, Collier’sWeekly, and the All-Story Weekly will be welcome. To a vividsense of color and an economy of dramatic situation, “A SimpleAct of Piety,” which is the best of these stories, adds a fine appreciationof the Oriental point of view. The characterizationis almost subjective it is so real, and the story is a fine crystallizationof the poetry inherent in New York Chinatown life.

2. The Man of Ideas, by Sherwood Anderson (Little Review),points the way to a new American realism. Those whohave read Mr. Anderson’s other Winesburg stories in the SevenArts and the Little Review will remember that he has set himselfthe task of portraying the spiritual values of a small Ohio communitywithout sentimentality. These stories suggest the SpoonRiver Anthology, and indeed the tradition inaugurated by EdgarLee Masters, Sherwood Anderson, and other realists of the newChicago School seems likely to carry on the vision of Walt Whitmanto new goals of achievement.

3. Cruelties (Harper’s Magazine) and 4. “Goddess Size”(Harper’s Magazine), by Edwina Stanton Babcock. When MissBabcock published “The Excursion” last year in the PictorialReview, I expressed my belief that it was one of the best fiveAmerican short stories of the year. I regard these two storiesas marking a significant advance in Miss Babcock’s art. Hercharacterization of these Nantucket folks has a subtle humor andpoetry linked to a faithful realism. Miss Babcock continues toprove herself a leader in short-story regionalism. “Cruelties”is very quietly done and no point is over-stressed. In fact I finda greater reticence in these stories than in Miss Babcock’s earlierwork, and this is all to the good.

5. The Bell-Tower of P’An-Ku, by “John Brangwyn” (CenturyMagazine). This story by an American novelist, whose nameis not to be revealed, comes with a definite message to Americansfrom China. It is an allegory quietly setting forth the essence ofthe imaginative attitude toward life. Like a shifting tapestry,pictures weave to and fro, and the way is opened to us to see thevision that the unknown Chinese master saw.

6. Buster, by Katharine Holland Brown (Scribner’s Magazine).Here in clear swift portraiture Miss Brown has caughtthe spirit of America, youthful and eager, living dangerously andhappily, and prepared to face danger, and, if necessary, seek it.“Buster” is a study of the typical young American who findshimself at last as an aviator in France. No story could betterinterpret our spirit to the English and French imagination.

7. The Sorry Tale of Hennery K. Lunk, by Ellis ParkerButler (Harper’s Magazine). This tale of a mournful marinerashore on the banks of the Mississippi would have delightedMark Twain. I hope Mr. Butler will forgive me if I state thatit contains more poetry than prose. But after all, mournfulmariners come and go, while their stories go on forever.

8. The Black Pearl, by Katharine Butler (Atlantic Monthly).This story, redolent of the East, is an admirable study in atmosphere.It has all the nostalgia of a half-forgotten dream, andyet it is so confidently set forth that we may enter its backgroundwithout difficulty. Style is not a common quality, Iregret to say, in American short stories, but the picture portrayedin “The Black Pearl” is well nigh flawless.

9. Some Ladies and Jurgen, by James Branch Cabell (SmartSet), is a wilful apologue of poets and their wives which willdelight the thoughtful while disappointing the serious. It isreally a prose poem without any moral whatever, unless perhapsthe moral Miss Guiney once pointed out when she said that talltalk always reminded her of the Himalayas. I commend thefable to all would-be poets.

10. The Gallowsmith, by Irvin S. Cobb (All-Story Weekly).This story, which marks a great departure from Mr. Cobb’s usualvein, is one of the most grim stories an American magazine hasever published, but it is a masterly portrait of a professionalhangman which the reader cannot easily forget. With vividcompleteness of detail, and characterization which is admirablysuggestive, Mr. Cobb manages the situation in such a way that itsconclusion is inevitable, yet unexpected.

11. The Open Window, by Charles Caldwell Dobie (Harper’sMagazine), is a sequel to “Laughter,” which I publishedlast year as one of the best short stories of 1917. Unlike mostsequels, it is perhaps better than its predecessor, and the masteryof his art which Mr. Dobie shows only serves to confirm my predictionof two years ago, that in Mr. Dobie America would findbefore long one of its four or five best short-story writers. Anadventurous publisher, anxious to issue the best that is beingwritten in American fiction, cannot afford to neglect Mr. Dobie.

12. The Emerald of Tamerlane, by H. G. Dwight and JohnTaylor (Century Magazine). Every discriminating reader knowsH. G. Dwight’s book of short stories entitled “Stamboul Nights,”and admires its quality of romantic mystery and poetic description.“The Emerald of Tamerlane” admirably sustains Mr.Dwight’s reputation for vivid realization of Persian life.

13. Blind Vision, by Mary Mitchell Freedley (Century Magazine).This story, by S. Weir Mitchell’s granddaughter, marksnot only Mrs. Freedley’s first appearance in print, but the arrivalof a remarkable new talent. It is a study of an American aviatorand a spiritual problem that he had to decide, and is set downwith exceptional artistic economy.

14. The Irish of It, by Cornelia Throop Geer (AtlanticMonthly). This little study, which is hardly more than a dialogue,is inimitable in its deft humorous characterization. It isgood news to be able to report that Miss Geer is planning a volumeof stories about these Irish boys and girls whose poetry ofthought and action is so coaxing.

15. Imagination, by Gordon Hall Gerould (Scribner’s Magazine).Captain Gerould has taken his subject quietly and handledit with a thoughtful sense of its possibilities. This study of asuccessful writer of best sellers, with his egregious solemnityand lack of imagination, is delightfully rendered. The subtletyof the author’s psychology will not blind the reader to its essentialtruth.

16. Marchpane, by Katharine Fullerton Gerould (Harper’sMagazine). Mrs. Gerould has only published one short storythis year, but fortunately it ranks among her best. It is writtenwith all her usual close observation of abnormal psychologicalsituations. The art of few stories is concealed so successfully, andthe story is one of which Henry James would have been proud.

17. In Maulmain Fever-Ward, by George Gilbert. This story,which appeared in a Chicago magazine, is the first of an unusualseries of stories dealing with East Indian life. It is full of awild poetry of speech and action, set against a background ofalmost oppressive natural beauty. I think that the story wouldhave gained by a little more reticence, but the groundwork isfirm and the detail admirably rendered.

18. “Beloved Husband” (Harper’s Magazine) and 19. “PoorEd” (The Liberator), by Susan Glaspell. Susan Glaspell hasalready won a high reputation in three equally difficult fields,those of the novel, the drama, and the short story. Consideringher as a short-story writer only, we may say that these twostories reflect the best that she has done, with the possible exceptionof the story entitled “A Jury of Her Peers,” which Ireprinted in “The Best Short Stories of 1917.” Both are studiesin suppressed ambition, set forth with a gentle humor which doesnot fail by virtue of overstress. Susan Glaspell is at her bestin “Poor Ed,” a study in the triumph of failure.

20. Sinjinn Surviving, by Armistead C. Gordon (Harper’sMagazine). This story is one more addition to Mr. Gordon’sstudies of Virginia negro plantation life. It introduces us oncemore to Ommirandy and Uncle Jonas, and is a quiet idyl of thelife that survived in Virginia after the fall of the Confederacy.

21. Even So, by Charles Boardman Hawes (The Bellman).The art of Mr. Hawes has developed so quietly during the pastfew years that it has not attracted the attention it richly deserves.This study of life and death many years ago in the SouthernSeas recaptures much of the magic of the old sailing-ship dayswhen the Helen of Troy and other American clippers camebravely into port. The story has a fine legendary quality.

22. Decay, by Ben Hecht (Little Review). When Mr. Hechtpublished “Life” in the Little Review some few years ago I predictedthat the future would reveal the fulfilment of his remarkablepromise, although I was not quite sure whether Mr. Hechtwould find himself most fully in the short story or in the novel.During these years his output has been small but distinguished,and the present study of Chicago life shows a marked advancein technique. Nevertheless I now think that the novel is Mr.Hecht’s natural vehicle, and that when his first novel appears itwill create a profound literary impression.

23. Their War, by Hetty Hemenway (Atlantic Monthly).When Miss Hemenway published “Four Days” in the AtlanticMonthly last year, it created more discussion than any other warstory of the year. Her new story, which is in as quiet a key,represents an advance in her art, and the two stories taken togetherrepresent one of the few important contributions Americahas made to the imaginative literature of the war. The war hastaught us that youth is old enough, under the stress of events, tospeak for itself, and there is a brave frankness about Mrs. Richard’sexposition of this truth which brings it home to all.

24. At the Back of God Speed, by Rupert Hughes (Hearst’sMagazine). Three years ago Mr. Hughes published in the MetropolitanMagazine two stories which were as fine in their wayas the best of Irvin Cobb’s humorous stories. In “Michaeleen!Michaelawn!” and “Sent for Out” Mr. Hughes depicted withhis wonted kindliness and pathos the first generation of successfulIrish immigrants. “At the Back of God Speed” now completesthe series, which form as a whole the most faithful portraityet drawn of the Americanized Irishman.

25. The Father’s Hand, by George Humphrey (The Bookman).Although Mr. Humphrey was born in England he hasnow definitely adopted us and I suppose we may claim him as anAmerican writer. This brief and touching study of one minorincident in the Great War shows a fine sense of human values,whose artistic effect is enhanced by deliberate understatement.

26. Her’s NOT to Reason Why, by Fannie Hurst (Cosmopolitan).This story was published in 1917, when it unaccountablyfailed to attract my attention, and as an act of prosaic justiceI now chronicle it, because I believe it to be the best story MissHurst has yet published. The temptation to oversentimentalizethe theme must have been almost irresistible, but the author hasnot failed in reticence and this study of a certain aspect of NewYork life will not be soon forgotten.

27. The Little Family (Harper’s Magazine) and 28. TheVisit of the Master (Harper’s Magazine), by Arthur Johnson.These stories have nothing in common except the fact that theyreinforce Mr. Johnson’s claim this year to rank with Mrs.Gerould, Wilbur Daniel Steele, H. G. Dwight, and Charles CaldwellDobie as one of the most finished artists in America to-day.“The Visit of the Master” is an altogether delightful socialcomedy, not without a moral. “The Little Family,” on the otherhand, is a poignant study of the effect of war on the gentleimaginations of two lonely men. Its quality makes us think ofthe relation between Stevenson and his old nurse, and stylisticallyit is admirable. I suggest with all diffidence, and from apoint of view of frank personal preference that it is very possiblythe best short story of the year.

29. In the Open Code, by Burton Kline (The Stratford Journal).This brief tale in sharp outline recounts a single humanincident. Romantic in treatment, it is told with the eye on theobject. It is a finished piece of workmanship.

30. The Willow Walk, by Sinclair Lewis (Saturday EveningPost). It was an interesting problem which presented itself toMr. Lewis when he thought of writing this story. Could acriminal of marked intellectual ability create a dual personalityfor himself by inventing an imaginary brother, give up his ownpersonality after his crime, and live on undetected in the continuousimaginative realization of his new personality? Mr. Lewishas studied the psychological effects of such a successful impersonationand shown the destructive force of mental suggestionon the soul, in a manner which is in interesting contrast to thatemployed by Charles Caldwell Dobie in the story which I havementioned above.

31. The Haymakers (Stratford Journal) and 32. Old LadyHudson (The Midland), by Jeannette Marks. These two allegoricalstories are written in what is usually a most hazardous literaryform. I think that Miss Marks has steered clear of Scyllaand Charybdis successfully, and pointed out to a somewhat deafworld the imaginative realities which underlie the commercialcrust of our American civilization. These stories, and others ofsimilar tenor, are to be published shortly in a volume entitled“Forgotten Sins.”

33. Nettle and Foxglove, by Marjory Morten (Century Magazine).This is a study in conflicting temperaments which is verygently rendered with an art that recalls in its subtlety that ofMiss Ethel Sidgwick’s novels. A collection of Mrs. Morten’sstudies, reprinted from the files of the Century Magazine, wouldmake an interesting volume.

34. The Story Vinton Heard at Mallorie, by KatharinePrescott Moseley (Scribner’s Magazine). Miss Moseley, who isa niece of Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford, shares with Mrs.Frances G. Wood the distinction of having contributed one of thetwo most enduring legends this year to the supernatural literatureof the war. One of the most significant aspects of theAmerican short story during the past two years has been its increasingpreoccupation with supernatural beliefs, especially asthey have a bearing on the fortunes of the war. Arthur Machenperhaps inaugurated this movement with his remarkable storyabout the angels of Mons, but the spirit was implicit before thatin much American work. In editing a series of War Echoes forThe Bookman last year, I had occasion to read the manuscriptsof several hundred war stories, and it was a gratifying surpriseto find that fully sixty per cent of these stories dealt with somesupernatural aspect of the war.

35. Clouds, by Walter L. Myers (The Midland). This remarkablestudy of place is one of the best stories so far producedin the literary revival throughout the Middle West which centresaround the nucleus of The Midland. I wish that The Midlandwould publish a volume of stories selected from its columnsduring the last three years. Such a book would quickly earn apermanent place on our shelves.

36. Owen Carey, by Harvey J. O’Higgins (The Century Magazine).I believe this story to be the most distinguished in theseries of imaginary American portraits that Mr. O’Higgins hasbeen publishing during the past two years. These studies aimto take as a starting point the lives of men and women successfulin many different fields, and to depict in each case the thingwhich may have seemed perfectly trivial at the time, but whichactually proved to be the turning point in their careers. It issuch an incident in the life of a successful romantic novelistwhich Mr. O’Higgins portrays in this story.

37. The Second-Rater, by James Oppenheim (Century Magazine).In this brilliant study of artistic temperament, Mr. Oppenheimportrays the spiritual struggle of an artist in such a way as toreveal the finer grain. The author has been clearly influenced byHenry James, but the texture of his story is a little loosely woven.

38. Unto Each His Crown, by Norma Patterson (The Bookman).This nervously written study of death in battle and thediscovery it awakened is the work of a new writer who shouldhave a brilliant future if my judgment does not betray me. LikeMiss Moseley’s story, it is a study in the supernatural implicationsof the war. There is a proud joy in it which the readerwill find infectious.

39. His Escape, by Will Payne (Saturday Evening Post). Iregard this as the best newspaper story published in Americasince “The Stolen Story.” It has quick dramatic action, wellstressed conflict, clean-cut characterization, and a thoroughlyadequate conclusion. If the style is somewhat staccato, this isperhaps in harmony with the character of the story.

40. The Toast to Forty-Five, by William Dudley Pelley (PictorialReview). Mr. Pelley has “the human touch.” His storiesof Paris, Vermont, have a homely quality which never over-stressesthe emotional values, even when it almost seems as ifthe author were going to sentimentalize them. No work could bemore indigenous to the soil. Its very roughnesses are a productof environment. Though Mr. Pelley as yet entirely lacks style,there is a driving force within him which should finally shape apersonal style in much the same manner as may be observed inthe evolution of Irvin S. Cobb’s best work.

41. The Poet, by Lawrence Perry (Harper’s Magazine).This story is a study in courage similar in quality to “A CertainRich Man,” which I published last year in “The Best ShortStories of 1917.” It is very deliberately built up as a literaryproblem, but with unquestionable artistic sincerity. It wouldhave been easy to key this story too tightly from an emotionalpoint of view, but Mr. Perry’s feeling in the matter has beensure.

42. Green Umbrellas, by Lucy Pratt (Pictorial Review).Symbolism is woven into this story as modestly as in “The SunChaser” by Jeannette Marks, which appeared in the same magazineduring 1916. Miss Pratt has abandoned her negro characterstories for the time being, and written about a little boy whobrings his parents together. It is slightly sentimentalized, butthis is a weakness which the other excellent qualities of the storylargely neutralize.

43. David and Jonathan, by Mary Brecht Pulver (Mother’sMagazine). This idyl of boyhood friendship, which may nothave come to the attention of many readers, has interested meas much as Roland Pertwee’s notable study of adolescence, entitled“Red and White.” It is a study in loyalties seen from aboy’s point of view, mirroring as it does later, if no firmer, loyaltiesof men and women.

44. The Sixth Man, by George Palmer Putnam (Ladies’Home Journal). It is claimed by the author of this story that itis based on fact. Whether this is so or not, it is an interestingstudy of a possible historical situation woven around the deathof Edith Cavell. It seems to me a made story rather than a toldstory, but granting this weakness which has not been sufficientlycovered, it is noteworthy in its way.

45. Extra Men, by Harrison Rhodes (Harper’s Magazine).This story is an instance of atmosphere perfectly realized in briefcompass. But it is more than that. It is a new legend for Americanliterature fairly comparable to Irving’s “Rip Van Winkle”and Hawthorne’s “The Gray Champion,” in its portraiture ofWashington and all the armies of the American dead sailing forFrance with the American troopships in the morning.

46. Daffodils, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick (Atlantic Monthly).Of the series of stories based on the symbolism of flowers whichMrs. de Sélincourt has contributed during the past few years toAmerican magazines, “Daffodils” is probably the best. Full ofthe spirit of young England and the many thousand youthsmown in Flanders like a field of daffodils in glad surrender, thisstory reflects the spiritual analogies of the flower in the humanheart. It is the same spirit of eternal English youth which isreflected in Rupert Brooke’s last sonnets.

47. Release, by Elsie Singmaster (Pictorial Review). Onemore memory of Lincoln, uniting the tradition of the Civil Warwith the tradition of the present war, is evoked by Elsie Singmasterin this story. There is very little action in “Release” ofa physical kind, but the spiritual values are dynamic, and thestory is told with a processional dignity attained in other storiesonly by this author.

48. The Return, by Gordon Arthur Smith (Scribner’s Magazine).From the romantic fortunes of Ferdinand Taillandy, Mr.Smith has turned to a poignant study of French war life. Withgreat reticence and gentleness he has idealized the return of asoldier home to his greatest desire, and so added one more to thenotable chronicles of supernatural life which the war has evokedfrom American artists.

49. Solitaire, by Fleta Campbell Springer (Harper’s Magazine).I regard this as one of the two best short stories of theyear, though in saying so I wish to put forward no more than apersonal judgment. The character whom Mrs. Springer hascreated is unlike any other in American fiction, and yet, in hismodesty, efficiency, and sensitiveness, a most natural Americanindividual. There are many different passions for perfectionamong men, most of them secret, and of these I think that thepassion of Corey is not the least noble.

50. The Dark Hour (Atlantic Monthly), 51. A Taste of theOld Boy (Collier’s Weekly), and 52. The Wages of Sin (PictorialReview), by Wilbur Daniel Steele. Once more it is necessaryto affirm that Wilbur Daniel Steele shares with Mrs. KatharineFullerton Gerould the distinction of first place among contemporaryAmerican short-story artists. I still think that “Ching,Ching, Chinaman” is the best short story that Mr. Steele hasyet written, and that its only close rival is “A White HorseWinter,” but “The Dark Hour” I should place third in an anthologyof Mr. Steele’s stories, and first in an anthology of Americanwar stories. In its message to the American people it yieldsin significance only to the best of President Wilson’s state papers,and serves to crystallize the issue before the country in this waras unforgetably as William Vaughn Moody crystallized the warissue less than twenty years ago in his “Ode in Time of Hesitation,”also published in the Atlantic Monthly. In the light ofpresent events, Mr. Steele’s message has only increased insignificance. Of the two other stories, “The Wages of Sin” takesits rightful place with the other Urkey Island stories which Ihave discussed in the past. “A Taste of the Old Boy” is onemore war legend for our anthology.

53. The Bird of Serbia, by Julian Street (Collier’s Weekly).Repeatedly in the course of this article I have had occasion topoint out that the best of the year’s war stories are creating newlegends. How a bird in a cage in a little Serbian village mayhave been the cause of the Great War is persuasively set forthby Mr. Street in this story. The conclusion is one of the bestexamples of a justifiable surprise ending that I know of, and thehuman quality of Mr. Street’s characterization renders its inherentimprobability psychologically convincing.

54. The Three Zoölogical Wishes, by Booth Tarkington(Collier’s Weekly). This is the most amusing study of adolescencethat Mr. Tarkington has given us. It has countless subtletouches of observation which quietly build up two remarkablyaccurate portraits. I regard it as the best of the new series whichMr. Tarkington has been publishing in Collier’s Weekly.

55. Five Rungs Gone, by Albert W. Tolman (Youth’s Companion).For many years the most interesting weekly featureof the Youth’s Companion has been the danger story in whichthe youthful hero escapes from extraordinary peril by virtue ofcourage and great intellectual ingenuity. Most of these storiesare built on a regular formula and cannot claim much literaryvalue. But now and then a situation is so vividly realized, andthe situation so logically deduced, that the story has literary justification.And “Five Rungs Gone” is altogether exceptionalin this respect.

56. At Isham’s, by Edward C. Venable (Scribner’s Magazine).The zest of this story consists in the intellectual subtlety of mentalconflict. It contrasts the characters of several habitués of aNew York café who form a little group each night for endlessdiscussion. The value of the story rests in the manner in whichevents bring out variations in character, and the solution of thestory is as absorbing as a chess problem.

57. De Vilmarte’s Luck (Harper’s Magazine) and 58. Huntington’sCredit (Harper’s Magazine), by Mary Heaton Vorse.In these two stories there is a marked contrast of subject matter.“De Vilmarte’s Luck” is a study of the artistic temperament,with fine ironies keenly portrayed. The war provides thestory with a solution which reveals the finer grain. In “Huntington’sCredit” we have a study in suppressed desires, veryquietly told, with a poignancy softened somehow by the qualityof character. In these two stories Mary Heaton Vorse has givenus the best work written by her in the last four years.

59. The White Battalion, by Frances Gilchrist Wood (TheBookman). Here is the last of the fine supernatural legends inspiredduring the past year by the Great War. The White Battalionof the dead which fights on the side of the Allies is comparableto the marching host seen by Harrison Rhodes in “ExtraMen,” but there is an élan in this story which suggests a deeperspiritual background.

60. In the House of Morphy, by John Seymour Wood (Scribner’sMagazine). This legend of old New Orleans has the romanticglow of Mr. Cable’s best novels linked to a well-developedplot with a fine quality of logical surprise. It is one of the beststories written by a fastidious artist of the old school who appearsseldom in our magazines, and always with the finest substancethat he can give.

ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

The following abbreviations are used in this index:—

Atl. .....................Atlantic Monthly

Bel. .....................Bellman

B. E. T. ................Boston Evening Transcript

Bk. News Mo. ........Book News Monthly

Book. ...............Bookman

Cen. ................Century Magazine

C. O. ...............Current Opinion

Cos. ................Cosmopolitan

F. A. Suppl. ........Fine Arts Supplement

For. ................Forum

Lit. R. .............Little Review

Liv. Age ............Living Age

Mir. ................Reedy’s Mirror

N. A. Rev. ..........North American Review

N. Rep. .............New Republic

Outl. (London) ......London Outlook

So. Atl. Quart. .....South Atlantic Quarterly

Strat. J. ...........Stratford Journal

Yale R. .............Yale Review

(161) ...............Page 161

(11:161) ............Volume 11, page 161

American Short Stories of 1917, The Best Sixty-Three.

By Edward J. O’Brien. Book. Feb. (46:696.)

American Short Story.

By William Stanley Braithwaite. B. E. T. May 15. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Anonymous.

Short Story Art and the Magazines. Strat. J. July-Aug. (78.)

Artzibashev, Michael.

See Russian Revolutions and Literature.

Asch, Sholom.

See Yiddish Writers.

Ashmun, Margaret.

Ivan Turgenev. B. E. T. Oct. 19. (pt. 3. p. 4.)

Beaucrispin, Raoul de.

Edgar Allan Poe. Bk. News Mo. April. (36:281.)

Belshaw, Alexander.

Review of Moore’s “A Story Teller’s Holiday.” Chicago Daily News. Aug. 21.

Bennett’s Books, Arnold.

By Randolph Edgar. Bel. July 13. (25:48.)

Bergengren, Ralph.

Review of Morley’s “Shandygaff.” B. E. T. June 12. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Best Short Stories of 1917.

By Edward J. O’Brien. B. E. T. Jan. 19. (pt 3. p. 5.)

Best Sixty-Three American Short Stories of 1917.

By Edward J. O’Brien. Book. Feb. (46:696.)

Bierce, Ambrose.

C. O. Sept. (65:184.)

Bierce, Ambrose: America’s Neglected Satirist.

By Wilson Follett. Dial. July 18. (65:49.)

Bierce, Ambrose: A Rejected Guest.

By Louise Gebhard Cann. Strat. J. June. (38.)

Bourne, Randolph.

Review of Latzko’s “Men in War.” Dial. May 23. (64:486.)

Boynton, H. W.

Told and Made. (Reviews of Short-Story Collections.) Nation. April 4. (106:394.)

Bradley, William Aspenwall.

“A Queer Fellow.” (Booth Tarkington.) Dial. March 28. (64:297.)

Braithwaite, William Stanley.

American Short Story. B. E. T. May 15. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Brégy, Katherine.

Lord Dunsany. America. June 15. (19:241.)

Brooks, Van Wyck.

On Creating a Usable Past. Dial. April 11. (64:337.)

Brown, Alice.

Reviews of “The Flying Teuton.” Nation. May 11. (106:575.) By Dorothea Lawrance Mann. B. E. T. July 10. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Burgess, Gelett (The Irritating Mr. Burgess.)

By Vincent Starrett. Mir. Oct. 11. (27:511.)

Burt, Maxwell Struthers.

See Tricks and Inventions.

Burton, Richard.

A Debauch of O. Henry. Bel. Jan. 26. (24:93.)

Cabell, James Branch.

By Wilson Follett. Dial. April 25. (64:392.)

By Ben Hecht. Chicago Daily News. April 10.

By Vincent Starrett. Chicago Herald and Examiner. F. A. Suppl. May 11. (I.)

Canby, Henry Seidel.

On a Certain Condescension Toward Fiction. Cen. Feb. (95:549.)

Sentimental America. Atl. April. (121:500.)

Cann, Louise Gebhard.

Ambrose Bierce: A Rejected Guest. Strat. J. June. (38.)

Chambers, Art of Robert W.

By Rupert Hughes. Cos. June. (80.)

Chekhov, Anton.

By Louis S. Friedland. Dial. Jan. 3. (64:27.)

By George Rapall Noyes. Nation. Oct 12. (107:406.)

See also Russian Revolutions and Literature.

Colum, Padraic.

Conquistadore. (R. B. Cunninghame-Graham.) N. Rep. July 6. (15:296.)

Irishry. (With review of Pearse’s “Collected Works.”) Nation. Sept. 21. (107:317.)

Conrad, Joseph.

By J. M. Robertson. N. A. Rev. Sept (208:439.)

By Arthur L. Salmon. Bk. News Mo. Aug. (36:442.)

Cunninghame-Graham, R. B.

By Padraic Colum. N. Rep. July 6. (15:296.)

By Amy Wellington. Book. April. (47:155.)

Davis, Richard Harding.

By Francis Hackett. N. Rep. March 2. (14:149.)

Dostoevsky, Fedor.

See Russian Revolutions and Literature.

Doyle, A. Conan.

See Starrett, Vincent.

Dreiser, Theodore.

Review of “Free.” By Edwin F. Edgett. B. E. T. Aug. 28. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Dunsany, Lord.

By Katherine Brégy. America. June 15. (19:241.)

Eaton, Walter Prichard.

Diogenes in Search of a “Hero.” B. E. T. Oct. 16. (pt 2. p. 4.)

Edgar, Randolph.

Arnold Bennett’s Books. Bel. July 13. (25:48.)

Edgett, Edwin F.

Review of Dreiser’s “Free.” B. E. T. Aug. 28. (pt 2. p. 6.)

Review of Ferber’s “Cheerful—By Request.” B. E. T. Sept 14. (pt 3. p. 6.)

Review of Galsworthy’s “Five Tales.” B. E. T. April 10. (pt. 2. p. 8.)

Review of Harris’s “Life of Joel Chandler Harris.” B. E. T. Sept 18. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Review of Harris’s “Uncle Remus Returns.” B. E. T. Aug. 21. (pt 2. p. 6.)

Review of Hergesheimer’s “Gold and Iron.” B. E. T. May 15. (pt 2. p. 6.)

Editor’s Way, In the.

By Isaac Goldberg. B. E. T. Feb. 16. (pt 3. p. 5.)

Farrère, Claude.

See French Literature During the War and After.

Ferber, Edna.

Review of “Cheerful—By Request,” by Edwin F. Edgett. B. E. T. Sept. 14. (pt 3. p. 6.)

Follett, Wilson.

America’s Neglected Satirist. (Ambrose Bierce.) Dial. July 18. (65:49.)

Gossip on James Branch Cabell. Dial. April 25. (64:392.)Humanism and Fiction. Atl. Oct. (122:503.)

French Literature During the War and After (with Notices of Farrère and Mille).

By Theodore Stanton. Strat. J. (2:40.)

Friedland, Louis S.

Anton Chekhov. Dial. Jan. 3. (64:27.)

Galsworthy, John.

Reviews of “Five Tales.” London Nation. Sept 28. (23:692.)

By A. C. N. N. Rep. Aug. 10. (16:53.)

By E. F. Edgett. B. E. T. April 10. (pt 2. p. 8.)

By Frank Swinnerton. Outl. (London.) Aug. 10. (42:131.)

Garnett, Edward.

Edward Thomas. Dial. Feb. 14. (64:135.)

Gerould, Katharine Fullerton.

War Novels [and Short Stories]. Yale R. Oct. (8:159.)

Goldberg, Isaac.

East Side Unearths a Dickens. (H. Gutman.) B. E. T. Sept 11. (pt. 2. p. 5.)

In the Editor’s Way. B. E. T. Feb. 16. (pt. 3. p. 5.)

New York’s Yiddish Writers. (Pinski, Asch, Raisin, Libin, Kobrin.) Book. Feb. (46:684.)

Pinski, Maeterlinck of America. B. E. T. July 17. (pt. 2. p. 4.)

Tales from the Yiddish. (Leon Kobrin.) B. E. T. Aug. 14. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Touching on the Impersonal. B. E. T. Aug. 21. (pt 2. p. 4.)

Grim Thirteen, The. (Review.)

By Louis Untermeyer. Dial. Jan. 17. (64:70.)

Gutman, H. (East Side Unearths a Dickens.)

By Isaac Goldberg. B. E. T. Sept 11. (pt. 2. p. 5.)

Hackett, Francis.

Richard Harding Davis. N. Rep. March 2. (14:149.)

Harman, H. E.

Joel Chandler Harris: The Prose Poet of the South. So. Atl. Quart. July. (17:243.)

Harris, Joel Chandler.

Joel Chandler Harris. By H. E. Harman. So. Atl. Quart. July. (17:243.)

Review of His “Life and Letters.” By E. F. Edgett. B. E. T. Sept. 18. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Review of “Uncle Remus Returns.” By E. F. Edgett. B. E. T. Aug. 21. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Hecht, Ben.

Concerning James Branch Cabell. Chicago Daily News. April 10.

“Henry, O.”

By C. Alphonso Smith. Nation. May 11. (106:567.)

By Richard Burton. Bel. Jan. 26. (24:93.)

Letters of “O. Henry.” By G. H. Sargent B. E. T. April 27. (pt. 3. p. 4.)

Hergesheimer, Joseph.

Some Veracious Paragraphs. Book. Sept. (48:8.)

Hergesheimer, Joseph. Review of “Gold and Iron.”

By Edwin F. Edgett B. E. T. May 15. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Hughes, Rupert.

Art of Robert W. Chambers. Cos. June. (80.)

Hughes, Interview with Rupert.

By “Pendennis.” For. Jan. (59:77.)

Humanism and Fiction.

By Wilson Follett Atl. Oct. (122:503.)

Hurst, Fannie: Genius of the Short Story.

By Kathleen Norris. Cos. Sept (93.)

Hutchings, Emily Grant.

Review of Tagore’s “Mashi.” Mir. Oct 4. (27:500.)

Irishry. (With review of Pearse’s “Collected Works.”)

By Padraic Colum. Nation. Sept. 21. (107:317.)

Is American Life Divorced from American Literature?

C. O. March. (64:206.)

James, Henry.

Articles by. Ethel Colburn Mayne, Ezra Pound, A. R. Orage, T. S. Eliot, John Rodker, and Theodora Bosanquet. Lit. R. Aug. (pp. 1-64.) Sept. (pp. 50-53.)

By Francis X. Talbot, S. J. America. Oct 12. (20:19.)

Joyce, James.

By Scofield Thayer. Dial. Sept. 19. (65:201.)

Kadison, Alexander.

Ovid as a Short-Story Writer in the Light of Modern Technique. Poet-Lore. March-April. (29:206.)

Kipling Anatomized. (Review of Hart’s “Kipling the Story Writer.”) Nation. Sept. 28. (107:350.)

Kobrin, Leon. (Tales from the Yiddish.)

By Isaac Goldberg. B. E. T. Aug. 14. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

See also Yiddish Writers.

Lansing, Ruth.

Robert Louis Stevenson’s French Reading As Shown in His Correspondence. Poet-Lore. March-April (29:218.)

Latzko, Andreas. “Men in War.”

Review by Randolph Bourne. Dial. May 23. (64:486.)

Lemaitre, Jules.

By Desmond MacCarthy. New Statesman. April 27. (11:71.)

Libin, Zalmon.

See Yiddish Writers.

Lighton, William R.

Something Rotten in the State of Fiction. B. E. T. Aug. 14. (pt. 2. p. 5.)

Lincoln, Joseph C.

By Reed, Charles Francis. For. Feb. (59:219.)

Lyons, A. Neil.

By Constance Mayfield Rourke. N. Rep. June 8. (15:180.)

MacCarthy, Desmond.

Jules Lemaitre. New Statesman. April 27. (11:71.)

McIntire, Ruth.

Imperturbable Artist. (Leonard Merrick.) Dial. June 6. (64:527.)

Mann, Dorothea Lawrance.

Review of Brown’s “The Flying Teuton.” B. E. T. July 10. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Review of Train’s “Mortmain.” B. E. T. Sept. 21. (pt. 3. p. 6.)

Merrick, Leonard.

By Ruth McIntire. Dial. June 6. (64:527.)

By R. Ellis Roberts. Liv. Age. Sept. 28. (298:775.)

Review of “While Paris Laughed.” By Rebecca West Outl. (London.) Aug. 17. (42:159.)

Mille, Pierre.

See French Literature During the War and After.

Moore, George. “A Story Teller’s Holiday.”

Review by Alexander Belshaw. Chicago Daily News. Aug. 21.

Morley, Christopher. “Shandygaff.”

Review by Ralph Bergengren. B. E. T. June 12. (pt 2. p. 6.)

N., A. C.

Interior Fiction. (Galsworthy’s “Five Tales.”) N. Rep. Aug. 10. (16:53.)

Norris, Kathleen.

Genius of the Short Story. (Fannie Hurst.) Cos. Sept. (93.)

Noyes, George Rapall.

Chekhov. Nation. Oct 12. (107:406.)

O’Brien, Edward J.

Best Short Stories of 1917. B. E. T. Jan. 19. (pt 3. p. 5.)

Best Sixty-Three American Short Stories of 1917. Book. Feb. (46:696.)

Review of Williams’s “Handbook of Story-Writing.” Book. Jan. (46:612.)

Some Books of Short Stories. Book. May. (47:299.)

Olgin, Moissaye J.

Survey of Russian Literature. (I.) Book. Oct. (48:191.)

Ovid as a Short-Story Writer.

By Alexander Kadison. Poet-Lore. March-April. (29:206.)

Pearse, Padraic.

See Irishry.

“Pendennis.”

“My Types”—Rupert Hughes. For. Jan. (59:77.)

Phelps, William Lyon.

Russian Revolutions and Literature. (With reviews of Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and Artzibashev.) Yale R. Oct. (8:191.)

Pinski, David, Maeterlinck of America.

By Isaac Goldberg. B. E. T. July 17. (pt 2. p. 4.)

See also Yiddish Writers.

Poe, Edgar Allan.

By Raoul de Beaucrispin. Bk. News Mo. April. (36:281.)

By Francis X. Talbot, S. J. America. June 1. (19:193.)

Post, Melville Davisson.

See Tricks and Inventions.

Raisin, Abraham.

See Yiddish Writers.

Reed, Charles Francis.

Joseph C. Lincoln. For. Feb. (59:219.)

“Renaissance in the Eighties.”

Nation. Oct. 12. (107:404.)

Roberts, R. Ellis.

Leonard Merrick. Liv. Age. Sept 28. (298:775.)

Robertson, J. M.

Art of Joseph Conrad. N. A. Rev. Sept (208:439.)

Rourke, Constance Mayfield.

English Raconteur. (A. Neil Lyons.) N. Rep. June 8. (15:180.)

Russian Literature, Survey of. (I.)

By Moissaye J. Olgin. Book. Oct. (48:191.)

Russian Revolutions and Literature. (With reviews of Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and Artzibashev.) By William Lyon Phelps. Yale R. Oct. (8:191.)

Sabatini, Rafael. “Historical Nights’ Entertainment.” (Review.) Nation (London.) Feb. 2. (22:577.)

Salmon, Arthur L.

Joseph Conrad. Bk. News Mo. Aug. (36:442.)

Saltus, Edgar. C. O. Oct. (65:254.)

Sargent, George H.

Letters of “O. Henry.” B. E. T. April 27. (pt. 3. p. 4.)

Scarborough, Dorothy.

Review of Steele’s “Land’s End.” N. Y. Sun. Books and Book World. Sept. 29. (10.)

Sélincourt, Hugh de.

Review of “Nine Tales.” By Myron R. Williams. Dial. March 14. (64:241.)

Sherlock Holmes, In Praise of.

By Vincent Starrett. Mir. Feb. 22. (27:106.)

Short-Story Art and the Magazines.

By a Magazine Editor. Strat. J. July-Aug. (78.)

Smith, Arthur Cosslett.

By Vincent Starrett. Mir. Oct. 18. (27:522.)

Smith, C. Alphonso.

“O. Henry.” Nation. May 11. (106:567.)

Stanton, Theodore.

French Literature During the War and After. (With Notices of Farrère and Mille.) Strat. J. (2:40.)

Starrett, Vincent.

Arthur Cosslett Smith. Mir. Oct. 18. (27:522.)

In Praise of Sherlock Holmes. Mir. Feb. 22. (27:106.)

Irritating Mr. Burgess. Mir. Oct. 11. (27:511.)

James Branch Cabell. Chicago Herald and Examiner. F. A. Suppl. May 11. (1.)

Steele, Wilbur Daniel.

Review of “Land’s End.” By Dorothy Scarborough. N. Y. Sun. Books and Book World. Sept. 29. (10.)

Stevenson’s French Reading As Shown in His Correspondence.

By Ruth Lansing. Poet-Lore. March-April. (29:218.)

Swinnerton, Frank.

Review of Galsworthy’s “Five Tales.” Outl. (London.) Aug. 10. (42:131.)

Tagore, Rabindranath.

Review of “Mashi.” By Emily Grant Hutchings. Mir. Oct. 4. (27:500.)

Talbot, S. J., Francis X.

Edgar Allan Poe. America. June 1. (19:193.)

Henry James. America. Oct 12. (20:19.)

Tarkington, Booth. (“A Queer Fellow.”)

By William Aspenwall Bradley. Dial. March 28. (64:297.)

Thayer, Scofield.

James Joyce. Dial. Sept. 19. (65:201.)

Thomas, Edward.

By Edward Garnett. Dial. Feb. 14. (64:135.)

Train, Arthur.

Review of “Mortmain,” by Dorothea Lawrance Mann. B. E. T. Sept. 21. (pt. 3. p. 6.)

Tricks and Inventions.

(Including reviews of Post’s “Uncle Abner” and Burt’s “John O’May.”) Nation. Oct 19. (107:453.)

Turgenev, Ivan.

By Margaret Ashmun. B. E. T. Oct. 19. (pt. 3. p. 4.)

Untermeyer Louis.

Review of “The Grim Thirteen.” Dial. Jan. 17. (64:70.)

War Novels [and Short Stories].

By Katharine Fullerton Gerould. Yale R. Oct. (8:159.)

Wellington, Amy.

Artist-Fighter in English Prose: Cunninghame Graham. Book. April. (47:155.)

West, Rebecca.

Review of Merrick’s “While Paris Laughed.” Outl. (London.) Aug. 17. (42:159.)

Williams, Blanche Cotton. Review of “A Handbook on Story-Writing.”

By Edward J. O’Brien. Book. Jan. (46:612.)

Williams, Myron R.

Review of Sélincourt’s “Nine Tales.” Dial. March 14. (64:241.)

Yiddish Writers, New York’s. (Pinski, Asch, Raisin, Libin, Kobrin.)

By Isaac Goldberg. Book. Feb. (46:684.)

MAGAZINE AVERAGES, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

The following table includes the averages of American periodicalspublished during the ten-month period before November 1,1918. One, two, and three a’s are employed to indicate relativedistinction. “Three-a stories” are of somewhat permanentliterary value. The table excludes reprints, but nottranslations.

The following tables indicate the rank, during the period betweenJanuary and October, 1918, inclusive, by number and percentageof distinctive stories published, of the nineteen periodicalscoming within the scope of my examination which have publishedduring that period over twenty-one stories and which have exceededan average of 15 per cent in stories of distinction. Thelists exclude reprints, but not translations.

INDEX OF SHORT STORIES IN BOOKS, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

ABBREVIATIONS

Andrews A ........Andrews. Her Country

Andreyev A .......Andreyev. Seven That Were Hanged

Andreyev B .......Andreyev and Bunin. Lazarus, and Gentleman

from San Francisco.

Atlantic A .......Thomas. Atlantic Narratives: First Series

Atlantic B .......Thomas. Atlantic Narratives: Second Series

Bierce A .........Bierce. In the Midst of Life

Bierce B .........Bierce. Can Such Things Be?

Boccaccio ........Boccaccio. Tales

Brown ............Brown. Flying Teuton

Buchan ...........Buchan. The Watcher by the Threshold

Burt .............Burt. John O’May, and Other Stories

Canfield A .......Canfield. Home Fires In France

Chekhov A ........Chekhov. Nine Humorous Tales

Chekhov B ........Chekhov. The Wife

Chekhov C ........Chekhov. The Witch

Cobb A ...........Cobb. The Thunders of Silence

Dantchenko .......Dantchenko. Peasant Tales of Russia

Dostoevsky A .....Dostoevsky. White Nights, and Other Stories

Dreiser ..........Dreiser. Free, and Other Stories

Duncan A .........Duncan. Battles Royal Down North

Duncan B .........Duncan. Harbor Tales Down North

Dunsany A ........Dunsany. Tales of War

Ferber ...........Ferber. Cheerful—By Request

Freeman ..........Freeman. Edgewater People

French ...........French. Great Ghost Stories

Galsworthy A .....Galsworthy. Five Tales

Gogol ............Gogol. Taras Bulba

Gorky A ..........Gorky. Creatures That Once Were Men

Gorky B ..........Gorky. Stories of the Steppe

Harris ...........Harris. Uncle Remus Returns

Henry ............“O. Henry.” Ransom of Red Chief

Hergesheimer .....Hergesheimer. Gold and Iron

Hughes ...........Hughes. Long Ever Ago

Hurst ............Hurst. Gaslight Sonatas

Jacks A ..........Jacks. The Country Air

Law ..............Law. Modern Short Stories

London ...........London. The Red One

McPherson ........McPherson. Tales of Wartime France

McSpadden ........McSpadden. Famous Ghost Stories

O’Kelly ..........O’Kelly. Waysiders

Phillpotts .......Phillpotts. Chronicles of Saint Tid

Post .............Post. Uncle Abner: Master of Mysteries

Schweikert .......Schweikert. French Short Stories

Steele ...........Steele. Land’s End, and Other Stories

Tagore ...........Tagore. Mashi, and Other Stories

Taketomo .........Taketomo. Paulownia

Tolstoi ..........Tolstoi. What Men Live By

Williams .........Williams. A Book of Short Stories

Wormser ..........Wormser. The Scarecrow, and Other Stories